Wax-on. Wax-off

Hola bitches! Long time, yeas? Much has happened since last we chatted. We can catch up on all the little stuff, (real estate and motorcycles, ) later. I've got for-reals important shit to lay out right now.

Specifically, I got my sack waxed. Yes, that would be Sacky McSack's sack. Waxed.

Now, before you axe me, "OH SHIT! Did that not hurt like Hell?" I will tell you, "Yes, moron, it killed. Now stop interrupting me with retardated questions."

OK, so. I was really sick of shaving my scrotes, because for some reason, even though I've been doing it for about 15 years, I can't manage it without drawing blood. And I dunno about you, but there is something incredibly demoralizing about bleeding from the dick. (Oh yeah! That's the other thing! I got my shaft waxed too!) So on a bit of a whim, I called up Always Tan on Castro and asked them if I could schedule a waxing appointment. They asked for which parts and I was all of a sudden shy, or something. Finally I tell the quean and he's all, "Oh, a boyzilian." Har! I should've known! Anyhow, it turns out I did NOT get a boyzilian, because that includes the crack and I opted to stop at the taint, but, as ever, I digress.

So, it was, in a word, EXCRUCIATING. But Jesus, you should feel my nuts. (And yeah, I kind of liked it.)

Ejacu-Lame

I grow weary of The Science. My volume is not pumped up. Also, I think for the experiment to really work, I'd have to only be having Hot Solo Sessions. Good for me, bad for The Science, I seem to be having a lot of Hot Man-on-Man Action lately. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a TOTAL whorebag. The Action in question has all been on the same Man. Nonetheless, my frequency is up, so I think my volume is down.
Besides, every time I try to find out what's actually in this crap, all I seem to come up with is, "It's a secret." Great. It's secretly turning my liver into a charcoal briquette.

Please accept this, my formal resignation from The Sacky's Funhouse The Science Club.

Titplay

I just remembered an amusing anecdote from my chilhood this morning. Like many of my stories, it doesn't really go anywhere, so don't get your hopes up.

It had to have been 1975 or '76, because I was in the 1st grade and my teacher was Mrs. Shick, who was slightly pudgy and always smelled very nice, unlike my 2nd grade teacher, Mrs. Waterson, who was older and had breath that smelled like catfood. Anyhow, one day afterschool, while all the kids were waiting for the busses, I was killing some time with Robert Rosenland, whom I was never really friends with, but with whom I could always manage to get into some trouble. (Remind me to tell you the Alligator Lizard Story.)
Anyhow, in the front of the school there was a very large sign that was built out of wood and, for those who were so inclined, was a natural makeshift stage. (About 4 feet high, 18 feet long and a foot and a half wide.) I don't remember who started it, or even many of the events or thought processes that led up to it, but there we were. Somehow Robert and I ended up on top of the sign, pants around our ankles, shirts pulled up to our armpits, tweaking our own nipples, dancing and singing a little song that we had written ourselves;

Do you have to go peeeee peeeeee?
Do you have to go poooo poooooo?
I really have to go peeeeee peeeeeee!
I really have to go pooooo poooooo!

(Repeat until dragged physically off the stage by the Principal, Mrs. Dick, who's husband was rumored to be named, "Harry.")


Pants were pulled up, shirts were pulled down, parents were called.

In the ensuing drama, I was struck by a couple very strange things. The first was that everyone seemed WAY too fucking upset. I mean, these people were losing their shit. They were about a thousand times madder than the time that I pushed Nedra Bradshaw off the Bigtoy. Deeper still, they were getting mad about the wrong fucking thing. They kept going on about how we shouldn't have been up on the sign, it wasn't our property and was very dangerous. I remember being a little incredulous. I mean, Hellooooooo? I WAS DANCING AROUND IN MY FUCKING UNDEROOOS!!!!!! I remember catching Robert's eye and sharing, silently, a bit of confusion.
Not even once did anybody mention the whole clothing situation or the titplay portion of the entertainment. Wierd.

Interesting to note that both Robert and I ended up being proud soldiers in the Ritalin Army. Every day, before snack, we would have to report to the nurse's office for the daily dose. (Along with the aforementioned Nedra Bradshaw plus Linda Valente, Chris Thomas, Chris Bowman and Jennifer Morris.)

I've got some pretty good Jennifer Morris stories, too.

Yay! Science!

Day 1 of Ejaculoid Trial.

Sample volume: 2.25 ml

A meager beginning, to be certain, but remember: 600%!!!

PUMP UP THA VOLUME!!

