Welcome to the Hardcore Husky Forums. Folks who are well-known in Cyberland and not that dumb.

Day after feelings

Indulge me while I explore a hypothetical:

You’re hungover as fuck from Friday night, but you decide to go out Saturday anyway. You go to a bar filled with hot sluts with tits, only to realize you forgot to wear pants and you’re wearing your my little pony boxers with a huge skid mark. You say fuck it and proceed to start drinking. You get fucked up entirely too quickly, get shot down by women all night, and eventually piss yourself waiting in the bathroom line.

Fast forward to 1:56, you’re out of options. You look down at the end of the bar, and there she is: 332lbs and ready to rumble. You stumble over, give her a slurred version of your best pickup line, and go for a motorboat, and she hits you like one of those Russian slap contest motherfuckers. You wake up outside the bar on the curb. She pulls up crammed into the drivers seat of her 1995 Honda civic del sol and tells you to get in. You’re about to be on the receiving end of a pity fuck intended to get her out of assault charges.

Like a caveman, she drags you into her dingy studio apartment next to 7-eleven on Aurora in the U-district. You tell her you need to puke first, and you proceed to splatter one of the nicest toilets you’ve ever seen. You comment on it, and she says her dad used to be the top toilet salesman at Home Depot. You strip down and the rest is sweaty, BO infested history.

You wake up the next morning with a splitting headache, appalled at what lies snoring next to you. You search around hoping to find a used condom, but there is none to be found. You lay there contemplating the life choices that led to you raw dogging a Sherman tank. You carefully extricate yourself from the bed, put on your stained my little pony boxers and sneak out of her apartment.

You get home, grab a fifth of whiskey out of the cabinet and plop down on the couch. You get a text from an unknown number letting you know she needs you to Venmo her money for Plan B. Oh, and she also has herpes. You send her the money, block her number, and sit on your couch trying to decide where the closest beach is so you can take a walk and get some perspective.

You got laid last night, but that’s literally the only remotely positive thing you can say about the evening.

This is how I feel about last night’s game.

Comments

  • AOG
    AOG Member Posts: 2,678
    what's wrong with a 95 Civic?
  • PineapplePirate
    PineapplePirate Member Posts: 4,643
    Baseman said:
    That had more excitement than the Husky game. Thanks for sharing.
  • Fear_Boner
    Fear_Boner Member Posts: 808

    Indulge me while I explore a hypothetical:

    You’re hungover as fuck from Friday night, but you decide to go out Saturday anyway. You go to a bar filled with hot sluts with tits, only to realize you forgot to wear pants and you’re wearing your my little pony boxers with a huge skid mark. You say fuck it and proceed to start drinking. You get fucked up entirely too quickly, get shot down by women all night, and eventually piss yourself waiting in the bathroom line.

    Fast forward to 1:56, you’re out of options. You look down at the end of the bar, and there she is: 332lbs and ready to rumble. You stumble over, give her a slurred version of your best pickup line, and go for a motorboat, and she hits you like one of those Russian slap contest motherfuckers. You wake up outside the bar on the curb. She pulls up crammed into the drivers seat of her 1995 Honda civic del sol and tells you to get in. You’re about to be on the receiving end of a pity fuck intended to get her out of assault charges.

    Like a caveman, she drags you into her dingy studio apartment next to 7-eleven on Aurora in the U-district. You tell her you need to puke first, and you proceed to splatter one of the nicest toilets you’ve ever seen. You comment on it, and she says her dad used to be the top toilet salesman at Home Depot. You strip down and the rest is sweaty, BO infested history.

    You wake up the next morning with a splitting headache, appalled at what lies snoring next to you. You search around hoping to find a used condom, but there is none to be found. You lay there contemplating the life choices that led to you raw dogging a Sherman tank. You carefully extricate yourself from the bed, put on your stained my little pony boxers and sneak out of her apartment.

    You get home, grab a fifth of whiskey out of the cabinet and plop down on the couch. You get a text from an unknown number letting you know she needs you to Venmo her money for Plan B. Oh, and she also has herpes. You send her the money, block her number, and sit on your couch trying to decide where the closest beach is so you can take a walk and get some perspective.

    You got laid last night, but that’s literally the only remotely positive thing you can say about the evening.

    This is how I feel about last night’s game.

