The other night I met a friend of mine out for an adult pizza party with adult beverages, and I excused myself to use the little boys' room to wash my hands.  After getting done washing my hands I was thinking . . .

"Shit, just got done washing my hands, but now I gotta pee.  Terrible.  Okay, let's get it done.  Okay, done.  Do I really need to wash my hands if I just washed them a second ago?  Yeah, I do because I just handled my pecker.  You can't walk out there with dirty-dick hands and start man-handling all that pizza like a damn savage.  What's wrong with you, Ken?  Okay, we'll just wash 'em again."

It was then that I realized I wasn't thinking that stuff.  I had said it all out loud.  And there was a closed stall with shoes down there who belonged to a guy who heard my whole hand washing and penis touching conversation with myself.

Quit touching yourself, Blog Buddies, and get commenting.  How is everyone doing this fine evening?  

Sly? Is That You?

("Yo! What'l it be, pizon?")

I had a dream last night that Sylvester Stallone was working at the pizza by the slice place on the corner by my house. I remember kind of feeling bad for him; the fact that he had to work there.

I love how in dreams we don't questions things like this, like how in the hell could Sly go broke overnight and move to Chicago to dole out slices of pizza. It made perfect sense last night.