“Pussy get old like bread not like wine.” -Patrice O’Neal
So I’m nonchalantly watching “The Kroll Show” when two disgustingly arrogant broads started waxing poetic instead of waxing their frosty boxes during one of the show’s many improvised segments. Both chicks were describing their undying hatred for goatees in a typically unfunny female way, as I stroked mine from home and pondered aloud, “Who in the flying fuck wants your crusty-ass pussies anyway?”
Amused by my subtle turn of phrase, I went online to check out how old the so-called “comediannes” in question actually were and was mildly surprised to see that they were in fact, merely my age. Isn’t it funny how that works? A thirty one year-old man is basically still in his prime, while a thirty one year-old woman is akin to an aging ex-athlete who reporters used to flock to, that they now awkwardly shuffle past to more relevant subjects. Why? Because any single girl over the age of thirty has more baggage than Logan airport. Furthermore, if the undeniable truth of their mental instability wasn’t enough, imagine the blank sheet of canvas that is an eighteen year-old vagina, and my oh my, the masterpieces my penis doth long to create…
Speaking of eighteen year-old vaginas, because I sometimes cover high school sports, I’m often reminded of my own high school days, which of course for guys always ends with reminiscing about the chicks you wanted to use your dick like a jackhammer on that were way out of your league. Thankfully you can rejoice that today not one off those chicks can hold a candle to their former selves. The hottest chick in any given high school is basically a used burlap sack by the time they hit the big three-oh. As in, “Oh shit.”
It’s not that I’m not interested in girls in their thirties, it’s just that I’m waiting until I’m in my fifties.