    This deserves 10 Chins
  • EsophagealFeces
    EsophagealFeces Member Posts: 13,163
    pawz said:

    Indulge me while I explore a hypothetical:

    You’re hungover as fuck from Friday night, but you decide to go out Saturday anyway. You go to a bar filled with hot sluts with tits, only to realize you forgot to wear pants and you’re wearing your my little pony boxers with a huge skid mark. You say fuck it and proceed to start drinking. You get fucked up entirely too quickly, get shot down by women all night, and eventually piss yourself waiting in the bathroom line.

    Fast forward to 1:56, you’re out of options. You look down at the end of the bar, and there she is: 332lbs and ready to rumble. You stumble over, give her a slurred version of your best pickup line, and go for a motorboat, and she hits you like one of those Russian slap contest motherfuckers. You wake up outside the bar on the curb. She pulls up crammed into the drivers seat of her 1995 Honda civic del sol and tells you to get in. You’re about to be on the receiving end of a pity fuck intended to get her out of assault charges.

    Like a caveman, she drags you into her dingy studio apartment next to 7-eleven on Aurora in the U-district. You tell her you need to puke first, and you proceed to splatter one of the nicest toilets you’ve ever seen. You comment on it, and she says her dad used to be the top toilet salesman at Home Depot. You strip down and the rest is sweaty, BO infested history.

    You wake up the next morning with a splitting headache, appalled at what lies snoring next to you. You search around hoping to find a used condom, but there is none to be found. You lay there contemplating the life choices that led to you raw dogging a Sherman tank. You carefully extricate yourself from the bed, put on your stained my little pony boxers and sneak out of her apartment.

    You get home, grab a fifth of whiskey out of the cabinet and plop down on the couch. You get a text from an unknown number letting you know she needs you to Venmo her money for Plan B. Oh, and she also has herpes. You send her the money, block her number, and sit on your couch trying to decide where the closest beach is so you can take a walk and get some perspective.

    You got laid last night, but that’s literally the only remotely positive thing you can say about the evening.

    This is how I feel about last night’s game.

    Mike Damone's daughter found. At 3 bills. Yikes.

    I threw that nugget in for the OGs
  • DerekJohnson
    DerekJohnson Administrator, Swaye's Wigwam Posts: 68,437 Founders Club

    pawz said:

    Indulge me while I explore a hypothetical:

    You’re hungover as fuck from Friday night, but you decide to go out Saturday anyway. You go to a bar filled with hot sluts with tits, only to realize you forgot to wear pants and you’re wearing your my little pony boxers with a huge skid mark. You say fuck it and proceed to start drinking. You get fucked up entirely too quickly, get shot down by women all night, and eventually piss yourself waiting in the bathroom line.

    Fast forward to 1:56, you’re out of options. You look down at the end of the bar, and there she is: 332lbs and ready to rumble. You stumble over, give her a slurred version of your best pickup line, and go for a motorboat, and she hits you like one of those Russian slap contest motherfuckers. You wake up outside the bar on the curb. She pulls up crammed into the drivers seat of her 1995 Honda civic del sol and tells you to get in. You’re about to be on the receiving end of a pity fuck intended to get her out of assault charges.

    Like a caveman, she drags you into her dingy studio apartment next to 7-eleven on Aurora in the U-district. You tell her you need to puke first, and you proceed to splatter one of the nicest toilets you’ve ever seen. You comment on it, and she says her dad used to be the top toilet salesman at Home Depot. You strip down and the rest is sweaty, BO infested history.

    You wake up the next morning with a splitting headache, appalled at what lies snoring next to you. You search around hoping to find a used condom, but there is none to be found. You lay there contemplating the life choices that led to you raw dogging a Sherman tank. You carefully extricate yourself from the bed, put on your stained my little pony boxers and sneak out of her apartment.

    You get home, grab a fifth of whiskey out of the cabinet and plop down on the couch. You get a text from an unknown number letting you know she needs you to Venmo her money for Plan B. Oh, and she also has herpes. You send her the money, block her number, and sit on your couch trying to decide where the closest beach is so you can take a walk and get some perspective.

    You got laid last night, but that’s literally the only remotely positive thing you can say about the evening.

    This is how I feel about last night’s game.

    Mike Damone's daughter found. At 3 bills. Yikes.

