Sunday

"OH, MAN, WHAT A BLAST WE HAD LAST NIGHT!"

What do you mean WE, you lying sack of shit. You didn’t have a blast. Your fucking friends had a blast – old Eddie, he picked up a sixteen year old girl and got a blowjob in the parking lot. And your other friend, Andrew, went home with an incredibly hot-looking woman who not only had sex with him three time, but has invited him to her parents beach house, while said parents are away in Mexico. And the beach house has a swimming pool, billiards table, hot tub, and a speed boat on the dock out back.

Now what about you? How did things work out for you last night? Well, after hanging around in the bar after your friends deserted you, you never once got up the courage to talk to a girl. Uh uh, you stood there the entire night, knocking down beer after beer until, finally, just before closing time, damn near falling-down drunk, you actually got up the courage to talk to this wrinkly old cougar who told you to get lost.

So then you went home, got into your disgusting, jism-crusted bed, and, despite being nearly blind drunk, did what you do every night: WACKED OFF.

Is that what you mean by blast? Blasted some come into a tissue. Okay, I'll accept that. You weren't lying -- you did have a blast last night. Keep up the rationalizing, pal. You're doing great.

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