What if Richard Simmons was a Pick up Artist?

Goodness, hello everyone.  What a crazy week I’ve been having!  I’ve been like the Pussy Whisperer I’m so busy, can you believe it?  Pussy here, pussy there, my God!  I’m up to my little ears in it!  I have tapped more ass than a Brewmaster in the land of Ass Kegs during Oktoberfest and it’s not stopping anytime soon.  It’s sweatin’ time!

You know how sometimes you just want to put on My Sharona, grab a couple of your obese friends, start a little dancing and then bend them over and ram one home?  That’s pretty much all I do these days.  I have disco fever and the only cure is some sweet, Alabama poontang.  Take one and apply liberally to face!

If I told you once, I told you a thousand times, I love the ham wallet.  I love the feel of it on my wrinkle stick.  I love the way a massive one envelopes my face!  I love it all! But people always ask me, Richard, how do you do it?  While I’ll tell you.  It’s no secret, a dip in the pork puddle makes everyone feel better and I want everyone to feel as good as me and wake up every morning with your face sticky and tight like someone tried to smother you with a glazed donut.

There’s no great secret to getting your hands on some gushy, mushy spunk bucket, you just have to want it.  You have to want it like you’ve wanted nothing else in your whole entire life.  More than you’ve wanted your boner spit shined, more than you’ve wanted to get your brown belt in a wrinkled little caboose, more than anything.  Can you do that?  Sure you can!  You love fish taco!

I’ll tell you, when I was a teenager, I had no squish mitten.  Not even a sniff of a friend’s finger.  It was all around me, I lived in especially obese neighborhood and there was chubby muffin as far as the eye could see but none would give me the time of day.  And it’s because I didn’t want it enough.  I wasn’t skilled in the art of poon hunting.  I was lazy and unmotivated and I hated myself.  In the land of big game hunters, I was a pygmy with a blowgun and I was only blowing myself.

One day, I said to myself “Self, I need to bury my face in hot, wet crotch and I need it now!” and I made a promise to myself, a super secret promise that by the end of that year, I would reach my goal.  And do you think I did it?  I did!

I set my sights on a girl in my home ec class who had a real weakness for fudge.  Now, I had spent a lot of my spare time packing fudge for my parents fudge business, so I was intimately familiar with the product and had gone to bed more than once with sticky, brown fingers, not to mention quite a messy face.  So I vowed to use my resources to hunt down that pussy and make it my own.

Oh, it wasn’t easy the first time.  It never is, so don’t be discouraged if you have to try a few times! The journey is half the fun.  But then 9/10 of the fun is getting your dick wet, believe you me.

I want to tell you a story now.  A story about a very dear friend of mine, a man name Roger.  Roger used to be addicted to internet pornography, he would spank and spank all day long, using his own cheeto-y saliva as lube until his penis was pruney and raw and gay glow orange.  Roger just didn’t have the motivation to go out and get ass.

When I met Roger he was at an all time low.  His house reeked of KY and Lunchables and when I sat down to talk to him he couldn’t even resist the compulsion to jerk it for more than 10 minutes.  So 11 minutes after I met this brave, lonely man, I sat in silence while he fumbled in his sweat pants trying to find his penis.  And I wept.

When he’d finished, I vowed that I would never let this happen again.  Never would I sit idly by while some stranger masturbated in front of me, because frankly that’s wretched.  But never would I let Roger suffer so.  Not a moment longer.  Not him or anyone.

You see, I had bee there too.  Before becoming the pussy wrangler I am today, I was hospitalized 13 times after my hands had camped up like the decrepit claws of an elderly culture in what I was sure would be my permanent dinky grip. I was afraid the world would recognize my masturbation claws and the slick, polished and callused skin for what they were – the hands of a compulsive wanker.  But I had overcome and I could help others.  And I started with Roger.

Roger didn’t believe me at first that he could succeed in his pussy hunt.  He had so many excuses, the same excuses I told myself back when I first started.  I’m too unattractive.  I have nothing to offer.  I never bathe.  My house smells like cured meats.  I’m revolting.  I’m going to steal some of her tampons and I don’t even know why.  But that’s all they were; excuses.  And that’s when I said the one word Roger needed to hear.  One word that changed my life and would change his – hookers.

Hookers are the groundwork for any good vag vigilante.  They’re the Danger Room for your penis X-Man.  They will train you, temper you and make you into the sexual Tyrannosaur you are destined to become.

Like so many others, Roger had discounted prostitutes as pathetic.  But just as Jesus loved all his children, so should we.  And if not love, we can at least pay for head.  I explained this to Roger and I swear my heart swelled as much as my donk does when it seems a ripe, wet ass because I could see he finally understood.

That very night Roger and I split on a Thai hooker named Isra who was down for DP and didn’t speak a lot of English and it was magical.  I’m proud to say that, in the six months since that first visit, Roger has plowed more field than an Amish farmer and it’s all because of the confidence he got from hookers.

Once other women see that confidence that comes with the insatiable hunger for tang, it becomes so easy to get more and more.  Once you stop caring about rejection and maximize your success rate by attempting to pick up each and every woman you run a cross no matter where or when you find them, you’ll be putting Wilt Chamberlain to shame in no time.  It’s just that easy!