    I threw that nugget in for the OGs
    nugget or chestnut?
  • Canadawg
    Canadawg Member Posts: 5,326
    The one good things is that all your friends that would have judged you weren't out that night so they still think you have your life together. As long as you don't repeat next week you can maintain a modicum of respect...
  • FireCohen
    FireCohen Member Posts: 21,823
    Swaye said:

    Indulge me while I explore a hypothetical:

    You’re hungover as fuck from Friday night, but you decide to go out Saturday anyway. You go to a bar filled with hot sluts with tits, only to realize you forgot to wear pants and you’re wearing your my little pony boxers with a huge skid mark. You say fuck it and proceed to start drinking. You get fucked up entirely too quickly, get shot down by women all night, and eventually piss yourself waiting in the bathroom line.

    Fast forward to 1:56, you’re out of options. You look down at the end of the bar, and there she is: 332lbs and ready to rumble. You stumble over, give her a slurred version of your best pickup line, and go for a motorboat, and she hits you like one of those Russian slap contest motherfuckers. You wake up outside the bar on the curb. She pulls up crammed into the drivers seat of her 1995 Honda civic del sol and tells you to get in. You’re about to be on the receiving end of a pity fuck intended to get her out of assault charges.

    Like a caveman, she drags you into her dingy studio apartment next to 7-eleven on Aurora in the U-district. You tell her you need to puke first, and you proceed to splatter one of the nicest toilets you’ve ever seen. You comment on it, and she says her dad used to be the top toilet salesman at Home Depot. You strip down and the rest is sweaty, BO infested history.

    You wake up the next morning with a splitting headache, appalled at what lies snoring next to you. You search around hoping to find a used condom, but there is none to be found. You lay there contemplating the life choices that led to you raw dogging a Sherman tank. You carefully extricate yourself from the bed, put on your stained my little pony boxers and sneak out of her apartment.

    You get home, grab a fifth of whiskey out of the cabinet and plop down on the couch. You get a text from an unknown number letting you know she needs you to Venmo her money for Plan B. Oh, and she also has herpes. You send her the money, block her number, and sit on your couch trying to decide where the closest beach is so you can take a walk and get some perspective.

    You got laid last night, but that’s literally the only remotely positive thing you can say about the evening.

    This is how I feel about last night’s game.

    This is the written word at its finest. Bravo.
    What about you? Have your kids drained the life out of you that you don’t have the energy to write anymore
  • dirtysouwfdawg
    dirtysouwfdawg Member Posts: 14,111
    FireCohen said:

    Swaye said:

    Indulge me while I explore a hypothetical:

    You’re hungover as fuck from Friday night, but you decide to go out Saturday anyway. You go to a bar filled with hot sluts with tits, only to realize you forgot to wear pants and you’re wearing your my little pony boxers with a huge skid mark. You say fuck it and proceed to start drinking. You get fucked up entirely too quickly, get shot down by women all night, and eventually piss yourself waiting in the bathroom line.

    Fast forward to 1:56, you’re out of options. You look down at the end of the bar, and there she is: 332lbs and ready to rumble. You stumble over, give her a slurred version of your best pickup line, and go for a motorboat, and she hits you like one of those Russian slap contest motherfuckers. You wake up outside the bar on the curb. She pulls up crammed into the drivers seat of her 1995 Honda civic del sol and tells you to get in. You’re about to be on the receiving end of a pity fuck intended to get her out of assault charges.

    Like a caveman, she drags you into her dingy studio apartment next to 7-eleven on Aurora in the U-district. You tell her you need to puke first, and you proceed to splatter one of the nicest toilets you’ve ever seen. You comment on it, and she says her dad used to be the top toilet salesman at Home Depot. You strip down and the rest is sweaty, BO infested history.

    You wake up the next morning with a splitting headache, appalled at what lies snoring next to you. You search around hoping to find a used condom, but there is none to be found. You lay there contemplating the life choices that led to you raw dogging a Sherman tank. You carefully extricate yourself from the bed, put on your stained my little pony boxers and sneak out of her apartment.

    You get home, grab a fifth of whiskey out of the cabinet and plop down on the couch. You get a text from an unknown number letting you know she needs you to Venmo her money for Plan B. Oh, and she also has herpes. You send her the money, block her number, and sit on your couch trying to decide where the closest beach is so you can take a walk and get some perspective.