Man, do I love The Science. For reals.
I was at the supplement store yesterday, buying protein bars. (They're like food, but BETTER!) Anyway, I see that they have a new product called, (I shit you not, ) "Ejaculoid."
"What," you may ask, "the fuck?"
Well, it turns out that Ejaculoid is none other than a "semen volumizer."
"What," you may ask again, "the fuck?"
To summarize all the words the guy at the place said; "You take it twice a day and after about a week, you start to shoot really huge loads." According to the website, your volume can increase by as much as 600%!!!!
I, of course, bought it immediately. The thing is, however, that I'm still a little dubious. Therefore, I am gonna do some of The Science. Here's how my little experiment is gonna look:

Hypothesis: Ejaculoid will increase my semen volume by up to 600%

Method: I propose to, for the sake of The Science, perform a "manual override," at least a couple times a week and deposit the, um, deposit in a 15ml graduated tube. Each entry will be made into a new tube, which will be dated and put into my freezer. Only self-inflicted jizz bombs will be collected for the purpose of this study, as partner participation is a whole other variable that I simply don't want to fuck with. (Also, imagine having to say, "Hang on, baby. I gotta go get a tube.") I will post udates and any delta in the volume here. (Unless my production is embarassingly low.)

If you'd like to participate in the study, you've gotta buy your own Ejaculoid, but I've got a case of 15ml tubes out in my car.

Off to the lab...

A day without burritos.

Give them whatever they want. Period. I am cooking tonight. For myself.

If I need to get my ass down to Taqueria Zapata with a big sack of green cards, so be it.

This is a day that will live in infamy.

Never again, my friends. Never again.

Stuck it.

Once again, Sacketeers, Hollywood has let me down. Saw "Stick It" tonight. Fucking kill me. Please. I'd rather be dead than know that I just shelled out twenty two bucks of my (not very) hard-earned money to have me and Some Guy watch an hour and a half of total crap.

Better yet, I had to take a leak about halfway through the movie, but didn't want to miss "the good part." Great. When I've lost all control of my bladder and am sporting grampy-pampers by the time I'm fifty, I'm going to be able to look back at this night and blame my incontinence on this piece of shit movie.

Icing on the cake: Yet another Some Guy has told me that I'm no longer allowed to pick the movie. New record! (The first one I picked!) Fantastic! "Stick It" has killed a perfectly not bad, if completely embryonic, relationship. When I'm old and alone, soaked in urine, I'll be able to recall fondly the night that Hollywood ruined my life.

The Jellyfish guy

Several months ago I downloaded some porn off the internet. Throw the words, "hairy daddy," into bearshare and it's like fucking Christmas. Anyhow, one of the little gems I came up with was a portion of a fisting video. The fisting portion had already taken place, (well, at least SOME of it.) The vignette featured three gentlemen, whom we will refer to The One Guy, The Other Guy and The Jellyfish Guy. So, The One Guy is laying on a weight bench and The Other Guy is holding The One Guy's legs up in the air and The Other Guy says to The One Guy, "C'mon, push it out!" Then the camera zooms in on The One Guy's butthole as he pushes... the... inside... parts... out. I kid you not, it looked like some sort of big, red, angry, mutated jellyfish was stuck in poor The One Guy's buttcrack.
Then The Jellyfish Guy leans down and....

(Wait for it. Waaaaaaiiiiiiit foooooooorr iiiiiiiittttt....)

LICKS THE JELLYFISH!!!!

Could you die? I could totally die. I was horrified. I am not easily horrified. One time I had sex while watching "Schindler's List." I like to watch videos of Japanese women puking on each other. But, by this, I was soo horrified that I had to stop the video, delete the video, pull up my pants and go wash some dishes.

So, cut to the other day. I was at the gym with my buddy, Haji, and I look across the gym and who do I spy with my little eye? The Jellyfish Guy!!!!

So, I says to Haji, "Dude! Dude! Dude! Dude! It's The Jellyfish Guy!!" (I had, of course, told him the story.)

We then begin the process of checking out a guy at the gym whilst trying not to look like we're not checking out a guy at the gym but totally looking like we're checking out a guy at the gym. The short version is that I got completely and utterly clocked by The Jellyfish Guy. We made eye contact, even. And he smiles. And he gives me "the nod." (You know the one. The Joey Tribiani, "How YOU doin'?" nod.)

Shit! He's cute. And a little boyish in his grizzly, tattoed, beard-o, muscular kind of way. The Jellyfish Guy has, in that smile, in that nod, humanized himself. The Jellyfish Guy has, if just for a moment, caused me to stop casting him as some sort of sideshow geek from the pornography circus and consider him for the actual living, breathing man among men that he is.

Carry on, The Jellyfish Guy.