Stole My Bicycle Wheel

Dear Sir or Madam who stole my bicycle wheel,
I have a proposal.

For several days after you stole my 26″ rear wheel from my mountain bike, you caused me a dilemma. All I could think of were two options.
1) Buy a new rear wheel – This hardly seemed worthwhile because my bike only cost $25 from Goodwill when I got it and a new back wheel/tire will cost two to three times that much.
2) Buy a used wheel from the Division Flea market – We all know this is where stolen wheels go to find new homes. (In fact, I have searched here for my wheel to no avail.) While this option is cheap ($10), it would feel like I am benefiting from someone else’s misfortune. (Probably because I would be benefiting from someone else’s misfortune).

But then I had a brilliant idea.

Rather than buying a new wheel or a used wheel stolen from someone else, why don’t you sell me back my own wheel. I can pay you the $10 you would have made and then I can save the time and stress of finding a new wheel. If it makes a difference, I could even pay you in alcohol or whatever drug habit you were trying to feed.

We can even meet on the same corner where you took my wheel and make it feel all natural. You can walk by and say, “Hey buddy, I notice that your bike seems to be missing a rear wheel. Well, it just so happens I have an extra rear wheel right here with me. Would you like it?” And I can say, You’re right, kind sir. I am missing a rear wheel. That is very nice of you. It just so happens that I have $10 worth of alcohol, that I was going to use drown my sorrow about not having a bicycle wheel. But now that I have a bicycle wheel, I don’t need it. Why don’t you take it. And then we can both feel good about ourselves.

Please let me know if this works for you.

Sincerely
Josh

 

Stole My Bicycle Wheel


Need – A Night of Desires

Here is what I am in dire need of folks:

Need – A night of desiresI need someone to read bedtime stories to me. I mean, this job sounds easy, but I have a lot of demands that go along with it. Has anyone in their thirties ever wanted or considered something of this nature? It sounds so sweet, innocent, & relaxing. I could drift off just typing this post. I imagine it to be like this….

You: a smooth skinned, in shape, nasally pleasing woman. When you talk, it’s not annoying, though your tonal range can do just that, range. During story time, your tones remind me of Thom Yorke with rainbows in your speech. You shall read me something simple. It shall be a child’s book. Why, you ask? Well, my brain is so full of technology and more intense items than this. By the end of my day, I’m spent. By the time that everyone has asked me what will fix their device before pulling a simple reboot, it’s time to go, and my brain has melted.

When I arrive to my dwelling, I cannot think. This is where you and the adolescent tale comes in.

I need you to do the following:
(not in any particular order)

• Remove my boots
• Unlatch my shirt and take it down
• Make a comment about how my deodorant has stayed with me for the duration of my day
• Peel my socks off
• Unbutton my pants
• Push me onto the bed, so I can take a load off, pulling them off
• Have some boxer briefs ready for me to slide into unless, of course, you’re okay with me sliding under my uber soft sheets in the buff
• Have a toothbrush buttered up and ready with CloseUp®
• Hand me a oil free face wipe
• Pull up a chair, next to my head, and gently run your fingers through my hair not saying a word
• Begin the story
• Kiss my forehead and after you have fallen in love with me, tell me it will be okay and that you will be here for my charades every night.

I realize that the last one on the list may take a few days to realize, but it’ll come.

Now, if you are up for this gig. If you are some kind of patient person that finds pleasure in this sort of thing…

Please let me know.

It’s sight unseen on your end though I will be putting you through a screening process on my end. Oh, that’s not fair? I’ve finally realized what I need so who are you to tell me what the hell is fair.

Let me tell you this. I’m not some fatty fatty too too nasty man, but I know, you’ll have to take your chances here.

Please also provide a list of childrens books that you are good at reading and maybe even a few that excite you and bring hope to your life.

