Making Eggs In The Shower

Listen up you beautiful bitches! I was asked if I could do a piece that didn’t involve sex or drugs. This is as close as I could get…

It occurred very recently and I neither put my penis anywhere warm or wet (or cold and dry) nor did I ingest copious amounts of mind altering drugs (unless you count un-godly volumes of alcohol.) First off, I need to introduce you to my partner in crime, Champagne Velvet. He is one of the smoothest motherbangers this side of the Mississippi. He’s part Stevie Ray Vaughn, part Jesus, with a little bit of Mac from Sunny, a dash of Kenny Powers and whole lot of Arab Oil Baron. Also starring in this episode is my girl, Class Act, who keeps it real by being sober and somehow still cooler than any girl I know. Also, introducing a new star to the blog, Seth, the bartender at the “Skank Factory.”

This story begins with Class Act and I having dinner while Velvet was having band practice. Though the food was okay, the waitress had the misfortune of having previous sexual relations with Velvet and was disappointed with his post-coital etiquette. In his words, “That bitch laid there like a three-day-old dead fish. I was basically forced to jack off in her pussy. Then one of my boys walked in while I was barebacking/handjobbing her, so I gave him the devil horns sign and started laughing. She was not pleased. Anyway, somehow I finished and went to bed. The next day, I couldn’t make eye contact with her so while she drove me to my car, I stared out the window and didn’t say a word the whole time. When we arrived at the desired destination, I very maturely and politely, got out of her car and slammed the door without even slightest hint of thanks, appreciation, or recognition. Dumb bitch!” Anyway, due to the fact that I was present during 50% of that story and the very same night threw up in three different rooms of her house, the service suffered.

After dinner, with Velvet still busy with his band, Class and I decide walk down the block for some ice cream. That’s right motherfuckers, ice cream. Due to my familiarity of the establishment, I asked Class if she would want to eat in the back where the indoor playground was located. She knew better than to question my strange attraction to large gatherings of small children. While the children play, we sit around, licking ice cream and shooting the proverbial shit. While discussing the promiscuity of one of her friends, she said innappropriately loud, “That girl is sketchy as FUCK!” Though the silence that followed was deafening, I could not stop laughing. I think the small boy riding the cow rocking toy started crying. In Class Act’s defense, that girl is indeed sketchy as fuck. To ease the situation, I tell her, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been kicked out of here for much worse. We’re both lucky that they finally took my picture down from behind the register. Amber alert suspect my ass.”

Finally Champagne Velvet is done twiddling his guitar twat and the three of us continue on to our final destination, a tourist location locally known as the “Skank Factory.” I’m not sure why it is referred in such a way. It could be because it has putt-putt, laser tag, arcade, two bowling alleys, pool tables, and go karts. It could also be because it has a bar that sells $9 seventy ounce beers (you read that correctly, 70 oz in a giant glass bottle, pussies use it as a pitcher, not I said mother goose) and doesn’t close until midnight. I think it is called the “Skank Factory” because it is a location that mass-produces skanks. Anyways, Seth the bartender immediately recognizes the general rowdiness of Velvet and skank magnetism of myself, despite the soberness of Class Act. He starts telling us about pulling hot divorcées into his “penetration station.” *Gyrates hips* He also confessed that he, “fucked up and got a girlfriend… But she swallows.” *High fives all around* Any person who appears out of the blue (we weren’t even in the bar) and says things like that to three complete strangers gets five gold stars in my book.

Class Act got to witness what I’m sure very few girls have ever seen, a serious bromance orgy. Seth, and the 70 oz beers, were just slaying Velvet and myself. When Class Act asked me how I could refer to a female sex organ as a “vag bag,” Seth admitted that he would never treat the “human temple” with such disrespect. As a matter of fact, he offered to whisper some soothing haikus to her love tunnel, while petting it ever so gently. Before I or Champagne Velvet could call him a cunt licking fag, Seth catches himself and screams, “Who wants to go to my condo and fuck some shit up?!!!” Unfortunately, we had to decline due to our future commitments and overall distaste for “condos.” Velvet, who is quite smitten, asks Seth for his digits so that we could all hang next time we were in the area. “Nah dude. Sorry, but that shit never works. My phone is filled with useless numbers and I don’t want to add another one. But I’m always here, and you just bring that mammoth of a beer back so I can fill it up for you.” With an appreciation for “keeping it real,” we agree to come back and get blitzed in the near future. And that is what happens when you go to the “Skank Factory” on a Wednesday night…

Stay tuned to see what happens when the gang goes on a weekend during “cosmo bowling.” Also, there will be drugs.