Contest

O.K., here's the deal. I've been busier than a one lipped woman in a cock sucking contest lately. Work has been non-stop. I hurt my damned left knee so I'm hobbling around favoring it, consequently I fucked my right foot up. My personal life blows dead chihuahua. I'm so low I could crawl under an obese, constipated pregnant flatworm on steroids. But will that stop me from blogging? Fuck no!

Now it's up to you, my faithful followers. YOU give me a subject and I will blog about it. At least for 5 min. or so. I will choose the best blog possibility out of the numerous entries I'm sure to get. The person who's idea I choose will receive a prize. And if that person is a good looking chick, the prize is a date with me! Hell, even if you are uglier than a see through bag of crushed assholes, as long as you go down like a power window I will wine and dine you. Or at least buy you some cheese doodles and a 40. That should be worth a gobble, no?

That's all for now.

Good luck.

In the immortal words of our shit-for-brains president: God bless 'Merka, goddamned everyone else!

B'Log

Ah-Ha! Caught you! You just thought you would sneak in for a quick peek in between visiting ambidextrouslesbianwatersports.com and dwarfinterracialnuns.com to see if your hero had dropped a steaming new blog. Well you won't be disappointed, my friend. Hallelujah! God be praised! Ala Akbar (& Jeff)! Ole' Wheelgun's sole aim is to enlighten and entertain you even if you don't deserve it.

And enlighten and entertain you he will. Just you wait. (I'm writing all this crap as I'm trying to come up with some idea of what to blog about - it ain't easy, just ask poor BFace about straining on the blog bowl). So, I guess I will just pinch one off. Here it goes. Hold on to the "Oh Jesus!" handles and get ready for some serious swirling, splattering, corn fed blogging! Yee-fuckin-haw!

You guys would be amused if you could be observing me right now. I'm in the middle of setting up two workstations, one over to my left and one behind me. I'm in a chair with wheels so I'm scooting over doing updates on one while installing some engineering app on another and then scooting back to write this blog. It's incredibly gay looking - a fat dufus scooting around trying not to get confused as to what he did on which fucking machine. I should be paid more.

I think the ultimate goal in any job (besides boffing the new chick in manufacturing) is to get so proficient at what you're doing that you don't have to think about it at all. You can just day dream or blog or whatever.

On the subject of day dreams, I hauled my hog out on Sunday. It was the first really nice day of spring. I started up my Harley and took it for a short ride. So right now I'm day dreaming about riding my bike with a hot chicky-boo with long, wind blown hair and assless chaps hanging onto me.

Also, I'm not so much day dreaming about but contemplating Howard Hughes. I'm reading a book about him. I first became interested in him when I lived in London in the early 1970's. I was maybe 13 or so and I was in Regent's park playing football ("soccer" to you unrefined folk) with my class when we were told to leave. I remember seeing a couple of guys in suits and sunglasses up on the hill over looking us. Found out later we had to get out because Howard Hughes was coming through.

I could easily end up like Howard Hughes. Except I would cut my finger nails. Can't stand long fingernails. And I could only watch "Ice Station Zebra" a couple times. Perhaps I could watch "Swedish School Girls 6" 150 times instead. And I would drink whiskey in lieu of shooting up with codeine. Also, I would surround myself with "yes" women instead of "yes" men. It would be the life. Too bad I'm no billionaire.

Because of his codeine addiction and fucked up diet, Howard couldn't shit for weeks on end. At one point, he sat on the toilet for twenty straight hours. Elvis used to sit on the bowl for hours and hours. He even died on the throne. I guess if you're famous, your bowels suffer.

Well, now I've gone on long enough. Time to wipe and get on with work.

John Paul II

I am going to devote this entire blog to the Pope. I'm afraid not enough has been written about him as of late so I will take it upon myself to pick up the slack.

Now, can we term his death "timely"? I mean when some one young dies, especially unexpectedly, it's always called an "untimely" death. Face it, the Popeski has been on his last legs for at least the last 7 years. And in the last 10 he went from a normal looking pope to looking like Yoda with a goofy hat.

Don't get me wrong. From all accounts I hear he was a great human being. But since I'm not Catholic, I don't believe he was god's representative on this earth or any of that other malarchy. As a pope, he could of done more about the sexual abuse scandals. Like let the poor priests at least masturbate on occasion. And maybe allow them a visit to a titty bar once in awhile. And if any one of them even looked at an alter boy in a weird way, taser the fucker and send him packing to the nearest Baptist church.

And this whole alter boy molesting thing is not only an American problem. It's just that we have a free and inquisitive press (at least until the Republicans have their way) unlike so many other countries. Our press will at least look into it if they see a day care associated with a Catholic church called "Little Anuses Day Care."

I bet the Pope died of DSB (deadly sperm build-up). I mean the poor bastard wasn't even allowed to fire one into a spank rag before bed. I wouldn't be surprised if his holy yogurt slinger hadn't shriveled up to a twig and currants years ago. Maybe that's why they wear those big hats. To hide all the excess liquid children in their system. Once the body's full, It probably accumulates and sprays out the top of the head like a shook up soda bottle.

Speaking of DSB, I need to get laid. My beeyotch girlfriend is officially fed up with my bullshit and since she hasn't parted her legs since the days of John Paul I, it's time we part ways. The only jollies I get now a days is when I'm at work, I put the beeper on vibrate and purposely bring down a server.

I figured that joining a dating service would be a good start on the road to fuckdom, so I looked in the phone book and checked some web sites out. They all seem goofy as shit. I don't like "romantic dinners by the fireplace" or "long walks on the beach" (I always expect to see about a thousand ugly, single people strolling around aimlessly whenever I go to the beach). I'm just an old horny fuck who wants some serious p-tang. Maybe I will start my own dating service and call it "E-Z Fuck Dating Service."

In anticipation of needing to attract the opposite sex, I've been hitting the gym especially hard lately. And the weathers been a little warmer so I wear shorts now. When ever I'm near a chick, I put my leg up on a bench or something so she can maybe catch a glimpse of chicken breast. I may be old but I still have the moves.

I know that's like saying that if you find a piece of gold give it to me, but if any of you know a horn dog chick, send her my way. And if anyone reading this is of the vaginal American persuasion (not you, Peter) and might want me (I'm hot!), drop me an e-mail.

Well those are my thoughts on the Pope. Hopefully he's in heaven with a bunch of young, horny cuties. I must get back to work now. A server just went down and the beeper's going crazy and I need to clean up.

0 - 162

When I have my Johnson on the ropes early, I always make sure I finish it off. Damned Yankees. Maybe last year was an aberration. And I drank a couple Miller Lights tonight because that's what they serve at Fenway. Tastes like piss. Fuck that shit.

So here is my official take on tonight's game. Beware, it is filled with baseball strategy/minutia:

I would rather be repeatedly anally raped by a zwill covered garthoc than nick-named "Bubba."