Day after feelings
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
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TLDR version.
Went to neighbors. got AIDS. Died. -
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what's wrong with a 95 Civic?
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That had more excitement than the Husky game. Thanks for sharing.Baseman said: -
This happened once not exactly but the fat part. It was gross. I used the only condom so my buddy was left going raw in the ring sting. I guess this is what you do in HS… never saw her again and never spoke of it again.
Only time I ever fucked anything fat other than the obvious. Well, and a crack whore one time but I didn’t initially know she was a crack whore. That’s another story.
Wait, what are we talking about. -
dirtysouwfdawg said:
This happened once not exactly but the fat part. It was gross. I used the only condom so my buddy was left going raw in the ring sting. I guess this is what you do in HS… never saw her again and never spoke of it again.
Only time I ever fucked anything fat other than the obvious. Well, and a crack whore one time but I didn’t initially know she was a crack whore. That’s another story.
Wait, what are we talking about.
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This deserves 10 ChinsEsophagealFeces 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 sounds like one of @Swaye stories, but he would fuck crazy hot chicks with syphilis
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Mike Damone's daughter found. At 3 bills. Yikes.EsophagealFeces 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.
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I threw that nugget in for the OGspawz said:
Mike Damone's daughter found. At 3 bills. Yikes.EsophagealFeces 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. -
nugget or chestnut?EsophagealFeces said:
I threw that nugget in for the OGspawz said:
Mike Damone's daughter found. At 3 bills. Yikes.EsophagealFeces 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. -
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...
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This is the written word at its finest. Bravo.EsophagealFeces 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. -
What about you? Have your kids drained the life out of you that you don’t have the energy to write anymoreSwaye said:
This is the written word at its finest. Bravo.EsophagealFeces 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. -
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.FireCohen said:
What about you? Have your kids drained the life out of you that you don’t have the energy to write anymoreSwaye said:
This is the written word at its finest. Bravo.EsophagealFeces 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. -
Do you happen to be a past victim who advocates for change?dirtysouwfdawg said:
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.FireCohen said:
What about you? Have your kids drained the life out of you that you don’t have the energy to write anymoreSwaye said:
This is the written word at its finest. Bravo.EsophagealFeces 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. -
@SwayeIsMelTucker, true?LawDawg1 said:
Do you happen to be a past victim who advocates for change?dirtysouwfdawg said:
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.FireCohen said:
What about you? Have your kids drained the life out of you that you don’t have the energy to write anymoreSwaye said:
This is the written word at its finest. Bravo.EsophagealFeces 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. -
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.Swaye said:
This is the written word at its finest. Bravo.EsophagealFeces 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. -
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…YellowSnow said:
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.Swaye said:
This is the written word at its finest. Bravo.EsophagealFeces 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. -
That was Pumpy level. Congrats.
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NoLawDawg1 said:
Do you happen to be a past victim who advocates for change?dirtysouwfdawg said:
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.FireCohen said:
What about you? Have your kids drained the life out of you that you don’t have the energy to write anymoreSwaye said:
This is the written word at its finest. Bravo.EsophagealFeces 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.
Means no. -
I’ll give you some experiences if you marginally write about them, deal?EsophagealFeces said:
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…YellowSnow said:
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.Swaye said:
This is the written word at its finest. Bravo.EsophagealFeces 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.
Shit sounds like a Thursday before I became a gay unfun married parent. -
Not enough homo eroticism for PupFire_Marshall_Bill said:That was Pumpy level. Congrats.
