I just thought I'd let everyone know what's been going on with me lately. Last week was a busy one with me trying to get my laptop Lucille II up and running again. But some other things happened besides that:
On Tuesday as I was driving in to the redundantly-named Nina's Coffee Cafe, my car was forced off the road by a Hummer and I was taken prisoner by a gang of rogue twenty-something blondes with cute asses and great tits. They took me to their sex farm in northern Minnesota near Eveleth and forced me to make love to them repeatedly and do other unspeakable acts like leave the toilet seat down. Fortunately, in gratitude for my teaching them how to achieve multiple orgasms even after drinking all night using only common household utensils, they returned me to my car the next morning and even gave me twenty bucks and a new pair of bikini briefs.
So on Wednesday, after returning home to feed Mimi my cat I suddenly received a vision from Mother Teresa instructing me to go to Calcutta and feed poor people and instruct them in proper sanitation methods. However, as I had some other things to do on Wednesday -- I had promised Bill Gates I would shoot pool with him at Costello's Bar in Saint Paul during happy hour -- I chose to interpret this vision as referring to Calcutta, Ohio. As a result I flew to Ohio and spent some time slinging dal and teaching the natives to thoroughly wipe down toilet seats in gas station restrooms. This turned out to be a most satisfactory experience and I felt pretty good about doing my bit to raise the standard of living in a third-world state like Ohio. I even made a mental note to make one of my Catholic friends light a candle to Mother Teresa if she's actually canonized and if she isn't what the hell is she doing coming to me in a vision. And by the way, I kicked Gates's ass at eight ball. He now owes me fifty bucks, the loser.
Later that evening I got an emergency call on my cell phone and had to chopper down to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester to perform some delicate neurosurgery. I don't really do this much anymore since I started blogging but it was for a poor two-year-old Ohio girl that had been adopted by Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt; since Ange is a close personal friend of mine I made an exception for her. It was quite gratifying to see the smile in the child's eyes when she came out of surgery and listen to her gurgling away in Ohioan. It was also nice to check out Angelina's tits and inspect her for new tattoos. So that was my Wednesday.
On Thursday it turned out to be another busy day. I had to fly down to Cape Canaveral in Florida and redesign some space shuttle O-rings for NASA. Good thing they called me in; some idiot had made them square and out of cardboard. I figure I saved not only the lives of many future astronauts but also singlehandedly rescued the entire U. S. space program by preventing yet another shuttle disaster. I got back to Saint Paul too late to blog, though, as I had to meet with investors in my Flirting Studio enterprise. We're looking at a major franchise deal but I can't really talk about it now.
Friday I flew down to São Paolo Brazil, never mind what for. I got back late Saturday, but still in time to go out to W. A. Frost in Saint Paul for cocktails. I had a little incident occur there that was somewhat disturbing, however. I overheard a bunch of hardbodied twenty-something males refer to my pal Tate as a fat cougar so I had to kick their asses, the insolent toads. I didn't do any serious damage to the boys but I did teach them a lesson about fucking with bloggers, goddamn it. Sometimes one has to make a stand. And if you're curious, I did bruise an ankle doing my patented flying drop kick. Apparently I'm not as spry as I used to be.
Yesterday I took it pretty easy. I decided to stay home and invent shit so I fixed myself a pitcher of Mexican Windbreakers and sat on the lanai and came up with about twenty new products, any one of which will make me filthy rich. The invention I'm proudest of resembles the little BreatheRight nasal strips but they're clear instead of "flesh-colored." I intend to sell them in pairs to college students. They attach to one's eyelids and hold them open so that one can sleep right through one's Macro Economics class after one has done about thirty shots of cheap tequila the previous night and still look like one is paying attention to every word of the dork professor's monotone delivery that pretty much repeats word for word the overpriced text that he made one buy for the course. I figure this invention alone will revolutionize both college drinking and economics in our great nation and buy me that condo in Andorra that I've had my eye on.
Oh yeah, last night I switched from Mexican Windbreakers to Captain Morgan and goat urine just so I'd be in shape for blogging today. Nothing much really happened after that unless you count the fact that Angelina Jolie snuck over to my place for a romp in the hay out of gratitude for my helping her little Ohio girl. Don't tell anyone, though; I have enough trouble with paparazzi as it is. I understand Ange does too, but I'm sure my troubles are much worse. I kicked Jolie out early this morning (after forcing her to make me pancakes naked) so I could get a nice early start on my blog.
So get off my back. I've been busy, for chrissake.