    You got laid last night, but that’s literally the only remotely positive thing you can say about the evening.

    This is how I feel about last night’s game.

    This is the written word at its finest. Bravo.
    What about you? Have your kids drained the life out of you that you don’t have the energy to write anymore
    You have no idea. He’s resorted to jerking off on the phone while we talk. He didn’t ask for permission but secretly I like it.
  • LawDawg1
    LawDawg1 Member Posts: 3,942

    FireCohen said:

    Swaye said:

    Indulge me while I explore a hypothetical:

    You’re hungover as fuck from Friday night, but you decide to go out Saturday anyway. You go to a bar filled with hot sluts with tits, only to realize you forgot to wear pants and you’re wearing your my little pony boxers with a huge skid mark. You say fuck it and proceed to start drinking. You get fucked up entirely too quickly, get shot down by women all night, and eventually piss yourself waiting in the bathroom line.

    Fast forward to 1:56, you’re out of options. You look down at the end of the bar, and there she is: 332lbs and ready to rumble. You stumble over, give her a slurred version of your best pickup line, and go for a motorboat, and she hits you like one of those Russian slap contest motherfuckers. You wake up outside the bar on the curb. She pulls up crammed into the drivers seat of her 1995 Honda civic del sol and tells you to get in. You’re about to be on the receiving end of a pity fuck intended to get her out of assault charges.

    Like a caveman, she drags you into her dingy studio apartment next to 7-eleven on Aurora in the U-district. You tell her you need to puke first, and you proceed to splatter one of the nicest toilets you’ve ever seen. You comment on it, and she says her dad used to be the top toilet salesman at Home Depot. You strip down and the rest is sweaty, BO infested history.

    You wake up the next morning with a splitting headache, appalled at what lies snoring next to you. You search around hoping to find a used condom, but there is none to be found. You lay there contemplating the life choices that led to you raw dogging a Sherman tank. You carefully extricate yourself from the bed, put on your stained my little pony boxers and sneak out of her apartment.

    You get home, grab a fifth of whiskey out of the cabinet and plop down on the couch. You get a text from an unknown number letting you know she needs you to Venmo her money for Plan B. Oh, and she also has herpes. You send her the money, block her number, and sit on your couch trying to decide where the closest beach is so you can take a walk and get some perspective.

    You got laid last night, but that’s literally the only remotely positive thing you can say about the evening.

    This is how I feel about last night’s game.

    This is the written word at its finest. Bravo.
    What about you? Have your kids drained the life out of you that you don’t have the energy to write anymore
    You have no idea. He’s resorted to jerking off on the phone while we talk. He didn’t ask for permission but secretly I like it.
    Do you happen to be a past victim who advocates for change?
  • EsophagealFeces
    EsophagealFeces Member Posts: 13,163
    LawDawg1 said:

    FireCohen said:

    Swaye said:

    Indulge me while I explore a hypothetical:

    You’re hungover as fuck from Friday night, but you decide to go out Saturday anyway. You go to a bar filled with hot sluts with tits, only to realize you forgot to wear pants and you’re wearing your my little pony boxers with a huge skid mark. You say fuck it and proceed to start drinking. You get fucked up entirely too quickly, get shot down by women all night, and eventually piss yourself waiting in the bathroom line.

    Fast forward to 1:56, you’re out of options. You look down at the end of the bar, and there she is: 332lbs and ready to rumble. You stumble over, give her a slurred version of your best pickup line, and go for a motorboat, and she hits you like one of those Russian slap contest motherfuckers. You wake up outside the bar on the curb. She pulls up crammed into the drivers seat of her 1995 Honda civic del sol and tells you to get in. You’re about to be on the receiving end of a pity fuck intended to get her out of assault charges.

    Like a caveman, she drags you into her dingy studio apartment next to 7-eleven on Aurora in the U-district. You tell her you need to puke first, and you proceed to splatter one of the nicest toilets you’ve ever seen. You comment on it, and she says her dad used to be the top toilet salesman at Home Depot. You strip down and the rest is sweaty, BO infested history.

    You wake up the next morning with a splitting headache, appalled at what lies snoring next to you. You search around hoping to find a used condom, but there is none to be found. You lay there contemplating the life choices that led to you raw dogging a Sherman tank. You carefully extricate yourself from the bed, put on your stained my little pony boxers and sneak out of her apartment.

