Nourished myself on the liquor tits last night. Not completely wrecked. No pain hangover. Just livin in that day after user mind and motivation mollases. Sweet ancestral passion for vodka mounted my psyche. Barely had to impose on the fellows guarding the ancient tundra tolerance amulet infused in my double helix caverns.

Slightly upset over the basketball evidence I witnessed on the bar glowbox. The sinister tribe of Lakers seem to have made the final blood offerings to whatever pentagram encircled kabal that preternaturally laces their hightops. Kobe's steaks were left resting in the back of the fridge. The accused hershey highway plunderer didn't even make an appearance in the arena till after halftime. Possibly the most dynamic bastard in the league, and they didn't even need him to suit up to destroy the very capable Mavericks. Sigh. My sport rage engines will rev horribly during this year, a year most likely to be dominated by that vile left coast collection of smarmy vertical mutants.

I despise the Lakers. Hitler was a fan of the Lakers ya know. It's true.

My unfaithful eyesight betrayed me once again. Not happy with the arid creepiness of One and One, we bounced when the halftime whistles blew. Headed south on Avenue A. An old tease, Val, has begun a new era in firewater locales at Julep's. Breezed by the picture windows to see if she was manning the taps. A lovely creature waves to me from inside. I assume it is Val. Ass of you and me, it weren't Val. Locked in by the curves of another.

Still, this new creature is lovely. NYU alum no less. As was the cocktail waitress. Curse my insatiable hunger for girls ten years younger than me. Well, in fairness the bar mistress is only about seven years younger even if the other was more than ten. Sinfully yummy naughty that pussy aged more than ten years less than me is perfectly available legally. All the more closer to my dirty old man nirvana.

Desperately flee from situations requiring me to break the seal on a virgin. However, the young chicks are wholesomely satisfying when unlocking the most fevered music she's ever heard explode from her instruments. Years of clumsy dirty fingernail poking and hurried rapshod schoolboy sword handling is splendid set up for nasty thirty somethings, like myself, to creep in with skills and make em quiver, squirt and spin out of control.

Nothing better than an angelic flushed face staring into you searching for answers. "Where the fuck did you learn how to do that?" and other dizzy heavy breathing queries. Luckily, I have always paid attention in class. No better learning podium than the ever vascilating pleasure centers that every woman has stored in her own personal puzzle.

Happiness is a sweat covered, muscle relaxed chick with her titties and pussito flush with appreciation and her affected mood grateful to have your lowly pigdog flesh touching hers. I see all the answers in a wet orgasm.

The hunt is on.