I will meet you later in somebody's office

Things that I am giving up for the month of July:

1) Beer. Not vodka, not Kaluha. Not rum nor whisky. But beer. Merely beer.

2) Being a fat cunt. Chunky syndrome has well and truly caught up with Gimme and the time has come to get my hardbody body back.

2) Bleughing. See you in August.

It's hot as hell in Martirio

A little dislocated arse vignette for you. And a perfect snapshot of what I am.

I had decided to take off my bike shoes. They've started being all pinchy and as I was not at the time hammering Hardcore Motherfucker, riding Rosie or jesus killing with Jesus Killer, their removal seemed to be a logical step.

Logical, and simple. Two velcro straps across each shoe, only one of which needs to be opened to facilitate the comfortable slipping off and on of said footwear. But oh, that bending over! It just seemed like such a strain. My days are so filled with arduous and thankless tasks already, I mused, so why pile on the misery by inflicting on my person the hassle of hip flexion, the trauma of erector spinae extension? And so I attempted to ease one shoe off by using the other. No dice. Too snug. I relented and bent over. But in a token gesture of laze, a final single digit raised at this vile vie and its endless demands, I maintained my refusal to open the velcro strap. Fuck you, existence. Fuck you and your making me do stuff.

A number of almighty wrenches later, this pinchy shoe lay five feet away in a pool of spilt espresso and shattered coffee cup. And I was possessed of shooting pains in my hip and a dull ache in my right glute. Symptoms, I'm sure you'll agree, of the aforementioned dislocated arse.

All of which is a small price to pay for a rare victory in my war against this sorry excuse for a life.

Robert Eagar Notes

As my one year anniversary approaches, I offer a simple one post guide to 'Stranded on Gaia' which will save you from having to plough through this tripe for yet another twelve months:

This unpopular 'blog' is keyboarded by Gimme A. Minute, ex-actor, fitness professional, drug addict and father. Posts on 'Stranded On Gaia' fall into three distinct categories:

1) General anger at whatever the fuck happens to be in front of the author. While Dublin City Council, reality television and Roisin Ingle are popular targets, the gist of these entries is that everything is shit and everything is being shit on purpose just to enrage Gimme. It's all fucking personal, pontificate these posts, and it will be taken lying down with a big sucked-on Snickers.

2) Bicycles. Hardcore Motherfucker, Rosie and the recently named Jesus Killer. Their sexiness, their danger. Their sexy dangerousness. Their being stolen, their being recovered. Their central place in our hero's early death fantasies. Their not being cars.

3) The Bridge Crew. Sissy mickey Gimme's two girl children, Riker and Data. How they piss him off, how he loves them anyway. How he finds them relentlessly heartbreaking yet charming. How the rest of the world could do without listening to these hackneyed, syrupy lovey dovey tales of cuteness. You're children aren't special, Gimme.

Did I say three? I meant four.

4) Self-pitying weep fests bemoaning the emptiness, tedium and horror of Gimme's childhood, day to day life and future prospects. While similar to post type 1, these sloppily written offerings replace rage with a repetitive screech for attention and sympathy. These are Gimme's favourite kind.

Now so. All done. No need for you to revisit, folks, that's all I've got.

All the ladies who truly feel me

Is there anything more fucking boring than people going on about their children? Did you catch Riker's cutesy wutsey post? Sick making, huh? Where the fuck is the rage in that shit? Nowhere to be found.

But I love them you see, these girls, this Crew. It's not my fucking fault. Screw you, biological imperative. It's only because my stupid subconscious thinks they look like me even though nothing could be further from the truth. They look like their mother. They are Mini Common Laws to the core, the pair of them.

Look out folks, here comes the saccharine truck. It ain't got no breaks.

The night before last Data had a bad dream. About crocodiles. She was pretty upset. I was all in favour of telling her to get both over herself and back into bed but Common Law insisted that we allow her sleep with us. Half an hour of heel to kidney sound asleep jabbing later, I made the move to Data's reptile infested converted cot. Mmm, crampy. On the upside those chicken-ass crocodile motherfuckers didn't come near me.

At 6 o'clock Data awoke and demanded breakfast. Common Law rolled over as she moaned 'Ask your daddy.' So she did. I rolled over as I grunted 'Too early.' Thirty minutes later, having been forced to rise by darting pains in my iliotibial band, I discovered the second born sitting on our bed eating a bowl of Bran Flakes.