    You get home, grab a fifth of whiskey out of the cabinet and plop down on the couch. You get a text from an unknown number letting you know she needs you to Venmo her money for Plan B. Oh, and she also has herpes. You send her the money, block her number, and sit on your couch trying to decide where the closest beach is so you can take a walk and get some perspective.

    You got laid last night, but that’s literally the only remotely positive thing you can say about the evening.

    This is how I feel about last night’s game.

    This is the written word at its finest. Bravo.
    What about you? Have your kids drained the life out of you that you don’t have the energy to write anymore
    You have no idea. He’s resorted to jerking off on the phone while we talk. He didn’t ask for permission but secretly I like it.
    Do you happen to be a past victim who advocates for change?
    @SwayeIsMelTucker, true?
  • YellowSnow
    YellowSnow Moderator, Swaye's Wigwam Posts: 37,299 Founders Club
    Swaye said:

    Indulge me while I explore a hypothetical:

    You’re hungover as fuck from Friday night, but you decide to go out Saturday anyway. You go to a bar filled with hot sluts with tits, only to realize you forgot to wear pants and you’re wearing your my little pony boxers with a huge skid mark. You say fuck it and proceed to start drinking. You get fucked up entirely too quickly, get shot down by women all night, and eventually piss yourself waiting in the bathroom line.

    Fast forward to 1:56, you’re out of options. You look down at the end of the bar, and there she is: 332lbs and ready to rumble. You stumble over, give her a slurred version of your best pickup line, and go for a motorboat, and she hits you like one of those Russian slap contest motherfuckers. You wake up outside the bar on the curb. She pulls up crammed into the drivers seat of her 1995 Honda civic del sol and tells you to get in. You’re about to be on the receiving end of a pity fuck intended to get her out of assault charges.

    Like a caveman, she drags you into her dingy studio apartment next to 7-eleven on Aurora in the U-district. You tell her you need to puke first, and you proceed to splatter one of the nicest toilets you’ve ever seen. You comment on it, and she says her dad used to be the top toilet salesman at Home Depot. You strip down and the rest is sweaty, BO infested history.

    You wake up the next morning with a splitting headache, appalled at what lies snoring next to you. You search around hoping to find a used condom, but there is none to be found. You lay there contemplating the life choices that led to you raw dogging a Sherman tank. You carefully extricate yourself from the bed, put on your stained my little pony boxers and sneak out of her apartment.

    You get home, grab a fifth of whiskey out of the cabinet and plop down on the couch. You get a text from an unknown number letting you know she needs you to Venmo her money for Plan B. Oh, and she also has herpes. You send her the money, block her number, and sit on your couch trying to decide where the closest beach is so you can take a walk and get some perspective.

    You got laid last night, but that’s literally the only remotely positive thing you can say about the evening.

    This is how I feel about last night’s game.

    This is the written word at its finest. Bravo.
    Assuming @EsophagealFeces has had some sort of lived experience like this. I mean you can't have such technically gifted writing without, at least, having some IRL inspiration.
  • Fire_Marshall_Bill
    Fire_Marshall_Bill Member Posts: 25,630 Standard Supporter
    That was Pumpy level. Congrats.
  • dirtysouwfdawg
    dirtysouwfdawg Member Posts: 14,111
    LawDawg1 said:

    FireCohen said:

    Swaye said:

    Indulge me while I explore a hypothetical:

    You’re hungover as fuck from Friday night, but you decide to go out Saturday anyway. You go to a bar filled with hot sluts with tits, only to realize you forgot to wear pants and you’re wearing your my little pony boxers with a huge skid mark. You say fuck it and proceed to start drinking. You get fucked up entirely too quickly, get shot down by women all night, and eventually piss yourself waiting in the bathroom line.

    Fast forward to 1:56, you’re out of options. You look down at the end of the bar, and there she is: 332lbs and ready to rumble. You stumble over, give her a slurred version of your best pickup line, and go for a motorboat, and she hits you like one of those Russian slap contest motherfuckers. You wake up outside the bar on the curb. She pulls up crammed into the drivers seat of her 1995 Honda civic del sol and tells you to get in. You’re about to be on the receiving end of a pity fuck intended to get her out of assault charges.

