I’m convinced next years trend in women’s footwear will be a pair of circus clown stilts. How tall are these chick’s heels gonna get for Christ sakes!? That’s right ladies, no more puny 6 inchers or aircraft carrier-like platform heels, in 2013 just go all the way, go for the fucking stilts. In the name of fashion, women will have to duck to get through doorways, or take them off by leaning against a tree or strapping them to the roof like ski’s if they want to drive anywhere.
“Excuse me miss, would you like to check your coat and stilts?”
Being a short male in this society is basically the equivalent of having an Ambrose Everett Burnside mustache affixed to your lip; no girl is ever going to fuck you without money being exchanged. But the real jab in the eye is that you also have to compete with ever increasing heel sizes. So now if I want to talk to a girl I look like some retard jockey standing next to his decorated horse!
I’ll end up having to marry a 4’1″ elderly Cambodian woman by the name of Hua and we’ll always get into heated arguments because I can never pronounce her name correctly and she’ll storm out right in the middle of dinner, slamming the door to our little tiny thatch-woven hut a little too hard and while she’s out having ‘revenge sex’ with some tall guy from the village across the river, I’ll have to spend the next 3 hours foraging around the woods looking for one specific species of palm to repair the damaged door before sundown because little hungry vermin will no doubt enter the hole and steal the last of our rice rations like they did last time that little old cheating Cambodian bitch broke the door…. all because I’m fucking short, all because none of you women like short men!
And even you short women don’t like short men! Where do you tiny freaks get off with your squat, stubby billiard table legs thinking you can just scoff at me because you’re wearing massive heels!? Don’t I deserve the chance to have sex with you than never talk to you again like those other guys!? Never mind that I’ve got a Pringles can dangling between my legs… as long as you’ve got your 10-inch platform astronaut boots I guess I’ll be spending my Saturday nights browsing craigslist for Cambodians.
I’m writing this to tell you that I have been a really good boy this year. I’ve put up with a lot of shit from a cheating girlfriend to juggling two jobs and school all while paying rent in one of the most expensive cities in the country. So in return I’d like to ask for a giant tsunami of pussy for Christmas. I’m talking a Frankenstorm of labia and clitoris that no one man could handle with one cock, except me. Weathermen will be standing outside, knee deep in all the pussy I’m getting, being blown around like rag dolls trying to tell all the viewers at home how big and dangerous this pussy storm is and to just stay inside.
But the fun doesn’t stop there, Santa. My next job will be test driving vaginas in some state of the art pussy factory. I will diligently work on the assembly line where a wide assortment of women are spread eagle underneath me as they slowly roll by like M&M’s all day long. I will agree to work grueling 14 hour shifts with no pay, strapped into a harness like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible and lowered into each pussy one by one, like a mother bird feeding her young in the nest putting the worm right where it counts. This will be my job all day. And my boss will be all like: “Gotdamn, look at that boy go! He’s the best coochie tester we got” And the mayor will respond: “No sir, he’s the only cootchie tester we got.” And they’ll both share a belly laugh as I continue to bob up and down like a yo-yo in the in the background.
Yes Santa, I will be that guy. The guy who always has the back of his chair facing you as you enter his office, but then he slowly turns around clockwise, stroking a white cat, with a menacing smirk and one of your girlfriend’s pubes caught between his teeth.
Of course I could share the pussy with you too Santa, I’m sure you’re sick of milk and cookies by now.
Hey girls, I know you spent so much time, effort and creative energy taking your costume out of the bag this year. How on Earth did you come up with the idea to be a pirate!? The historical accuracy is astounding!
I remember reading a biography on the infamous Blackbeard the pirate once. Scholars talked about how he would always sail into port screaming “Whooo Yeaaah Halloween Motherfucker!” with his tits and ass spilling out of his tight skimpy revealing outfit. A fearsome pirate he was; polystyrene sword by his side. Most times off the docks he’d be screaming at his meaty boyfriend out in the street to stop throwing beer bottles and trying to start fights with other revelers. Blackbeard would often leave his keys, money or ID back on the ship. But this didn’t bother Blackbeard, he never had to pay for anything, including drinks. Often these nights in port would end in tears and smeared mascara, but some nights totally, like, fucking rocked – going down on some random villager in a bathroom stall who let Blackbeard snort his last crumbs of molly off the toilet paper dispenser at Club Intrigue. And after a raucous night on the town Blackbeard would often drunkenly stumble back to his ship carrying his high heels in hand because his feet would be so sore from dancing to laser lights and loud techno all night. Such is the legend of Blackbeard and you girl’s nailed it!