Janice was way hot. Or Jessy or Janet or whatever. I don't remember. Names aren't that important are they?
I do not live upstairs from the bar, btw. In fact I have my own pad. It's quite nice in my imagination. It has pool.
About the drinks, I spent a total of $83.59 on you and Jill and got absolutely nowhere. That's OK. I could go without the syphillis, anyway.
For the record, your tits are better listeners than your face, anyway. At least they look me in the face when I'm talking to them.
You noticed I had a tan line on my ringfinger. Yes, I'm married. So are you. And I noticed the engagement ring on Jane's finger. In fact, I recognize it from last Sunday's K-Mart ad. So let's cut the crap. We are three people at a bar without our spouses and you expect me to fall for the "celebrate her engagement" BS. I know the routine. Last days of freedom, get plastered, grind with some stranger without feeling guilty, see how far you guys can push the envelope with the other there not so much as a watchfull eye, but as the friend you know will, in the end, get plastered with you and provide positive reinforcement to break at least three of the Ten Commandments and, as has happened on more than one occasion, be an active participant, shall we say? Then you go home, tell Mr. Naive that you behaved and can just call up Mrs. Innocent to back up your alibi. I'm famiar with the story... 'Cause I am not Mr. Naive, you see.
I don't get my jokes off of a website, and if you think my humor is bad, I can take it. Afterall, I write my own material. I figure it's better to be original in your own right, rather than try to get the hand-me-downs from someone greater. Kinda like the lesser chicks that hang with the baby dolls trying to make themselves look better than their mirrors tell them they are. No matter how much you try to emulate the truly superior, reality wins. At least I'm honest about it.
So I would glady meet your brother, Mr. Naive, and tell him what his finace tastes like. Perhaps when his fist meets my nose I can introduce his head to the pavement. That's if his fist isn't busy with his own needs while you two were out cock-teasing.
And the stuff smeared on my upperlip, they don't call me Rim Job Man for no reason.