Blow the Man Down

I'm in a shitty mood today. So, all I can say to anyone who expected a post on Conservative attack ads, the finer points of whether Stephane Dion is low-key or not, the Truscott decision, Quebec by-elections or whatever: You can blow me.

That's right, I said "blow me". And I don't mean in a cute Japanese porn, delicate pursed-lotus mouth, showering-the-shaft-with-butterfly-kisses kinda way. Neither do I mean that I want you to blow me in a "I'm gonna do this for about 45 seconds just to make it look like I appreciate your member before I have intercourse with you as fast as I can to get it over with" kinda way. And I definitely don't want you to blow me like a shy tearful amateur, akwardly inflicting toothy damage and looking up at me with questioning fawn eyes.

What I mean is, I want you to blow me in a nasty, sloppy, drunk out of your mind, slobbering kind of way. You know, like you've been famished for days and just got your shakey hands on a street dog smothered in mayonnaise, as you gurgle the word "fuck" as loud as you can kinda way. I want you to really get your hands dirty and work it, in full-fisted tandem, like you are adjusting a greased-up telescope. I mean, I want you to blow me like you are an insatiable sword-swallower on Ecstasy in an Amsterdam sex circus with complete abandon and dedication to your meaty craft. Ok, look, just think 'jungle cat ravenously eating a stiff turkey neck' if that helps.

Hmm...did I say earlier I was in a shitty mood? Suddenly, it feels like the sun has shone on my soul. I feel much better now. Thanks for listening - you're a good friend.