Goodnight,
Moon


obanion-paddle

Paddle

That’s right, a paddle. Lightly used. OK, not that lightly used. Not used on that many people, OK? Mostly just my ex’s bottom. And a bit on mine. I tried using it on a really freaky girl a few weeks ago, and that was it – the magic was gone. There was nothing there. I thought paddles were exempt from the typical breakup toy uselessness, but I was terribly mistaken. This thing is dead to me.

However, you can make my loss your gain! Seriously, despite my crippling emotional detachment from this paddle and my tendency to replace intimacy with alcohol, I can tell you this is one heck of a paddle.

It is made out of genuine 100% leather, and features beginner (smooth) and intermediate (studded) sides. It fits nicely in your hand, has a nice swing to it, and makes a wonderful sound in either beginner or intermediate modes.

Looking for anything fun, funny, or random. I’m thinking I’ll drop this thing off somewhere pre-determined, you can pick it up, and leave whatever we decide to barter for. Quite frankly this whole thing is a little creepy and weird. And awesome.


Sugary-O-Face

Sugary O

Currently, I’ve decided to state that I want to slightly lick the olive of your sugary face. I like to use the term “fat face,” but I will not here. If you ever deemed it possible to touch that precious face of yours, please bring an olive branch. Pardon me, I misspoke. Why didn’t I delete it then? Well, I didn’t want to. What I meant to ask you to bring was a palm branch. I believe that this would put off a better breeze while one may waft it my way. Waft? Indeed, I mentioned it.

So while I waft, pardon me, as I’m wafted….

I dream, but is it really a dream if it soon shall become free? Reality I say, is it a dream if I know that it will become reality? Well, are you gonna answer me?

I think that we all dream, in fact, I know that we do. Mine, however, shall morph into reality as soon specific time, unbeknown to me. I just said that, to use that. I know that it will be achieved very soon.

What are some of your dreams?

I’m not one that you could call a “believer” in modern day religious terms. I am a believer in plenty of other things. One that specifically drives would be that of fate.

Firm believer = yes, that’s me.

My day shall come and you can bet your sweet lily ass that I’m going to push harder for it to be sooner rather than the late. I shall overcome and abide by my morals by changing them every chance that I get. Every thought that enters my head is of the random variety. You should know that without even having met me, just yet.

My train is set to “all aboard” soon and I would like to meet some of the fortunate humans that I will be traveling with. Fortunate for me? Fortunate for you? I’m not a gambler, if I was, I’d say for us both…

I bring a lot to the table. On this particular trip, I shall bring no baggage. You, on the other hand, are free to to bring all of the luggage you deem appropriate so long as you have the clear understanding that I will be chunkin’ your shit out of the port hole.

Rude? Some may say so, but this is my fucking trip and I call “no baggage!”

Deuce.
E


Boxes in the Ground

Boxes in the Ground

Upon sitting at a funeral of an old friend today, I began to drift…..

The more I seem to age, the more family, friends, aquaints seem to drop. Is this part of the aging process? Will the new goal in life eventually become to make time to visit boxes in the ground across the nation of all the people that you once knew? Why must people pass on?
This specific time lost was due to lung cancer. Surely they’ve come up with a cure all for this, right? As many intellectual people there are in the world, surely someone have come up with something by now. They have, but…
The money is not in the cure. The money is in the medicine that you have to repeat everyday.
Me, myself, PV, if you will, plans on living forever. I do. I realize that as a child, I began to realize that I am some sort of superhero. I look normal on the outside, yes. That remains true. The inside, well this is where it all happens. This is what allows me to perform anything I could ever possibly put my mind to. I know this to be a true assessment simply because my mother told me so, years & years ago.
Why must people go and why must others have to mourn? This shouldn’t have to be any part of life. Why does life have to be such a fucking bitch in this manner?
I realize that if we all lived forever, this massive rock would become pretty fucking crowded, but…
as a side note, I may mention that it may boost the economy a bit with all of those extra workers all over the world. I’m betting that since everyone would be so giddy that the grieving process had dissipated in their lives, greed would somewhat vanish as well.
I mean people. Can you even fucking imagine having the confidence that you would never lose anyone ever again? Can you really fucking fathom this? What if we could all live forever ad maintain not taking advantage of one another. No taking for granted. None of that junk.
Have you began to cry yet? I almost shed one at that second. I’ll be back.