-- Hulles
Showing posts with label goat urine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label goat urine. Show all posts
Monday, April 30, 2007
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Welcome To Flirting School
Man is the hunter; woman is his game:
The sleek and shining creatures of the chase,
We hunt them for the beauty of their skins.
- Alfred Tennyson
I woke up this morning, much to my surprise, and spat out the toy mouse my cat had apparently placed in my mouth to muffle my snoring. It hit the bedroom wall with a sort of splat sound and stuck for a second before it dropped to the floor. I fumbled around blindly on the nightstand by my bed for my eye chisel, then used the chisel end to remove the grout from my eyes and the little prybar on the other end to prise my eyelids apart. I then resignedly groped for the half-empty tumbler also sitting on the nightstand and downed it in a gulp. Much to my chagrin I found that I had been drinking Captain Morgan and goat urine again the night before. "Alas, I suffer the agenbite of inwit, Mimi," I said to my cat. Actually, what I said was "Mmph grkl," but after eight years of house pet bliss she knew what I meant.
Later while whimpering in the bathroom I recalled that one of the many great ideas I had hatched the night before was to open a flirting school, or more precisely, a flirting studio. This would be much like an Arthur Murray® Dance Studio except it would just be for flirting. Great idea, eh?
"Hulles, why on earth would you want to open a flirting studio?" I can hear you thinking. And by the way, your lips are moving as you think this. Just saying, is all. Anyway, the reason I want to open a flirting studio is for the simple reason that people need to learn how to flirt and, even more importantly, they need to learn how to react appropriately when being flirted with. So, in a spirit of public service that for once isn't court-ordered, I thought I would step up to the plate and educate everyone about flirtation. And charge everyone an arm and a leg for the privilege, of course.
This all came about because I inadvertently terrorized a couple of cute young lasses last night as I flirted with them. Being Hulles, noted raconteur, sex dog and man-about-town, normally I elicit cow-eyed adoration in the opposite sex when I deign to interact with them at all. Such was not the case last night, however. Granted, at times I can be a little heavy-handed ("Hey dollface, let me sex you down in the back of a limo. Now go rent the limo while I stay here and drink...") but last night I'm pretty sure I was only just slightly over the top a teensy weensy bit ("Hi honey, you're awfully cute, ever think about dating your grandfather?"). I guess I just scared the poor girls because they weren't expecting to hear that from some seedy old white guy who looks remarkably like a stalker and who in fact played one recently in the movies.
Fuck 'em, it's a beautiful world with sharp jagged edges and they should be made of sterner stuff.
But still, somebody should tell them that a person with an obvious sense of humor who says outrageously bizarre things to them is only flirting (and, by the way, amusing the bartender tremendously). So I'm going to teach them this in my Hulles Flirting Studio. I'll teach them how to distinguish flirting by a gentleman of distinction from harassment by a perverted creep (the words are mostly the same in each case but a viable sense of humor is the key here, as it is in so many things). I'll teach them how to flirt back even more outrageously so that much fun and laughter can be had by all. And I'll teach them how to politely tell the aforesaid gentleman of distinction to fuck off because he's not funny at all, he's just drunk, and tell him in such a pleasant and amusing fashion that he doesn't even realize he got the brushoff until the next morning when he winces as he reviews the previous night's adventures in the midst of an Olympic-class hangover (see agenbite of inwit, above).
My studio would also teach men how to flirt and be flirted with, but that's really the topic of another post I'll write someday so I won't go into that here. Suffice it to say that, much like an Arthur Murray® Dance Studio, I intend to employ extremely hot men and women as flirtation instructors so they can drive the forlorn and lonely people who enroll in my studio crazy with feigned affection. This is to make these poor sods sign up for class after class that they don't need and can't afford so that they can feel desirable for a few minutes a week. Sure it's cruel and heartless, but at least I'm not making them jerk and stagger about awkwardly all over the dance floor. They can even sit down while they flirt if they want. Maybe I'll even serve cocktails.
Wow, I just got a great idea - a lap flirt! Have to think about that one....
So if you'll excuse me, I'm off to find a storefront with a massive plate glass window on a busy thoroughfare so that people can feel like überdorks when they are seen taking my lame and overpriced flirting classes. I'm not sure why this is important but wiser heads than mine have convinced me that it is. Then I'll open up my flirting school and be able to call it The Hulles® Flirting Studio and be rolling in money and go live in Brazil and give up this blogging shit that doesn't pay squat. Oh yeah, and while I"m out looking for studio space I'm going to stop at the co-op and buy more goat urine. The stuff grows on you after a while, much like Jãgermeister or a bad case of jock itch.
