It's my last week of the year out on the road.
My job is a contract job - every year, you have to sign up again.
You have to physically put a pen to a contract and sign it, year after year, essentially saying:
"YES. I am a masochist. I want to do this again. I want to go to a different city every day for nine months. I am interested in premature aging, hotel food, and rental car shuttles. I want this. Do it to me again. Just like last time, but harder. YES."
You know, next year, I may just not sign.
Today I'm in Buffalo, NY, just a few short minutes away from Niagara Falls.
And you know what's a little bit sad? You know what's making me think I shouldn't do this job again?
I am less than 10 minutes from Niagara Falls, one of the wonders of the world, and I'm not even fucking going.
I've seen it.
I've seen it 7 times.
I've seen it in the winter (wear mittens, jesusgod); I've seen it in the summer; I've seen it at night, all lit up with its tawdry lights; I've seen it from behind (heh) wearing galoshes and pretending I'm Marilyn Monroe in that movie.
I've seen the Canadian side.
I've seen the American side.
I've seen it in the blinding afternoon sunlight, when you couldn't even squeeze through to the railing for all the Japanese tourists, and I've seen it without a soul around, at midnight, my breath catching in my chest and freezing.
I've just....seen it.
And that's how I feel about America right now.
I might have to stop travelling this country to love it again.
Now, fagelles, before we even get started on today's topic, I have to tell you I'm having a little problem. I'm not sure what to do about this.
I'm all distracted.
I have to ask y'all:
Does anyone else find this picture hot?
'Cause I do.
I can't stand it. I keep looking at it! I even saved it in my "special" folder on my desktop so I could pull it up at will!
*Tip!* Name your wanking file something really super boring, like "Tiffany's Wedding 2008 Rehearsal Dinner Part III". That way only the only person who would ever be interested in that is Tiffany, and you made her up.
I am so attracted to this picture. And that disturbs me.
I want to be that goddamn hamster. All nestled between two jiggling boulders. Smug bastard.
Tiny mammals get everything.
Well, I'm a large mammal, and I want to be pressed right. in. there.
Imagine how nice your ride would be if it had firm (yet not unyielding), soft, heated cushions.
Cushions with a built-in thumping disco dance beat.
Is it wrong to find that picture hot? Is it weird? Is it animal cruelty?
Let's be clear here: I'm not into the hamster.
I'm just jealous.
Homos, I've never really thought of myself as a "boob person."
I'll take 'em however they come: big, little, non-existent, pierced, surgically removed, muscular, fake - you name 'em, I will put my hands on them in a crowded bar bathroom.
I mean, I like tits a lot.
But kind of in the way that gay boys like them - I'm continually surprised and delighted by them. They're so magical! You have two of them! And they match!
Aren't they so bouncy!
So mysterious - the way girls just give a hint of what their breasts are like with their clothes on and you think you know what to expect but then you see them undressed and you're like, "I had no idea about the nipples, whoa" and then you pass the fuck out in a cold sweat.
I always want to bury my face in boobs.
I mean, yeah, boobies. Sure. I get it.
All my life I've been into them, in what I thought was a nebulous sort of way.
But today, I think it might be time to admit it, officially.
I have spent 3/4 of my life looking down women's shirts.
I am that dude.
I am into boobs.
In a major way.
Sometimes, when I'm sitting on the airplane, going through my daily mental images of a huge mid-air collision, I worry about what my last real thought will be.
Will my life flash before my eyes?
What will be the last thing I think about?
I'd like to hope my last thought will be about my family. Or my favorite lil' piece.
I'd like to face an afterlife thinking, "I lived a good life. I am ready."
So it worries me that one of the finer memories of my life is being held down by two strippers and titty-slapped on a blustery March afternoon.
The smell of Thierry Mugler's "Angel" lingered in my hair for days.
Seriously, faggots, I think about that exact moment quite enough for it to very well be my last living thought.
So boobs are that important to me.
But you guys -what is it about breasts?
What the fuck is it?
I understand why men are into boobs.
They're new and different from what a guy has got.
He hasn't got 'em. He wants to see yours.
But what is the problem here?
I have boobs.
It's not like they're a fucking mystery.
I can see them whenever I want. I can put both hands on them and make motorboat sounds.
I can dress them up in lacy little bras.
I can flatten them in something hideous and spandex-y.
I can let them bounce freely like I was leading the conga-line at the Michigan Womyn's Festival.
I have 24/7 access, for the rest of my life!
But I don't want to see my tits. I want to see yours.
Because they're new and different from what I've got.
I love boobs. I really do.
God bless tits.
And God bless summer, when sundresses happen.
And white tank tops.
And also God bless dykes, who are more apt to not wear bras and walk into coffee shops and distract me.
I've always kind of thought I didn't have a favorite body part; that I was a lover of all lady-parts.
But that's crap.
I'm full of crap.
They always win.
What's your favorite place on a girl?
Tell me tell me.