Pretty women who dig me tend to come with cryptic side-effect warnings

Full disclosure here, I'm not exactly what you'd consider to be the most religious person in the world - despite me being a straight descendant of a long line of Catholics and Southern Baptists, probably good people who probably spent 30% of their lives hearing passionate sermons in humid churches or listening to boring as piss Gregorian chants. Sure I went to catholic school, where it most definitely shaped any theological knowledge that I still have swirling around my brain amongst the millions of deviant thoughts - but at the end of the day it did more harm than good, based my habit of making my lovers wear plaid skirts while I utter something utterly distasteful like "Take this communion honey!!" right before receiving oral. Not to mention how I've desecrated the hallowed halls of church buildings across the nation with my penchant for using them as designated "fuck spots", the clergy molestation humor I inject whenever I speak to a man of the cloth - and I can't forget about my favorite pastime, clutching a pair of rosary beads while penetrating a woman of ill repute just so my chances of catching anything that I can't get rid of dramatically decreases. But at the end of the day, despite my blasphemous nature that once provoked me to tell a nun "Its too bad you're hiding all that ass under that penguin suit sister!!" - I actually believe in god.

It has nothing to do with blind faith, I've never been clinically dead for a few minutes where I found myself being drawn to a bright white light - I'm not even being disingenuous about my belief either, simply covering my bets like most people do just in case a heaven actually exists. I believe in god based on the fact that I have a healthy liver, period. Seriously, after my father died and I went on what I like to describe as a six month bender, where I tried to basically kill myself while keeping my body heavily lubricated with 151 grain alcohol - I just knew a few years back when I went to get myself checked out that I'd have cirrhosis of the liver. Not only did I have a healthy liver, but the doctor looked at all of my tests and said "You have the liver of a person who hardly touches alcohol!!" That's divine intervention right there, right there I felt like someone was looking after me - so I celebrated by going to the nearest watering hole and getting shit-faced drunk, but I digress..

Maybe its just me, but sometimes I feel that the big guy who died for all of our sins is viewing my life like an episode of "America's funniest Home Videos". JC clutching a tub of popcorn, laughing his Birkenstock's off, and at truly unbelievable parts he screams out "Jesus Christ man!!" - only to look around at all the stunned angels to say "Relax, It's my name!! - hypersensitive winged fucks.." But as soon as a career heathen like myself starts believing in a higher power, that's when I start blaming him for all my shortcomings - like "What's up with the small cock lord, I'm scared to fuck white girls because I don't want to ruin the myth!!" or "Thanks lord, my family members are all model thin and you've given me the metabolism of a competitive eater with a thyroid problem. Thanks a lot Buddy!!" But I really get the sneaking suspicion that I'm paying for the sins of my past when it comes to my current misfortune having to do with vagina owners.

At this rate I feel as if I'm going to have to save a mentally challenged child from a burning building or some shit, donate a kidney to a dying nun - something has to reverse the curse on me from all the sisters of ex-girlfriends that I've blissfully penetrated, or the scores of women that I've deceived with reckless abandon. Listen, I'm a hit with women who look like they grew up next to nuclear reactors, the "nuttier than squirrel shit" chicks think that I'm the cat's pajama's - and I can pick a stalker like a wine connoisseur can identify a fine wine, smelling the top of her head and saying "You are the 1977, hiding in my bushes like a ninja blend." Sure, there are some ultra fine chicks that dig chubby pre-ejaculating wordsmiths - but they tend to have the most cryptic side-effect warnings.

We've all seen those hair loss medication commercials, or those medicine advertisements for herpes or some other miscellaneous ailment - it seems like a miracle drug, until the commercial is coming to an end and you hear that subdued voice say: "Might cause anal itching, bleeding, and you may experience gremlins crawling out of your ass in the middle of the night. Don't take if you are already on other medications, because you may piss yourself like a petulant toddler, grow a pair of tits on your back - or the worst case scenario, you may spontaneously combust. There were a few cases where people who took this medication became permanently delusional, and spent their remaining days smearing their own fecal matter on their faces while continuously saying the word "Bubbles!!" Let me explain what I'm talking about:



A fine Spanish chick approached me at a bar recently and told me how much she wanted to know me in a "biblical sense", it was kind of forward of her but I was down for blessing her forehead with some "holy water" so to speak - so I put her number in my phone and continued drinking. Then out of nowhere, this kind bartender informed me that the "chick" I was talking to was a post-opt transsexual - news that I didn't particularly take so well, based on me immediately erasing "her" number out of my phone, then going home and scrubbing it with an S.O.S pad - along with my hands and my cock. Side effects: Utter embarrassment, especially since in hindsight I should have recognized the signs - big feet, a firm handshake, and "she" despised cuddling as well.(Yeah, that was a dude)

Last month a struck up a conversation with a woman who looked like a young Pam Grier - as she talked all I could think about was putting an Afro wig on her, and having her call me a "Jive Turkey" as I mercilessly fucked the blaxploitation out of her. Right when I was about to take her back to the crib and get her intimately acquainted with my "Superfriends" bed linens - a dude that I trust informed me that she was the designated "bar whore", who has burned so many dudes that her vagina could double as a barbecue during Summer holidays. Fuck! Side effects: Can cause itching, rashes, burning - women may never come within a square mile of your cock based on you fucking the Outbreak monkey.

I always said that if I ever dated a white chick, she's be a white chick, Lilly white to be exact - the last thing I need in my life is some broad who's idea of acting black is murdering the English language, gyrating her head, and criticizing me for sounding like a "white boy" just because I fully pronounce the word "motherfucker" in arguments. Anyway, besides my undying love for Janeane Garofalo, I've had a thing for Drew Barrymore as well - that's just my speed, besides, she had no problem touching E.T's glowing finger so I'm sure she'd have no problem fondling an unimpressive black phallus. That being said, a chick who resembled her aggressively talked me up at a very trendy bar a few weeks back. A very sweet girl, and lovely thoughts of me walking with her in public to the beautiful choruses of black women collectively sucking their teeth filled my mind - as well as me playfully giving her a hard time about dancing like she's a having a seizure, and asking her why she refuses to use a wash-cloth. All that came to an abrupt end later on when I was told that she was a heavy drug user, cooked cocaine to be exact - and that if I could get past her crack habit, that her kleptomania made her hands stickier than the floor at a porn theater. Man, I can't win for losing. Side effects: Mood swings, hyperactivity, a thousand yard stare - and you might wake up with your compter and television set missing.