-- Hulles
The sleek and shining creatures of the chase,
We hunt them for the beauty of their skins.
- Alfred Tennyson
I woke up this morning, much to my surprise, and spat out the toy mouse my cat had apparently placed in my mouth to muffle my snoring. It hit the bedroom wall with a sort of splat sound and stuck for a second before it dropped to the floor. I fumbled around blindly on the nightstand by my bed for my eye chisel, then used the chisel end to remove the grout from my eyes and the little prybar on the other end to prise my eyelids apart. I then resignedly groped for the half-empty tumbler also sitting on the nightstand and downed it in a gulp. Much to my chagrin I found that I had been drinking Captain Morgan and goat urine again the night before. "Alas, I suffer the agenbite of inwit, Mimi," I said to my cat. Actually, what I said was "Mmph grkl," but after eight years of house pet bliss she knew what I meant.
Later while whimpering in the bathroom I recalled that one of the many great ideas I had hatched the night before was to open a flirting school, or more precisely, a flirting studio. This would be much like an Arthur Murray® Dance Studio except it would just be for flirting. Great idea, eh?
"Hulles, why on earth would you want to open a flirting studio?" I can hear you thinking. And by the way, your lips are moving as you think this. Just saying, is all. Anyway, the reason I want to open a flirting studio is for the simple reason that people need to learn how to flirt and, even more importantly, they need to learn how to react appropriately when being flirted with. So, in a spirit of public service that for once isn't court-ordered, I thought I would step up to the plate and educate everyone about flirtation. And charge everyone an arm and a leg for the privilege, of course.
This all came about because I inadvertently terrorized a couple of cute young lasses last night as I flirted with them. Being Hulles, noted raconteur, sex dog and man-about-town, normally I elicit cow-eyed adoration in the opposite sex when I deign to interact with them at all. Such was not the case last night, however. Granted, at times I can be a little heavy-handed ("Hey dollface, let me sex you down in the back of a limo. Now go rent the limo while I stay here and drink...") but last night I'm pretty sure I was only just slightly over the top a teensy weensy bit ("Hi honey, you're awfully cute, ever think about dating your grandfather?"). I guess I just scared the poor girls because they weren't expecting to hear that from some seedy old white guy who looks remarkably like a stalker and who in fact played one recently in the movies.
Fuck 'em, it's a beautiful world with sharp jagged edges and they should be made of sterner stuff.
But still, somebody should tell them that a person with an obvious sense of humor who says outrageously bizarre things to them is only flirting (and, by the way, amusing the bartender tremendously). So I'm going to teach them this in my Hulles Flirting Studio. I'll teach them how to distinguish flirting by a gentleman of distinction from harassment by a perverted creep (the words are mostly the same in each case but a viable sense of humor is the key here, as it is in so many things). I'll teach them how to flirt back even more outrageously so that much fun and laughter can be had by all. And I'll teach them how to politely tell the aforesaid gentleman of distinction to fuck off because he's not funny at all, he's just drunk, and tell him in such a pleasant and amusing fashion that he doesn't even realize he got the brushoff until the next morning when he winces as he reviews the previous night's adventures in the midst of an Olympic-class hangover (see agenbite of inwit, above).
My studio would also teach men how to flirt and be flirted with, but that's really the topic of another post I'll write someday so I won't go into that here. Suffice it to say that, much like an Arthur Murray® Dance Studio, I intend to employ extremely hot men and women as flirtation instructors so they can drive the forlorn and lonely people who enroll in my studio crazy with feigned affection. This is to make these poor sods sign up for class after class that they don't need and can't afford so that they can feel desirable for a few minutes a week. Sure it's cruel and heartless, but at least I'm not making them jerk and stagger about awkwardly all over the dance floor. They can even sit down while they flirt if they want. Maybe I'll even serve cocktails.
Wow, I just got a great idea - a lap flirt! Have to think about that one....
So if you'll excuse me, I'm off to find a storefront with a massive plate glass window on a busy thoroughfare so that people can feel like überdorks when they are seen taking my lame and overpriced flirting classes. I'm not sure why this is important but wiser heads than mine have convinced me that it is. Then I'll open up my flirting school and be able to call it The Hulles® Flirting Studio and be rolling in money and go live in Brazil and give up this blogging shit that doesn't pay squat. Oh yeah, and while I"m out looking for studio space I'm going to stop at the co-op and buy more goat urine. The stuff grows on you after a while, much like Jãgermeister or a bad case of jock itch.
-- Hulles
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