Grinding
What the fuck is going on over there? Have I just wandered into 17-and-under night at my local Midwestern dance club? Will glowsticks be distributed later? Are we all going to go sit on the hood of your station wagon outside the Tasti-Freez and secretly touch each other under blankets? No? OK, then why the fuck are you simulating anal sex in the middle of this dance floor as if it were 1996 and you were at Greentown Middle School’s annual D.A.R.E. dance? You do not look sexy, heavily sweating, puffy-faced bro—you look like a limp dick personified. And, you, trixie with your amble bosom spilling over the crest of your going-out top—don’t you feel the least bit objectified? You look like confused sumo wrestlers. Or mating bovine creatures. And now, unfortunately, I know exactly what you would look like were you to have sex—an image that will not be eradicated from my cerebrum anytime soon. Jesus, if you want to dry hump, at least have the decency to do it where no one will see you—you know, like off in the shadows of McCarren or in the privacy of your own plywood loft room.
(Photo)
Hammer meets head of nail.