Happy New Year: An Imaginary Overtone

Disclaimer: Modifications have been performed to the dates in this story to protect the innocent. The names of the mythological creatures have been doctored as well.

The day, December 21st, 1989. A chilly morning with hints of pink tickle and a dash of bowl over in the air. A peace train’s horn blowing in the distance for all to hear crossing every interchange. Shades of earth tones fill the windows as organic wallpaper. A hangover quickly dissipates as nodes of fresh air fragrate the current car and seep into the nasal passages. This day shall soon be referred to as the beginning of a New Year.

The next setting being that of a pseudo coffee house effect. A coffee house with a nice half-square couch to which a lounge was required. This was unlike any other caffeine shop that I’d attended. This one had an open roof to which you could see the clouds form patterns and the stars played a story. With the roof open, it soon became a butterfly conservatory. Each butterfly was built in a different pastel color, soft and easy on the eyes. Though each of these creatures were different in color, together they became an individual unit.

Now Folks, there is where it got fancy with mental numbness. The colors, the unit, & the setting soon became a complete element in the formation of a pixie. This literary faerie spoke of different worlds and initiated fireworks. The words she spoke were that of wonder and grace. Every corner of my mind began to wrap around every syllable spoken from the lips of a light pink shade. The intensity of the two halves that formed a whole, in that single moment, created combustion reminiscent of the fireworks plowing into the skies. If only for a moment, seeming like an eternity, the world was at peace while standing still.

And it was so, a new year began. In my mind at least. I wonder why can’t we, as humans, decide for ourselves when “our” New Year may start. Why must we go on some prefabricated plan from Zeus. Who is to say that Aphrodite cannot decide or be an influence in our decision to begin now? What about Ashtart or even Venus? I’m not sure that in the proverbial Monopoly game of life that I’m going to allow Zeus to decide anymore. I’ve created my own New Year and it begins now. You decide when your’s shall transpire.

Morning has broken. A new year has begun. Should your’s commence on your own…
I bid a contented one to you and yours.

PV


Idiocy Levels Unaffected Despite Shorter Stories

I found a quick article that completely describes most of the world around us these days. Especially in the days of Facebook where people think that we give a crap about their cat or that they have a rash and a hammer toe. In reality, no one really cares. Sure we may say “ah, that’s terrible”, but there’s only so many “ah, that’s terribles” that I’ll give you before I just totally delete your ass. Let’s talk about something more important, more interesting, less bonor-shrinking unless, of course, it can bring me quick and massive money. At that point, if the price is write, I will live through your bullshit.

Idiocy Levels Unaffected Despite Shorter Stories

Written by The Sarcasmist

There is a growing movement of people using the term ‘long story short’ appropriately. In recent weeks there have been growing reports of long stories being shortened in order to save the listener’s time.

As is the norm, people use the phrase ‘long story short’ as a tool to make up for their boring blather and trick the ‘listener’ into thinking that the story was actually short; however, more and more people are becoming wise to this scheme and are refusing to listen to stories (which are inevitably stupid). As a response the blathering public has had to switch their approach, spewing their inane nonsense about the uninteresting minutia of their lives in short bursts. This has not reduced the amount of idiotic stories but has significantly cut down on the time spent listening to them.

Note: Human behavior is often interesting, sometimes amusing, but almost always idiotic. Please don’t subject others to what seems interesting to only you, like how your cat’s health problems are causing you sleepless nights, or by insisting to describe a half-hour situation comedy (which the listener has no interest in) scene-be-scene.


