How to tour in your parents' Escalade.
So we're in Virginia Beach. We're staying in a luxury-ass hotel with like nine rooms and two bathrooms. Brad is watching "Real Sex 39" and I can't even hear him masturbating. That's how big this suite is. Dan is cooking a pot roast. Jeremy is in a hammock in the foyer. I'm polishing the baby grand. We are the Journey of this town tonight because off-season resort towns are inexplicably and magically inexpensive.
In a summer town like this, in a hotel like this, which is beachfront and approximately .7 feet from the ocean, you kind of wonder about the Ghosts of Springbreak Daterapes Past. How many chicks had Senor Frog sex in this room? A thousand. That's the answer. How many of them had meticulously shaved vulvas in the hope of being the next Girl Gone Wild? Each and every.
The show tonight was aiight. We rocked a bit, made some money, spent it at the titty bar and doing a Locustworth of blow, all of it off overage girls' areolas. The upside was that we got to be inspired by 15-year-old Christian kids playing commercial-core in order to get laid. If my parents bought me equipment, I'd probably go on tour too. Wait.
The Post Office Gals bought us weed tonight. We're going to smoke it and drown Buckley-style in the ocean. This will be our legacy.
I'm watching a show about Cesaerean sections. I'm not sure how I feel about this, conversational "vaginal delivery" usage notwithstanding. There are a lot of bloody babies, but it's slightly more hot than the scrambled porn.
We go tomorrow to D.C. I'm going to be the bigger man and not make a lot of Tom DeLay jokes. More our style are 10-year-too-late Marion Barry jokes that no one will get. In all honestly, we'll probably just make fun of Myspace.
Well, Diary. I love you and am unafraid to admit it. I'm also powerfully fucked up. Who knew? Heroin is like the best. K.C. was onto something.
In a summer town like this, in a hotel like this, which is beachfront and approximately .7 feet from the ocean, you kind of wonder about the Ghosts of Springbreak Daterapes Past. How many chicks had Senor Frog sex in this room? A thousand. That's the answer. How many of them had meticulously shaved vulvas in the hope of being the next Girl Gone Wild? Each and every.
The show tonight was aiight. We rocked a bit, made some money, spent it at the titty bar and doing a Locustworth of blow, all of it off overage girls' areolas. The upside was that we got to be inspired by 15-year-old Christian kids playing commercial-core in order to get laid. If my parents bought me equipment, I'd probably go on tour too. Wait.
The Post Office Gals bought us weed tonight. We're going to smoke it and drown Buckley-style in the ocean. This will be our legacy.
I'm watching a show about Cesaerean sections. I'm not sure how I feel about this, conversational "vaginal delivery" usage notwithstanding. There are a lot of bloody babies, but it's slightly more hot than the scrambled porn.
We go tomorrow to D.C. I'm going to be the bigger man and not make a lot of Tom DeLay jokes. More our style are 10-year-too-late Marion Barry jokes that no one will get. In all honestly, we'll probably just make fun of Myspace.
Well, Diary. I love you and am unafraid to admit it. I'm also powerfully fucked up. Who knew? Heroin is like the best. K.C. was onto something.
posted by tgrh. at 9:55 PM
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