These movies were horrible to watch when there was acting going on. Fight sequences were excellent. Acting was probably made up on the spot to connect the the action or the montages. Or an ass shot. That might have been a contract thing that Van Damme wanted in there. “I want to see my ass eight feet tall on the screen at least once.”

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Then the good guys started to yell, “Yo Joe!” and it couldn’t have been campier if it was happening at Gay Pride with cowboys in assless chaps. She was laughing. I was laughing. But she started it.

Now when I want her to laugh, I start yelling “Cobra!” while busting out in West Side Story dancing fight routines.

The picture accompanied Newt, and there wasn’t a need for actually editing the image so don’t look too far as to who I think would be under the Joan Hood.

Rememeber, iron to a white shirt.

But if you use this, make sure to send a photo. So I can post it.

And my apologies to Threadless for stealing this image to post what the Powergirl thing should look like on another person.

I wrote a novella. It’s about 100 pages. It’s called Perry the President.

Perry the president

But on a sour note, there is a chance that you’ll end up wanting to cook a lot what you will see. In a years time you might gain anywhere from a Brando to an Orson Wells by next year.

Gojee

First off, getting home to collect. Which is a nice way of saying jerking off into a cup, happens. It’s there and it feel clinical, which for some odd way makes it very hard to make the collection happen. When I finally was able to collect, I got a cramp in the cup hand in my chest. Which made it fun to shift gears.

Oh and you all of a sudden have this urge to wash your hands. Just in case you have see anyone. You wash more than usual. You’re scrubbing like you’re going in for surgery. You can feel flesh starting to peel off.

The entire way to the lab, which is on the other side of town and in my head, I have this split screen of a countdown for an hour before the swimmers, if there are any die out. This is now the beginning of rush hour traffic down a road that is notorious about being a five mile traffic jam.

The other roads are at least six.

You have to weave in and out of traffic to not crash into anyone and not look like you’re speeding around so a cop won’t pull you over. Which gives this great Q&A about what’s in the bag. Because the moment they see that, it’s hand on the gun while you’re explaining that you don’t have long to get this to the lab to get tested to see if you can’t have children anymore. If they die before hand, you have to wait another 3 days before they can see another sample you need to produce.

Which starts the whole damn process again of having to worry about the clinical nature of the whole thing and/or another cramp in my pectoral muscle.

There is also a chance that the cop is a freak would want to test the sample just in case it’s some new form of meth/crack/coke/etc. There are people like that. They just like fluids.

By the time you get to the lab for a drop off you calmed down a moment. You’re just going to walk up to the window, drop it off, you don’t want to throw, no one wants jizz tossed at them, and then walk or preferably run of you tossed it.

Instead you get there and there isn’t anyone at the window. Actually it’s counter with a clip board to fill out a quarter page of information and a phone that says to use it to get someone to collect.

I have to ask people in the next window what time it is, because for once I didn’t bring my phone, which now operates as my sole time telling device. Which is awkward because they know what I’m doing. You can see it in their eyes. They can’t help but help you because you look lost and confused.

The phone isn’t answered by a gruff woman. It’s answered by a very perky woman. And when she stops, takes off her gloves, I hope, and comes to collect my sample, she’s about as perky as she was on the phone. She’s all smiles. Blonde hair in a ponytail and a bluetooth headset so I can assume she doesn’t have to get jizz on the receiver of a phone.

She takes the sample like she’s taking a lunch that you’re giving her. There is no hesitation. Just a smiles and perkiness.

She asks about the doctor. She says the wrong doctor, commenting on how she sees a lot of his patients. I half wish there was a doctor named Spooge or Jezz. Just so I can hear her say that she sees a lot of Spooge or Jezz.

The 13 year old in me is laughing. The 33 year old me is hoping that she can’t see the 13 year in me.

She took it away and just perkily walked into the back room telling me that I should hear back in 48 hours.

I left the office sort of sad that nothing happened. I really wanted something to happen. Anything. A fluidaphobic lab tech grabbing a bag full of jizz with total distane. What might be a fluid vampire licking their lips with that greedy look in their eyes.

But instead it was nothing. And I Charlie Browned my way home.

With a sore pectoral muscle.