You farted in the elevator

You farted in the elevator. I know it was you. You played it off like it was that Asian guy who got off at the 13th floor, but I’m sure it was you. When you first got on, I was totally stripping you down, with my eyes. Your beauty filled the space of our love box on a cable. The little delivery guy was holding some flowers, but your perfume made them smell like old diapers filled with indian food, by comparison. I was enchanted by your presence, imagining you rolling back my lengthy foreskin and smiling at the image of my perfect schlong. The swollen helmet shining due to being fully engorged with arousal. You can almost see your reflection in the slick, violet flesh.  I was about to say something to you when I smelled it. A rank, musty air filled the elevator. My eyes burned and my nose wanted to hide under my balls. Your reaction was delayed as you thought about how to cover up your wrong-doing. Your face flushed with embarrassment as you finally made post-detonation eye contact with your victim, me. It was subtle, you may not have noticed, but the Asian flower guy shifted his vase of roses to be between you and him, just before the blast crossed the lift, to my face. My face melted like that scene where the Nazis open the Ark of the Covenant, in Indiana Jones. My nose carried your air-shit to my brain, my tongue held back a wet gag and a little bit of throw up in my mouth. My mind refused to handle the situation that my senses were trapped in. I wanted to pull my head off and beat you with it. You couldn’t wait one more, fucking minute to fire off that air-deuce. I guess the endless nights of unprotected, anal with multiple partners has loosened the purse strings on your hind port. I thought I heard someone blow over the top of a bottle, just before the reek of putrification reached my soul, was that your ass? The Asian guy glanced back at me like he was leaving someone in a burning building, as he got off. I returned his concerned look with a solid stare of confidence… It said,”I can survive this… Save yourself, Yung Chung!” The door opening had cut the percentage of sour air in the room and, in turn, saved both of our lives.
You attempted to play it off like it was the Asian, flower guy, but I knew. His farts probably are far more stinky, he probably eats some pretty fucked up shit.
I still think you’re hot, you just need a charcoal buttplug. Respond if you promise not to eat cabbage ever again.


Lunch Bucket

74.1% of Americans are obese. With this, we are the 9th fattest country in the world. The United States is one big lunch bucket. So much so that even our pets are voted fat asses. 25% of American’s pets are considered overweight. Does a lard ass stop eating at some point and feed the rest of the Big Mac with extra sauce to his/her animals? We need to put the Jack in the Box Kangaroo Tacos (with or without sauce) down and grab some rabbit food. I’d like to compile a list of what might be making us “tons of fun” instead of blaming it entirely on the ol’ eating habit.

You might be a fat ass if…

Disease:
• You sit in the grocery parking lot (blinker on) waiting for that precious spot up front.
Cure:
• Get your cankle having ponderous ass to the back of the parking lot (or maybe next door) and start hoofing it up to the door. In most cases the doors open for you so you can save the arm workout for grabbing your FAT FREE milk.

Disease:
• Ordering full flavor/sugar soft drinks.
Cure:
• Order diet. I realize that Aspartame might kill you, but I’d venture to say it won’t have the chance to slice you before your porky thighs do.

Oh, there will be more.

Stay Tuned.

Here are the places to stay away from, so you don’t get contact fat. You’re welcome.

Fattest Countries in the World

More than 1.6 billion people in the world are either overweight or obese, according to a recent study by the World Health Organization. Here’s a look at the countries with the highest percent of overweight adults (people age 15 and over). People are considered overweight if their body mass index (BMI) is 25 or higher and obese with a BMI or 30 or higher.

Rank Country % Overweight or obese
1. Nauru 94.5
2. Federated States of Micronesia 91.1
3. Cook Islands 90.9
4. Tonga 90.8
5. Niue 81.7
6. Samoa 80.4
7. Palau 78.4
8. Kuwait 74.2
9. United States 74.1
10. Kiribati 73.6
11. Dominica 71.0
12. Barbados 69.7
13. Argentina 69.4
14. Egypt 69.4
15. Malta 68.7
16. Greece 68.5
17. New Zealand 68.4
18. United Arab Emirates 68.3
19. Mexico 68.1
20. Trinidad and Tobago 67.9
Source: World Health Organization.