Okay, here's how the latest installment of "It came to Charleston ends:
"After teasing her for a while over hers clothes with my hands and lips and breath, I jammed my hand down the back of her jeans and grabbed a handful of her. She had said in her profile that any man that didn't enjoy that should pass her by. I wanted her to know I had been listening to what she thought was important too. She groaned. I went for her button in the front and she grabbed my hand and said...
To be continued..."
Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I now invite you to answer the burning (more than likely) question: What did she say?
Seriously people, enter the archives of the douche's blog at your own risk (of severe indigestion).
"This leads to the LIGHT BULB ABOVE THE HEAD IDEA. A sign to everyone else in the world that reads "Turn and run away!" but I see as the margin of my brilliance. The idea is... "If I throw the cake in the trash I won't eat it because it's garbage now." Mensa, baby! I know if I'm going to eat the cake out of the trash before my feet hit the floor. And if I've spoiled it with detergent, I eat around the detergent. If believing it isn't safe in my internal apartment trash, I throw it in the communal trash in the hallway, I still eat it. Once, the service elevator door opened and the porter, looking to steal away my trash bounty, caught me in full bite, chocolate smeared on my face when I didn't want to waste the time to go back inside and eat it. He just looked at me with a steely stare, "You done?" Pointing to the stinking industrial can of the seventeenth floor's waste, more affectionately known as my evening dessert. I made sure I got all my cake out. "Take it. And then just the check please." I didn't say that last part."
I mean honestly, has their ever, in the history of mankind, lived a person as repulsive? HE WRITES ABOUT EATING CAKE OUT OF COMMUNAL APARTMENT GARBAGE CANS! And then WONDERS WHY HE IS STILL SINGLE! Listen Eric, some things are better left unsaid. Like, pretty much anything that crosses your mind. Just, try not talking. Or writing. At all. Ever again.
Hi, I'm a Columbia Journalism School student, and I'm writing a profile on Eric Schaeffer for my arts & culture reporting class. I'd be interested in talking to you this week about how your blog started, what reponse you've gotten, if you have any personal experience with Eric Schaeffer, etc. Feel free to e-mail me back at lrb2126@columbia.edu. Thanks in advance for your help.
5 comments:
Okay, here's how the latest installment of "It came to Charleston ends:
"After teasing her for a while over hers clothes with my hands and lips and breath, I jammed my hand down the back of her jeans and grabbed a handful of her. She had said in her profile that any man that didn't enjoy that should pass her by. I wanted her to know I had been listening to what she thought was important too. She groaned. I went for her button in the front and she grabbed my hand and said...
To be continued..."
Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I now invite you to answer the burning (more than likely) question: What did she say?
Mediahohoho
"...oh god."
"What's your problem?" I asked because I can be sensitive like that.
She threw up a little bit in her mouth.
"I promised myself I would never do this again."
I searched her eyes, which were darting around the room, looking for the nearest exit.
"I have these episodes where sort of black out and when I come to, I'm usually with some totally inappropriate, um, person."
It was then that she noticed my hand down the back of her jeans, my palmful of ass.
"Hey, whatthe..." she stammered, wrenching away from me and snapping my spindly, anorectic wrist like a twig.
It was then that she projectile vomited, all over me, my tiny hotel room, my yoga mat and my precious bottle of CKOne.
Unfortunately, later that night I had to tell her that it wouldn't be a love connection for us. I can't stand chicks who throw up.
Doug, I love you. That was hilarious.
Seriously people, enter the archives of the douche's blog at your own risk (of severe indigestion).
"This leads to the LIGHT BULB ABOVE THE HEAD IDEA. A sign to everyone else in the world that reads "Turn and run away!" but I see as the margin of my brilliance. The idea is... "If I throw the cake in the trash I won't eat it because it's garbage now." Mensa, baby! I know if I'm going to eat the cake out of the trash before my feet hit the floor. And if I've spoiled it with detergent, I eat around the detergent. If believing it isn't safe in my internal apartment trash, I throw it in the communal trash in the hallway, I still eat it. Once, the service elevator door opened and the porter, looking to steal away my trash bounty, caught me in full bite, chocolate smeared on my face when I didn't want to waste the time to go back inside and eat it. He just looked at me with a steely stare, "You done?" Pointing to the stinking industrial can of the seventeenth floor's waste, more affectionately known as my evening dessert. I made sure I got all my cake out. "Take it. And then just the check please." I didn't say that last part."
I mean honestly, has their ever, in the history of mankind, lived a person as repulsive? HE WRITES ABOUT EATING CAKE OUT OF COMMUNAL APARTMENT GARBAGE CANS! And then WONDERS WHY HE IS STILL SINGLE! Listen Eric, some things are better left unsaid. Like, pretty much anything that crosses your mind. Just, try not talking. Or writing. At all. Ever again.
Hi, I'm a Columbia Journalism School student, and I'm writing a profile on Eric Schaeffer for my arts & culture reporting class. I'd be interested in talking to you this week about how your blog started, what reponse you've gotten, if you have any personal experience with Eric Schaeffer, etc. Feel free to e-mail me back at lrb2126@columbia.edu. Thanks in advance for your help.
Best,
Lanford
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