Minus Five Week Got You Down?

my Candace

Asia is gross!

I was looking at maps today with Champ and an anthropologist who specializes in skulls or something. The anthropologist is a friend of my old trainer with the Falcons. He's not much of a football fan, but he has nice connections in northern Thailand, where Champ and I happen to be. Anyways, buried near some skulls (a kind of monkey, I think), we also found a parchment with old maps. Maybe from an explorer many years back - who knows or cares? When you're drunk, horny, and surrounded by sexy gals 20 hours a day, you don't really have time to dwell.

My favorite map:

Minus Five Week

Some cats celebrate Minus Five by laying with dogs:

More Muscleman and Flexopolis

Chimi Meats the Troll

So we all know that limos are not the safest places. Sometimes the drivers like to spy on you or take you on longer routes. Sometimes there are ugly girls waiting inside. Sometimes the ice is melted. Frankly, at this point in my life, I find it more convenient to avoid limos altogether.

Lately, I’ve even started riding a bicycle. I got the idea after drinking one afternoon with these random dudes at a bar. They were graduate students celebrating someone’s something or something and probably didn’t expect to see a former all star in the local watering hole.

They were my people. Loud. Shots were flowing. Jean shorts. Polo shirts. We were rolling.

And then I was off the bike, falling into a lump of sheets and limbs. Rolling. Bleeding. I rode into a tent. A camouflage tent.

Rolling and bleeding. I rolled and bleeded from the pedal cutting my million-dollar legs.

Who sets up a camouflage tent in the city? That is crazy. And the fact that people were making love in this invisible sanctuary only made it worse.

I freed myself and quickly got to my bungalow. There I sprinkled the yeast around the entrance of each door and window, so no trolls could enter. And they tried to enter. And I watched as they tried to enter.

Little troll. Big troll. Short troll. Fat troll. Old troll. Sexy teenage troll. I quickly cleared the yeast boundary so that last troll could enter and then re-set the yeast line, and me and the troll humped all night.

If I hadn’t won that bet with Falcor, a troll I met in my youth, I wouldn’t have received that magical yeast, and my night would not have ended so well.

Still, who erects a camouflage tent in the city? Are you crazy?

More Friends, Bad Habits, Enemies (plus a sexy)

Friends

Bad Habits

Enemies

Plus a Sexy

I Sex in Color

In the offseason before my final year in the NFL, at least final year I played regular season games, I met this group of people at a fair. I’m not sure what it was, but everything about them was perfect. A little naughty, a little wholesome, a lot of sexy. We partied and it was good, so I kept things going. At some point after the trolls left with their magic yeast, a wiccan priestess arrived and we all participated in a harvest-bond marriage ceremony. It was a wild, sex-fueled set of months. 

And then the regular season arrived. You should have seen the look on my teammates’ faces when I had my wives decorate the locker room. It quickly evolved into a body-paint fusion tribal rave. Picture it: dozens of 350-pound naked linemen covered in pink and purple glow. The glitter. The scent. Flashing lights. Champagne and shower water. Even Bacchus blushed. 

And then something happened.

It all ended.

Chimi's Getting a Vespa!

I'm not sure whether I want to fuck the man or the machine. I suppose that is the point of the ad. In any case, this is how I imagine advertising after the singularity, where people only function to arouse machines or machine-powered people. 

Perhaps the machines are right. That world looks better than ours.