'Wow,' I thought to myself, 'Common Law must have gotten up. 'What next? A black president in the US?'

Highly attuned to any sarcasm whether spoken out loud or not, my beautiful not wife lifted her head from the pillow and intoned 'Thanks for doing that.' I should have kept my mouth shut and taken credit. But I was too intrigued, too terrified as to what I would now be facing in the kitchen, on the stairs. I needed the support. 'I didn't do that, I just woke up.'

We moved slowly, fearfully, down the stairs. Shockingly, there was no devastation in the stairwell. Stunningly, the stairs themselves were also mess free. We entered the kitchen. The fridge door was open, with a chair in front of it, but there was no spilt milk, no roadside Bran Flake bomb. My little three year old angel, my crazy kid, had successfully put together her own breakfast and transported it, without destruction, all the way to our first floor bedroom. We're bad parents, clearly, but Data has proved herself a capable and independent little soul. The time had come, it seemed to me, to draw up a CV and get that little lady out there on the job market.

This morning, emboldened by this incident, I asked Data if she would be preparing her own breakfast again.

'No.'

'Why not? You did it yesterday.'

'You're here.'

We did it together. But, y'know, sigh.

Needn't bother watching next week

V: I hate nationalists.

Gimme: Well, they are fucking cunts.


V: Fucking Germans again.

Gimme: You know it. I was wearing my Schweinsteiger top. Go the fucking fatherland.

V: It's turning into the same old crap. Italy will beat Spain and Holland will collapse in the final leaving a munting hoofing Wimbledon look-a-like outfit with a fucking cup......again.

Gimme: Are you referring to Italy?

V: Italy, Germany, Croatia, Turkey and Russia, pig ugly. Holland, Spain, kissy lips fancy trainers.

Gimme: Kissy lips fancy trainers?

V: Yes.

The sawdust and the horses and the smell

'I act,' said the gangly youth with confident pride when I asked him why he was so flexible. 'That's why I'm doing this. I want to increase my movement range, become more aware of my body.'

Is that right? You act? We all fucking act, Shane, if that is your real name.

But yeah, I know what you mean, I totally feel you. Because I was you, Shane. I remember when it was all Stanislavski, honing my craft, Alexander Techniquing the crap out of myself. I too created beautiful art in Studio 1 of the Gaiety School of Acting. And I wish you well, Shane, Gimme wishes you well. May your youthful optimism last. May you work consistently and be fulfilled.

And may you never find yourself slumped in a dressing room of The Burnavon in the bigoted cesspit that is Cookstown. May you never stare in the mirror, wondering how it could possibly have gotten to the point where you dread stepping onto the stage. May you never be miscast and undirected, Shane, never feel the nastiness of a company that has turned against you because you are, to be blunt, shit. Let there be no snide, unsolicted notes given in the bar, no cold-shouldering, no sudden lulls in converstion when you enter the Green Room.

And may you never, ever come to an understanding of the vacuousness of your profession, and of all those who populate it. May it never become clear that your choice in the years ahead is one between self-deluding pretentiousness or a profound emptiness that will inevitably make you maudlin and mawkish, bitter and bitchy.

Oh and Shane? Who's your agent? Think she could get me seen for a walk-on in The Tudors?

My Faveourite Expiment

My Faveourite expiment was the marshmellow one. We had to make shaps out of cocktail sticks and marshmellows. The first shape was a cube we used eight marshmellows and twelwe cocktail sticks.Next was a triangler pyrmad. We used five marshmellows and eight cocktail sticks. Next we had to make the tallest stuctur we could. Mine didn't go very well. I liked this expirment because we got to eat the marshmellows at the end.


Guest bleugher Riker

You don't have to say what you did, I already know

My shirt arrived just in time for Italy to turn it around and scramble their way into the quarter finals with yet another unconvincing performance. Unconvince me all the way to the trophy, boys!

In a dramatic break with tradition V sent not an international top but the wilfully obscure 3rd strip of Genovese club Sampdoria. Embalzoned across the shoulders is the name 'Cassano', beneath which lies the standard Italian number for nutjobs, 99.

I am assuming that V considered this to be the player most suited to my personality due to Antonio's undoubted footballing brilliance as opposed to his famously petulant cry-baby antics.

Considering that all evidence points to the contrary, this is a fairly groundless assumption. But if the boot, or indeed the football top, fits...


Today's Title (who needs this many guitars?)

They dance alone or in a big boss line

I hate making mashed potatoes. I hate the peeling, hot or cold. I hate the fucking mashing. It's hard. It hurts my little arm, makes my fingers go all crampy. I hate the fucking clean up too. I might as well cook super glue for all the ease with which the potato comes off the pot, whether it's been soaked or not. And it seems to attach to any other piece of cookware within a fucking ninety mile radius too. The taste, while wonderfully buttery and and fluffy and fluttery makes up not one jot for the labour that comes before and after. I fucking hate making fucking mashed potatoes.

I know you want the hate, folks, and that's about all that I hate today.

I know, I know. I think it's the drugs. Love you drugs!

In this world we're just beginning to understand the miracle of living

I got two little links for you here, both to do with my favourite people in the whole wide world, those peace-lovin', Jesus-blowin' evangelicals.

The first is from The Seattle Times. I once had a stopover at Seattle Airport on my way to visit the Away Team. However much I craned my head as I leant over the kindly Indian gentleman in the window seat, I was unable to catch even a single glimpse of either Kurt Cobain or Eddie Vedder. This was disappointing, to me.

The gist of this article that you are unlikely to open, let alone read, is as follows: Younger right-wing crazies, despite growing ever crazier than their older brothers in delusion, are still considering voting for Obama. Big swinging mickeys, right? And less convincing than even the most Ray Bolgery of straw polls.

What I truly adore though, is the closing line of the article, a quote from Tyler Braun (the first rule of God Club is you must constantly talk about God Club) a 23 year old seminary student from Portland:

'I just keep thinking, if Jesus were alive now, he wouldn't necessarily be voting Republican.'

You think, Tyler? But hang on, wasn't Jesus a warmongering fuck bag who took from the poor to give to the rich? He said 'Cluster bomb the shit out of your neighbour' didn't he? Wasn't that one of his big lines? Seriously dude, if you think Jesus voted for Bush, you gotta be considering the possibility that he's unlikely to be drawing the line at John McOvenChips.

'Necessarily'. Comedy genius. You're wasted in a seminary, Tyler baby, you should take that gold on the road.

Next, the all new 'You've been left behind' website. For a subscription of just $40 a year, this service gives the opportunity to the 'saved' to send pre-written emails to their 'unsaved' friends and family who insist on not spitting on homosexuals and beating up women who want a modicum of control over their own bodies. If the website's employees, who are apparently scattered across the globe, fail to log in for six days in a row then these admonishing mails are automatically delivered to the damned.

So it would appear that despite omnipotence, omniscience and omnibusicality, the Great Bearded Overlord does not have broadband in his gaff. And frankly, this makes me want to be left behind, left the fuck behind, to internet access having hell fire.


Today's Title

You don't know how to play the game

Oh, these chemical imbalances, this hormonal whorishness. All day I am on the brink of girlish tears. I'm pretty sure it's not the rejection of the Lisbon Treaty, though the waves of anger which I am also experiencing have found a convenient target in the car radio as yet another ignoramus opines that we can 'go back and get a better deal'.

'There is no better fucking deal, you stupid stupid cunt!', I screamed on the toll bridge today. 'There was no conscription, there was no abortion, there was no extra corporate tax. You fuck. You stupid, stupid fuck.'

My window was open, paying my €1.65 as I was. The toll-taker looked more amused than anything else, the 'No' voting prick.

But like I say, I don't think that the tremendous tedium of this result has anything to do with the way that I feel. This way that I feel where every slight slight is a grievous insult, every minor mishap a major crisis. But I believe that I do know what it is about.

It's about a something that is missing, that try as I might, I cannot seem to find. It's an omission, a gap. A gap that has been mostly filled for the last few years by various activities, like training and over-training, drinking and over-drinking, and fake god fucking help me, by bleughing. This gap is growing now, gaping. The fillers are no longer sufficiently filling. My dam against this loss is cracking and I fear that there will be drownings.

So yeah, anyway, what should I call my new bike?


Today's Title

I am the bowl of petunias

I wear my helmet all the time now. This is a recent and deeply uncool decision that I have made, mostly related to what would have been the helmetless death of an amateur track rider of whom I am podcastly aware. Tim Jackson, he got all fucked up. I’m not sure how many bones he broke in what appears to have been a relatively innocuous, if high speed, collision, but the closest estimate seems to be fucking all of them. There is little doubt in my mind that without his helmet his brain would have been so much Heinz spaghetti hoops on soggy white toast. And so I’ve been donning my prophylactic ponce hat. I realise that this fucks with your hardened image of Gimme as the death-defying daredevil of Dublin City, but folks, I ain’t going out like that. I am determined that all this cooking, cleaning and ass-wiping is going to be paid back in my doddery, drooling and hopefully drug-addicted old age.

And yet, and fucking yet.

I haven’t written about my new bicycle yet. Yes, I have a new bicycle. Baby makes three. I don’t want to sully her, you see, taint her with lurid bleughy descriptions of her svelte frame, her curvaceous bars, her sexy, sexy brakelessness. I’ll be brief. She be light, she be quick, she be mostly fixed. And Manuel sweetie, just for you, she be Kona.

And today, approaching Fairview, (why is it always Fairview? What the fuck is it about Fairview that My Death loves so very fucking much?) me and my newest love get clipped by a car cunt. 04, I notice, gold, long and in a big fucking hurry to get to the next red light. I wobble, balance but most essentially, keep pedalling. (One is obliged to keep pedalling on a fixed gear bike or one is in danger of breaking one’s fucking face.) At this point the thing to do, the path to take, is one of restraint and forbearance. A deep breath and a realisation that there is nothing to be gained by confrontation for the sake of confrontation. And so I steady myself, speed up and catch this car. Still slowly turning over, I unleash my standard obscene invective.

The car window thrums down and I am faced with the ugliest, dirtiest, scumbaggiest little fat cunt on the road. He returns the invective. He threatens to run me down. We’re parallel but he attempts to swerve into me anyway. And then he spits. He is not a good spitter. His salvia makes it as far as the passenger seat. ‘Classy, dude.’ I giggle. Scumbags hate being called ‘dude’. He goes purple. I smile. I take off. And the fucker chases me.

This is one insane out of control troglodyte that I’m dealing with here. The red mist is down. He’s doing fight and unencased as I am in metal, I’m doing flight. The traffic is heavy enough to give me an advantage, but I still have to take risks. I have to go very, very fast. I have to weave. I find myself in the middle of the road with no clear path to the far bike line in sight. I glance quickly over my shoulder. Goldie has managed to pull into my lane and is rapidly reducing my advantage. Perhaps he just wants to scare me. If so, mission fucking accomplished. But I truly believe that he has lost it and that he means to hit me. He’s closing. I’m doing about 40k but he’s closing. His engine roars.

I see a disgustingly dangerous gap in the oncoming traffic. Split second decision. I take the gap. Horns. Brakes. I make it. My would be murderer flies past. He would have hit me, I see now. He had given himself no option.

One part of me wants to start carrying a brick so that, with a pre-planned escape route, I can calmly take out the rear window of these cunts that would clip me.. That would slow me down, though. I hate being slow.

The other part of me points out that there’s no fucking point wearing a helmet if I’m going to insist on putting myself in these situations.

Tu dis oui, je dis non

I'm all Topolled to fuck on this Lesbian Treaty shit, folks. On the one hand, on the other hand, on the other hand, on the other hand.

All the crazy cunts want us to vote No. Fucking Cóir. Fucking Shinners. Various extreme nutbags from both right and left.

A wizened hag from Cóir called to my door last week. 'Cor blimey!' I quipped. She was unamused. I thought I best get serious. I told her that I was undecided and asked her why I should vote No. Because Europe are going to make us legalize drugs and abortion, she told me.

'That sounds great. But why should I vote No?'

She wordlessly turned and moved on to the next door neighbour Krauts. Way to fucking argue your case, dude.

Thing is, Europe aren't really going to give me free terminations and it seems senseless to vote one way because a bunch of fruit loops are going the other. And it's not that the political establishment who are telling me to vote Yes aren't cunts. They are. Complete cunts, almost all. (Though not Garret Fitzgerald, I like him because he looks and sounds like my Grandad who was not a cunt). I cannot help but distrust the insular, corrupt and grab all you can as quickly as you can mindset of the Irish political class.

So on the one hand, on the other hand. I should be voting on the facts. But I don't understand the facts. All I know is that I'm pro-Europe. I'd rather be ruled by an army of faceless Belgian bureaucrats that Brian Cowen, Willie O'Dea or even Eamon Gilmore. I'm into the whole United Europe dream. Belgian chocolates are scrummy. So let's get together, nuke up, and head straight for Boston to show those Migrant Micks just who be the boss of this little ol' planet. I hate being Irish, it embarrasses the shit out of me and being European is at least better than being a Yank.

My thoughts are fuzzy, yes, and evidently ill-expressed, but at this point I'm almost certain that I'm going with a 'Yes'. I'd like to hold out on the legal drugs fantasy and as evidenced by my support of Italy in Euro 2008, I do enjoy being on the losing side.

There is no other hand.


Today's Title

I miss the comfort in being sad

This evening I would like to write something desperately powerful and beautiful. A piece that will make the reader sigh with their very soul. Sigh with sadness and loneliness. Sigh with a hopeful elation, with a wonder at all our good fortune.

I would like to include a breathtaking photograph that took my breath as I took it, as I breathed.

I would like it if this writing that I write, this picture from which I draw, were not soaked in sentiment and self-pity and mawkishness. I would like it if I did not come across as a scrawny self-serving dickhead.

I would like it to be simple.

But you know what? Italy lost 3-0 to that pack of orange cunts and someone else has that beautiful simplicity shit covered. So I'm going to sleep instead.

I could trace your private number

From V and in honour of this evening's game, Stranded on Gaia presents the strangely hypnotic bouncing genitalia of Michael Ballack. Technically you don't need to watch more than 20 seconds of this clip but I'll be surprised if you can tear your eyes away.

You're welcome.

It turn me off when I feel left out

I recently had the word 'lovely' insultingly hurled at me on these very pages, and while 'ignorant, smart-arsed, puppy-kicking cunt' might have been a little more on the money, 'lovely' hurt just as much.

And then last night, for some fucking reason, I venture out of the house, not to go to work or pick up or drop off a child but to actually meet people. Real live people in real live life. And what do I get in return for this baring of my social soul? I get called fucking 'nice'. And 'not a monster'. I am not fucking nice. I am a fucking monster. If I appear 'nice' it's because I'm faking it, faking it hard. Twelve hours later, my cheeks still ache from the rictus grin of my simulated niceness. If I seem to lack monstrosity, that is because I'm holding said monster of bitterness and self-disgust under the table, under the table and away from my vunerable Johnson which it would very much like to get its mouth on, its teeth into.

All the people that I met were really nice lovely likeable. Easy to talk to, fun to be around. And I fucking hate talking, despise being around. So good folks, those folks.

Except for that very short cunt on the way to the toilet, in the toilet, on the way back from the toilet. I was lying to you, you tiny tosser. I am off the telly. But if you think I'm going to admit that so that you and our mates can take the piss and regale me with your own 'I once accidentally vomited on Dinny' stories then you can go and fuck. Your persistence, cunt, is undignified and unseemly. It demeans us both. So fuck off, or I'll be letting the real Gimme come out to play.


Today's Title

I need to go to bed now

They just put a blind guy into Big Brother. There'll be a Parkinson's suffering plushophile in next.

I can't fucking wait.

Update: Even better. It's an albino black guy.

Last night he kicked her out of bed and swore it was a goal

Decision time approaches. I've been reading up on the issues at hand, taking advice from those I respect and looking deep into my soul. But I still find myself unable to pick a country at which to rage for the duration of Euro 2008.

Who will I be supporting? Don't know. V knows though. Traditionally, in every major tournament containing year, V gets me a football top for my birthday. His choice seems to be mostly based on aesthetics rather that any footballing considerations and thus I found myself supporting Germany in the last World Cup. The stylish red and black away kit it was, which they never fucking wore as the compettion was held in, yes, Germany, with the name 'Schweinsteiger' emblazoned across the shoulders. 'G'wan Pig Farmer!' I would scream at the oversized screen in Finbar's basement, lacking as I am in even the most basic German.

On a side note, might I suggest avoiding spending a World Cup anywhere in the Okanagan Valley. It's not that Canadians are unable to grasp the more intricate subtleties of football, or even that they are incapable of referring to the beautiful game as anything other than 'soccer', it's more that they haven't got a fucking clue and that they keep fucking saying 'soccer'.

Once the Krauts got knocked out, I switched my allegiance to Italy. Because I have Italian cousins, because I felt in my water that they were going to win and most of all because I fancy the hole off Paolo Maldini. Oh Paolo. Oh baby. Gaze upon my unworthy visage with those deep, heart-breaking eyes and I am yours to use as you please. You name it, Paolo mio caro, and I'll do it.

Ahem.

So yeah, I'm supporting the team whose top will arrive, like everything V related, right on time. And once they go out, I'll move to my default Eye-Tie position.

But who gives a fuck about that? Not me. The big question for Gimme remains: Who will be the recipient of his focused bile, his undiluted scorn, all of his footballing wrath? And why is this the big question? Because I get more joy from hate than love. That's the kind of cunt that I am.

Normally, there would be no head scratching, no hair pulling, no breast beating. But those inconsiderate, incompetent Britlanders, despite having one or two allegedly world-class players, miserably failed to qualify. So who will it be? Austria (Nazi cunts)? Greece (jammy cunts)? Switzerland (Nazi helper jammy cunts)? or Russia (Chelsea cunts)?

What say you?

There's nothing pure in this world

I can't be any more specific as to what that last post was about because that would be even meaner than it already is and it's already pretty fucking mean.

So let me dish some dirt on the wedding instead.

There is no dirt to dish. Priests are cunts. We knew this. Even if the bride and groom are happy to indulge in all manner of stinking hypocrisy so that they might get hitched in a pretty torture porn emblazoned building (and more power to them, do what you gotta do), don't expect the rest of us to join in your Christing ritual responses. We've moved on from that goobledegook, didn't you know? And seriously dude, it don't matter how many times you say 'Lord have mercy', I'm not going to be saying it back. And while I have you, would you mind shutting the fuck up about Jesus being responsible for the peace process and get on with marrying the lovely couple? Beard Boy is responsible for the peace but not all the maiming and death that went before, you say. The fuck does that work? Don't answer that. Just shut the fuck up and let me start drinking.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of gradual drunkenness, acceptable food, and some low-grade but breathtakingly consistent hostility. Some of us need to grow the fuck up and get over it, if you want my opinion. And if you're here, you do. To misquote the man: 'I don't like it any more than you do.'

But yeah, that was that. But hold up there, because this was this:

We're walking out the door of Mother in Common Law's, having dropped off the Bridge Crew and done the goodbyes, when Data pipes up from the kitchen door.

'Don't forget to marry Daddy!'

Yeah, pretty fucking funny, huh? But when, in unison, we replied, 'What did you say?' the expression on our faces must have been enough to make her change her story. 'Uh, don't forget to dance with Daddy.'

Common Law complied with one of these requests. I'll let you fucking genii work out which one.


Today's Title

Almost poking fun

Oh for the love of...

Today's post is about ass-wiping. It is, if you will, a beginners guide. For people who may not know how to wipe their own ass, I hope this will help.

Oooh, see that syntax? That's fucking award-winning that is.

I shit through - and wipe my - ass, a number of times a day and I've compiled some instructions below, that may help you, I hope.

No, no, folks, that really is a sentence. An award-winning sentence.

I've also included a brief (and probably inaccurate) description of asses to hopefully introduce you to some you may not be familiar with.

Yes folks, I know that I've used the word 'hope' three times now, but this post it's full of hope, oh so very fucking full of hope. And you like my random italicisation? Pure fucking poetry, I'm telling you.

1. There are a number of different types of ass.

I'm not sure why I have written that particular sentence in bold so I'll just keep on arbitrarily bolding words and sentences from here on in.
Two of the most popular asses are boy asses and girl asses or female asses and they have different ways of being wiped. I'll hopefully show you this below.

Whaddya know? Hope and italics combined. This is award winning prose, for reals.

2. Wiping your ass is no more difficult than feeding yourself. Honestly. It's three basic steps:

Why then am I arsed writing this, excuse the pun, shit, may be the question that pops into your mind but a more pertinent one would be why the fuck I didn't highlight the first sentence of point number two. Ah sweet mystery of fucking life.

• Take a dump.
• Get some toilet paper.
• Wipe your ass. That's it!

There's more folks, of course there's more, but it involves so much repetition and ass-wiping related ass-sucking that I can't bring myself to continue on this doubtlessly mind-numbing but hopefully informative toss. If you really want to know who's ass I'd like you to wipe and/or suck, you'll find them in my sidebar. I just hope that you can cope without the pretty pictures.



Today's Title