Notes On A Life Not Mine
Names have not been changed because there are no innocent.
Meet Tex. Age unknown. He's old enough to have fought in two wars, lived in 22 countries, has twice as many children, stabbed nine times, shot twice, married three, and won four bouts as a professional boxer only to stop because of a broken hip. He's written an autobiography, though not on paper and is glad to read any chapter you like in his thick southern accent that almost sounds like a foreign language. But if you can't understand his words it's more likely you just don't believe them. I've forgotten more stories and quotes by Tex in a week than most people cull in a lifetime. He recently recalled a tender account with me, remembering how he was almost "fucked to death three times. When them girls got up and sat on my face I almost suffocated. That's how I learned to breathe through my ears. And when they got real into it and wrapped their legs round my head, I wished I could breathe through my asshole."
Tex's only dream was to father enough boys for a football team but as he puts it "all I got was a squad of cheer leaders." After recalling one of his many carnivorous exploits he explained the most rewarding thing he'd ever seen was in South America when "one of them dark latin beauties was walking down the street with a blonde haired, blue eyed baby girl sucking from her titty. And you can thank me for that."
This morning, Tex dropped dead at my feat. He didn't shed a tear or spout off any last words, he just quietly lay there, smiled, and slowly put his hands over his balls. As if to say "I'm taking these with me. Because I bet there's a whole bunch of women up there in heaven waitin' for me to fuck them."
Well, I sure as hell hope so Tex. Where his work didn't take him, his fists did and when his fists couldn't win it, his dick did. He is survived by everyone alive right now.
[editors note: Tex didn't actually die, I just wasn't sure how to end it]
Meet Tex. Age unknown. He's old enough to have fought in two wars, lived in 22 countries, has twice as many children, stabbed nine times, shot twice, married three, and won four bouts as a professional boxer only to stop because of a broken hip. He's written an autobiography, though not on paper and is glad to read any chapter you like in his thick southern accent that almost sounds like a foreign language. But if you can't understand his words it's more likely you just don't believe them. I've forgotten more stories and quotes by Tex in a week than most people cull in a lifetime. He recently recalled a tender account with me, remembering how he was almost "fucked to death three times. When them girls got up and sat on my face I almost suffocated. That's how I learned to breathe through my ears. And when they got real into it and wrapped their legs round my head, I wished I could breathe through my asshole."
Tex's only dream was to father enough boys for a football team but as he puts it "all I got was a squad of cheer leaders." After recalling one of his many carnivorous exploits he explained the most rewarding thing he'd ever seen was in South America when "one of them dark latin beauties was walking down the street with a blonde haired, blue eyed baby girl sucking from her titty. And you can thank me for that."
This morning, Tex dropped dead at my feat. He didn't shed a tear or spout off any last words, he just quietly lay there, smiled, and slowly put his hands over his balls. As if to say "I'm taking these with me. Because I bet there's a whole bunch of women up there in heaven waitin' for me to fuck them."
Well, I sure as hell hope so Tex. Where his work didn't take him, his fists did and when his fists couldn't win it, his dick did. He is survived by everyone alive right now.
[editors note: Tex didn't actually die, I just wasn't sure how to end it]
posted by Hungry at 8:54 PM
2 Comments:
who wrote this...because it wasn't avi
avi wrote this. i ran it through spell check, that's why it doesn't seem like i did.
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