Whadda dillz is? Sorry I ain’t posted yet this year, this the first time I had a chance, what with chasin’ p*ssy and gettin’ ass. By the way, the letter I left out back there was a u. As in “u gettin’ boned in ya p*ssy.”
No big deals.
Anyway, I came up with this brilliant idea this semesturr. No joke, I’m talkin’ fluorescent light bulb brilliant. Guaranteed to get a brotha laid. Or at least a dry hump. Either way, that dick’s gonna be like Paul Bunyan in a forest: big and woody. That’s a metaphor and shit, yo! Damn! Hope y’alls takin’ notes on this, this be literature!
So yo check it out, the plan goes like this. You see a bitch at a party, and you walk up to her all, “Hey, baby, if you were a infrastructure you’d be a street, cause my dick is pointin’ one way and it’s at you!” BAM! Again with the metaphors! I been brushing up on my poetics and shit, that one’s courtesy of some beatnik poet Ginsburg, Ruth Bader Ginsburt I guess. Either way, that shit’s the bomb.
So after she’s done swoonin’ you get her back to your apartment, right, and you start puttin’ the moves on her, kissin’ her earlobe, rubbin’ her feets, pourin’ Yoohoo in her bellybutton. The works.
Then, when she’s all hot and bothered, and here’s the best part, you put on: The Notebook. That shit gets a bitch horny! She be all, “Oh my god, this is so sad and romantic!” And then BOOM, you in.
Problem is, I ain’t made it through the movie yet without cryin. That’s some sad shit right there, like a ninja without a numbchuck. Another metaphor, son! That one’s from Dickinson, as in “guaranteed to get yo dick in, son!”
Hope this tip helps y’all with the bitches. And if you figure out how to get through that shit without cryin’, lemme know cause that shit be killin’ me. That bitch in the home is Annie the whole fuckin’ time, yo! Oh shit, spoiler alert! My b, son. My b.
Til next crime,