Yesterday, I spent my lunch hour trying to post an entry to my blog. It was important to me. My life is a shambles and my boss thinks I’m a mental defective but if I could just come up with something clever to write, I’d feel good about myself for a while.

No such luck. I couldn’t even find a topic to write about, let alone be witty. I did end up posting something but it turned out to be a simple cry for help.

What I did was to promise to write about any subject posted as a comment to that entry. To prime the pump, I also forwarded my plea to a mailing list made up of my alcoholic friends.

Well, the comments weren’t exactly what I had hoped for but at least a few of my drunk buddies bothered to respond. So here I am, morally obligated to write a few words about each of the suggested topics, no matter how asinine. These are my friends, after all. A man without friends is a man who has to buy all his own drinks. Read on:

1. I want a post about my DICK — Silly Goose

I’d like to help you out here, really I would. The fact of the matter is that I know nothing about your schvantz and I think we’d both feel more comfortable if things stayed that way. Besides, there is already a film that addresses the topic with more authority than I ever could: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0248845/

2. Dude, could you write a blog about posting comments to other people’s blogs? — Parties Hardly

As far as I can tell, the sole reason to comment on someone else’s blog is to drive traffic back to your own. Of course, you have to feign interest in what they write so you don’t come off as a self-centered attention whore. A suitable comment might be: “So you’re battling cancer? That’s harsh. You should check out http://www.poisonspur.com. It’s somewhat less harsh.”

3. Did your father ever tell you what he was like as an editor? Or can you conjecture about what his managerial and editing style was like? — Betty

I can’t speak to how my father was as an editor. Having known him just as a parent, I can only guess that whatever his writers submitted was never good enough.

4. Post about fucking. For bonus points, make her older than twelve. — Anonymous

Bonus points are good. I shall therefore write a steamy sexual fantasy involving a woman who has reached her 18th birthday:

After clearing customs, I took a taxi from the airport to the Slippet Inn, a renowned hotel in Bangkok’s slut quarter.

I booked my room and started thumbing through the hotel’s whore catalog for a sweet filly into whom I could romantically drain my nuts. One looked especially attractive and even looked like she had most of her teeth.

“Are you sure she’s eighteen?” I asked, massaging the cleavage on her photo with my finger.

“Hai, Boner-San.”

Satisfied with the desk clerk’s answer, I billed the girl to the room, went upstairs, and waited.

Twenty minutes later, there was a knock at the door. When I went to answer it, I saw not a full-grown woman but a prepubescent girl.

“Holy Lolita!” I said. “How old are you anyway?”

“This many,” she said, holding up some of her fingers. I wasn’t sure if she meant to say she was six or five and a half. One of the digits was gone from the second knuckle from what looked like either a dog bite or a sweatshop accident.

“My sister have the yeast so they send me instead. Me love you long time.”

“No, me go to prison long time. I’ve read about entrapment scams like this in Maxim. There is no way I’ll so much as lay a hand on you. You better run along.”

She just stared at me, pretending not to understand, so sterner measures were in order. I blocked one nostril and pelted her face with a load of snot that had built up during my twelve-hour plane flight.

“I said ‘Git!'” and slammed the door.

After an experience like that, the only thing to do is to put it out of one’s mind. I raided the minibar for a bottle of poo-poop, a potent local liqueur distilled from fermented dung beetles. I took a good, long swig of the brown liquid in the hopes it would calm my nerves. Alas, the thin walls of the hotel were about to make a relaxing evening an impossibility.

The sobbing girl trudged down the hallway but only made it as far as the room adjacent to mine. The guest stying there, another American, opened the door and stopped her. Introducing himself as “Uncle Craig,” he asked her what was wrong and when she explained, he got quite angry about how someone could do such a thing to a mere child. For a moment, I thought he was going to kick down my door and do violence upon my person, but he had other plans.

He invited the girl into his room and the noises that followed, though lasting only twelve minutes, were so disturbing I was unable to sleep that night. I don’t know which was harder on the ears, the initial pelvis crack or after he had been at it long enough for the sex to sound like someone chewing a mouthful of Grape Nuts.

The next day, I checked into another hotel and had sex with an eighteen year-old prostitute. It was hot.

Feel free to print out this story and take it into the bathroom with you.

I’m sorry but this is all I have time for today. Stay tuned until I tackle more topics (Excel macros, Betty sex, zombies) that are facing the world we live in.