I Don't Fuck Smurfs

keithallendavis:

Last night went well. That is until I told a woman that I could smell her period. Everything became a blur of obscenities, the Cupid Shuffle, and spilled drinks after that. Our group took up one-third of the bar and 100% of the dance floor. I breezed through the crowd, to the back (gangsta like that), but stopped once a hand caught my arm. It was some 40+ troll. She looked like Skee-Lo in drag. Two shades darker and she would have been walking around asking, “Whatchu talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?”

“Are you gay?” she asked me.

Interesting. And, also the perfect opportunity for me to make this frog feel stupid.

“Actually, I love cock!” I told her. I then turned mime and started mimicking the motions of licking a shaft and nuzzling a ball sack. She gasped.

“But…oh my…how did you get into that?” she asked.

“Astro-Glide.” This confused her.

“Oh, so I guess I won’t be taking you home tonight, huh?”

I held up my ring finger, wedding band—check. “Sorry, I don’t think my wife would appreciate that. She’s sitting right there…” I pointed over her shoulder to my wife. “Besides, I think I can smell your period.”

And then I left.

Note: I understand that the Cupid Shuffle is from, like, three years ago. I also know that the link I inserted is to just one chick doing the dance. I added it for my own amusement. Plus, I do not limit myself on how many times I can jack off to one YouTube video. I’ve jacked off to this video ninety-nine times.

 hahahaha

keithallendavis: anthonybergen: Sarah Palin is pissed off because some goofy blogger photoshopped this photo and her office calls it “a malicious desecration of a photo of the Governor and baby Trig that has become an iconic representation of a mother’s love for a special needs child.” Whoa…”an iconic representation”?  This isn’t a picture of the Marines planting the flag on Iwo Jima; it’s a vapid cunt from Alaska holding her little waterhead.  What’s she supposed to be doing with it?  Swinging it by its ankles into a wall like it’s one of Caligula’s kids? Sarah…it’s over.  You lost and you never should have been there in the first place.  Take a page out of Senator McCain’s book, and you know, EVERY OTHER CANDIDATE WHO HAS EVER LOST THE PRESIDENCY OR VICE PRESIDENCY — go away and shut the fuck up.  Aren’t you still Governor?  Keep an eye on the Russians for us, bitch.  And tell your daughter to call me — not the slut, the middle one.

keithallendavis:

anthonybergen:

Sarah Palin is pissed off because some goofy blogger photoshopped this photo and her office calls it “a malicious desecration of a photo of the Governor and baby Trig that has become an iconic representation of a mother’s love for a special needs child.”

Whoa…”an iconic representation”?  This isn’t a picture of the Marines planting the flag on Iwo Jima; it’s a vapid cunt from Alaska holding her little waterhead.  What’s she supposed to be doing with it?  Swinging it by its ankles into a wall like it’s one of Caligula’s kids?

Sarah…it’s over.  You lost and you never should have been there in the first place.  Take a page out of Senator McCain’s book, and you know, EVERY OTHER CANDIDATE WHO HAS EVER LOST THE PRESIDENCY OR VICE PRESIDENCY — go away and shut the fuck up.  Aren’t you still Governor?  Keep an eye on the Russians for us, bitch.  And tell your daughter to call me — not the slut, the middle one.

lickystickypickyme: (via sistermarymartha) awesomness.

lickystickypickyme:

(via sistermarymartha)

awesomness.

keithallendavis: A Union Pacific train will roar down the tracks and we’ll act like we don’t notice. We’ll talk at a normal volume and pretend we know what the other is saying; with all of the pleasant distractions, we will stop and face each other. Edging closer, we kiss. I’m hoping you don’t recognize this setting from the newspapers of months past. The seasons have carried the bold headlines and crime scene photos into a dusty folder filed “Unsolved”. On your tippy toes, you kiss my eyelids, kiss my cheek, brushing small circles down my neck with your lips. You hesitate; never a good sign. You point to the trickling stream, nothing more than a creek cascading over smooth rock. That same creek had been dammed up by bone fragments, muscle tissue, and hair. I discreetly look over your shoulder to a scabbed tree. The scrape marks still prominent, still fresh in my mind. To an outsider, they look like antler scratches. My tortured mind funnels to my chest, to the pit of my stomach. And, just as you started to recall, “Hey, isn’t this where…”, I plunged the Maxam hunting knife into your chest. You screamed each verse and my flailing arms thrashed a chorus that rivaled the song of any bird. Harmonizing to the tune of relationships related to misery, misery related to Missouri, and about that one time when you asked me, “Who, exactly, are you?” I am Keith Allen Davis.

keithallendavis:

A Union Pacific train will roar down the tracks and we’ll act like we don’t notice. We’ll talk at a normal volume and pretend we know what the other is saying; with all of the pleasant distractions, we will stop and face each other. Edging closer, we kiss. I’m hoping you don’t recognize this setting from the newspapers of months past. The seasons have carried the bold headlines and crime scene photos into a dusty folder filed “Unsolved”. On your tippy toes, you kiss my eyelids, kiss my cheek, brushing small circles down my neck with your lips. You hesitate; never a good sign. You point to the trickling stream, nothing more than a creek cascading over smooth rock. That same creek had been dammed up by bone fragments, muscle tissue, and hair. I discreetly look over your shoulder to a scabbed tree. The scrape marks still prominent, still fresh in my mind. To an outsider, they look like antler scratches. My tortured mind funnels to my chest, to the pit of my stomach.

And, just as you started to recall, “Hey, isn’t this where…”, I plunged the Maxam hunting knife into your chest. You screamed each verse and my flailing arms thrashed a chorus that rivaled the song of any bird. Harmonizing to the tune of relationships related to misery, misery related to Missouri, and about that one time when you asked me, “Who, exactly, are you?”

I am Keith Allen Davis.

(via saithis)

(via saithis)