    Like a caveman, she drags you into her dingy studio apartment next to 7-eleven on Aurora in the U-district. You tell her you need to puke first, and you proceed to splatter one of the nicest toilets you’ve ever seen. You comment on it, and she says her dad used to be the top toilet salesman at Home Depot. You strip down and the rest is sweaty, BO infested history.

    You wake up the next morning with a splitting headache, appalled at what lies snoring next to you. You search around hoping to find a used condom, but there is none to be found. You lay there contemplating the life choices that led to you raw dogging a Sherman tank. You carefully extricate yourself from the bed, put on your stained my little pony boxers and sneak out of her apartment.

    You get home, grab a fifth of whiskey out of the cabinet and plop down on the couch. You get a text from an unknown number letting you know she needs you to Venmo her money for Plan B. Oh, and she also has herpes. You send her the money, block her number, and sit on your couch trying to decide where the closest beach is so you can take a walk and get some perspective.

    You got laid last night, but that’s literally the only remotely positive thing you can say about the evening.

    This is how I feel about last night’s game.

    This is the written word at its finest. Bravo.
    What about you? Have your kids drained the life out of you that you don’t have the energy to write anymore
    You have no idea. He’s resorted to jerking off on the phone while we talk. He didn’t ask for permission but secretly I like it.
    Do you happen to be a past victim who advocates for change?
    No































    Means no.
  • dirtysouwfdawg
    dirtysouwfdawg Member Posts: 14,111
    edited October 2023

    Swaye said:

    Indulge me while I explore a hypothetical:

    You’re hungover as fuck from Friday night, but you decide to go out Saturday anyway. You go to a bar filled with hot sluts with tits, only to realize you forgot to wear pants and you’re wearing your my little pony boxers with a huge skid mark. You say fuck it and proceed to start drinking. You get fucked up entirely too quickly, get shot down by women all night, and eventually piss yourself waiting in the bathroom line.

    Fast forward to 1:56, you’re out of options. You look down at the end of the bar, and there she is: 332lbs and ready to rumble. You stumble over, give her a slurred version of your best pickup line, and go for a motorboat, and she hits you like one of those Russian slap contest motherfuckers. You wake up outside the bar on the curb. She pulls up crammed into the drivers seat of her 1995 Honda civic del sol and tells you to get in. You’re about to be on the receiving end of a pity fuck intended to get her out of assault charges.

    Like a caveman, she drags you into her dingy studio apartment next to 7-eleven on Aurora in the U-district. You tell her you need to puke first, and you proceed to splatter one of the nicest toilets you’ve ever seen. You comment on it, and she says her dad used to be the top toilet salesman at Home Depot. You strip down and the rest is sweaty, BO infested history.

    You wake up the next morning with a splitting headache, appalled at what lies snoring next to you. You search around hoping to find a used condom, but there is none to be found. You lay there contemplating the life choices that led to you raw dogging a Sherman tank. You carefully extricate yourself from the bed, put on your stained my little pony boxers and sneak out of her apartment.

    You get home, grab a fifth of whiskey out of the cabinet and plop down on the couch. You get a text from an unknown number letting you know she needs you to Venmo her money for Plan B. Oh, and she also has herpes. You send her the money, block her number, and sit on your couch trying to decide where the closest beach is so you can take a walk and get some perspective.

    You got laid last night, but that’s literally the only remotely positive thing you can say about the evening.

    This is how I feel about last night’s game.

    This is the written word at its finest. Bravo.
    Assuming @EsophagealFeces has had some sort of lived experience like this. I mean you can't have such technically gifted writing without, at least, having some IRL inspiration.
    I’ve never experienced anything even remotely close to this. I just have a fucked up sense of humor and marginal writing skills. I was merely trying to come up with a worst case scenario evening that still resulted in getting laid. I was never the pick up chicks in a bar type. My little pony boxers, however…
    I’ll give you some experiences if you marginally write about them, deal?

    Shit sounds like a Thursday before I became a gay unfun married parent.
  • CFetters_Nacho_Lover
    CFetters_Nacho_Lover Moderator, Swaye's Wigwam Posts: 32,307 Founders Club

    That was Pumpy level. Congrats.

    Not enough homo eroticism for Pup