My Bunkmate
It had been said by my friend Melanaise that after the ghost
of the great Babe Ruth was exorcised from Fenway Park, he took up residence
in my bed. Since I’m an unforgiving
Yankee hater, I figured it could very well be true. But this theory has been proven to be incorrect.
The Babe is haunting Barry Bonds. For those who don’t know, in short, the juicing Barry is totally
unable to hit the home run that would tie him with the Babe for all time home runs. Meanwhile, he makes his team suck quite hard
since he’s otherwise completely useless. Babe, do do that voo doo that you do so well.
Then who is haunting my bed? Could it be the ghost of late Yankee Manager Billy Martin, who couldn’t
get laid under the Queensboro Bridge with a hundred dollar bill hanging out of
his fly? Could
it be the ghost of pussy past reminding me that being a man doesn’t always end
well? Especially if it involves getting
“tested” afterwards? I suspect it’s that unmistakable stench of
desperation that has
soaked into the mattress.
So here’s my point: does anyone know of any hotties who dig, how you say, "Korean barbecue"?
