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It can never bode well for the slutty one.

Issue Date: Monday, Jul. 31, 2006

Hi. I love Kevin Smith.

Yes, and I love you too… but we’ll get to you in a moment.


If ya’ll haven’t gone to see Clerks II… may I say?... “Holy shit, what the hell is wrong with you? Hie thee on to a movie theater, STAT motherfucker!” (Sorry for calling you a motherfucker, I am channeling Jay.)

It? Was so awesome that Mister and I went home and like View Askew dorks we are we watched the first one in its entirety.

And now I would like to give a shout out to my girlfriend Amy and her husband Adam from Mythbusters Wes for giving me the dvds (psst, the dvds are SO much better than the VHS tapes) of all View Askew movies several years ago for my 30th birthday (?...was it for my birthday Ames?). Ya’ll rock!

Ya’ll know the part in the first one where Dante and Veronica were sitting behind the counter? He was painting her nails and he was extolling the talent it takes for a man to bring a woman to orgasm.

Note: Warning. Seriously, if you are under eighteen and this site has not been banned from your computer (hopefully by your parents) for the copious amounts of talk on these pages about boobies, humping James van der Beek or naked horseback riding. Stop reading now. Really. Come and see me when you have at least one divorce under your belt and you have a little bit of bitterness in your bones to age you to perfection.

(Back to our regularly scheduled TMI.)

Veronica is all, “Oh, I am so glad you think of women so highly.” And Dante is all, “Women just have to be there… (totally paraphrasing)… Men just need to stick it in, somewhere preferably moist, thrust and repeat.”

Then they get on that discussion of, “How many women/men have you slept with?” Him? Twelve… which for some reason makes him a pig. Her? Three… but then the information comes out that she’s gone down on a few guys. “How many?” “Thirty-seven.


A customer comes to the register…

Dante “I just found out my girlfriend sucked 37 dicks!”
Customer “In a row?.....”

This is the part in the show where smart people shut the hell up and do not even give their significant others/spouses/partners/pets a sideways glance… or even an appraising one. But ya’ll? It always turns into, “So… how about you?... How many?”

Do not answer. For the love of Pete… (or Pete’s brother, RePete…. HEE!) do not say anything. Now would be a good time to:
a) tie or untie and retie your shoe,
b) cough and make a hasty retreat into the restroom and blow your nose,
c) ask, “Baby, would you like another beer/bag of Cheetos™/lap dance/slice of beef brisket?"
Or d) scream “BEEEEEEES!” and run around the room flapping your arms wildly as if to warm off an attack from a swarm of Africanized Killer Bees.

Here’s the thing ya’ll. The answer, if it is numerical (could it be any other way? “Niner mambo banana patch.”), can never be a good one. If you answer, “Honey, you are and have been my one and only love. I have saved my flower for youuuuuu!” Then your lover/partner/significant other/chef will think that you are one step and a bucket of blood away from being Carrie. But if you are all, “Fuck… I’m surprised my shit ain’t worn out from all the use it’s gotten in the past 15 days/weeks/months/years.” Then your true love will douse you will Lysol, boil his or her privates and then run screaming from the house… directly to a free clinic to get checked for Ebola.

After school special moment (for free): Please make sure that you use a condom, dental damn and any other sort of safe sex protection when engaged in being slutty, get tested regularly for all things from AIDS to chicken pox and practice general hygiene ya’ll. Seriously. Brush your teeth and do NOT expect anyone to kiss you when you have a dip in.

Annnnd…. We’re back.

Where was I?

Ah, yes. How Many?

You went through this oh so special moment of, “Good Lord, if I can not remember the name of that one guy!” with me a few months ago. I now know his name… (thanks Stacey) so my moment of total skank who knew not the name of her fair (brief) love was short. But the other night while watching Clerks? Yeah, we did it. We went there.

Mister: So, uh… how many?
self: Um… how many… Oh… uh…
Mister: Anywhere near thirty-seven?
self: In a row?
Mister: Heh… no… never mind.
self: How about you?
Mister: How many dicks have I sucked?
self: …. [blink]
Mister: None.
self: Wow… this has suddenly become very uncomfortable.

Ya’ll. Seriously, ya’ll. Even when you are totally comfortable with your spouse/lover/significant other/chef/hairdresser/pet/plumber… do not, Do NOT get into this conversation.

It can never bode well for the slutty one.

This is where ya’ll come in. