Bad Clams
4-22 W 8:16 AM
Let's try to get this done. My poor old brains are still scrambled. I'm at school. The kids are playing Spello. Levi has taken on my job as emcee. I didn't get a chance to write here yesterday. I need to be more fierce about it. I slept at Shirelle's and woke up there yesterday morning to her fucking hero, Howard Stern, on the radio. Shirelle has been hinting that there's something missing from my foreplay repertoire. "Have you ever eaten anybody's ass?" she asked.
"I don't know. Have I ever eaten yours?"
"No."
"I guess not then."
Then she started telling me about some bad clams she had eaten and the nasty runs they gave her. I had had a hard-on until that point. In the shower she gave it a few listless tugs. "You've got a lot of nerve asking me to eat your ass in the same year you tell me you eat bad clams that gave you the runs, and then I can barely get you to accidentally brush against my penis with your hand. It's this godam Howard Stern perv you listen to's got you talking about ass-eating, isn't it?--Thanks for helping me out with my boner. You could've sent me to work in a good mood. I guess I'll just whack off in the bathroom at recess now." Her whole M.O. is to lay there and get fucked with no effort on her part other than providing access. I finished dressing and drove to school. The whole day pretty much sucked. I don't have the will to teach much lately. I looked at my newspaper. We saw a fun play of Rumplestiltskin. I sat on a table in the back next to Mrs. McFerrin and fought off a boner. We practiced for Ritchie Valens and watched 101 Dalmatians. I ran into Flor Fujimoto in the parking lot on my way home. She asked me about the retreat. She seemed to want me to make some conciliatory comments. I pretended like I didn't think the retreat was a steaming pile of shit. She hugged me and asked me to put an evaluation in her box. Fugh. I went home and sent an e-mail to Lis and Julia and typed my fifteen minutes. I made some tacos. Peter Lee came over. I did the dishes and smoked one of his hand-rolled American Spirit cigarettes. Pete and Bayless talked about the same evil in the wind I had been feeling. I read them the Marquez story of the Tremontana. I rolled a j. Eric Tse Tung called to say he was getting married. Rawler called to say the time is right to apply at his school. I went to teach my night class. MTA was there to publicize their intention of constructing a subway line.
Let's try to get this done. My poor old brains are still scrambled. I'm at school. The kids are playing Spello. Levi has taken on my job as emcee. I didn't get a chance to write here yesterday. I need to be more fierce about it. I slept at Shirelle's and woke up there yesterday morning to her fucking hero, Howard Stern, on the radio. Shirelle has been hinting that there's something missing from my foreplay repertoire. "Have you ever eaten anybody's ass?" she asked.
"I don't know. Have I ever eaten yours?"
"No."
"I guess not then."
Then she started telling me about some bad clams she had eaten and the nasty runs they gave her. I had had a hard-on until that point. In the shower she gave it a few listless tugs. "You've got a lot of nerve asking me to eat your ass in the same year you tell me you eat bad clams that gave you the runs, and then I can barely get you to accidentally brush against my penis with your hand. It's this godam Howard Stern perv you listen to's got you talking about ass-eating, isn't it?--Thanks for helping me out with my boner. You could've sent me to work in a good mood. I guess I'll just whack off in the bathroom at recess now." Her whole M.O. is to lay there and get fucked with no effort on her part other than providing access. I finished dressing and drove to school. The whole day pretty much sucked. I don't have the will to teach much lately. I looked at my newspaper. We saw a fun play of Rumplestiltskin. I sat on a table in the back next to Mrs. McFerrin and fought off a boner. We practiced for Ritchie Valens and watched 101 Dalmatians. I ran into Flor Fujimoto in the parking lot on my way home. She asked me about the retreat. She seemed to want me to make some conciliatory comments. I pretended like I didn't think the retreat was a steaming pile of shit. She hugged me and asked me to put an evaluation in her box. Fugh. I went home and sent an e-mail to Lis and Julia and typed my fifteen minutes. I made some tacos. Peter Lee came over. I did the dishes and smoked one of his hand-rolled American Spirit cigarettes. Pete and Bayless talked about the same evil in the wind I had been feeling. I read them the Marquez story of the Tremontana. I rolled a j. Eric Tse Tung called to say he was getting married. Rawler called to say the time is right to apply at his school. I went to teach my night class. MTA was there to publicize their intention of constructing a subway line.
posted by johnz at 7:20 PM
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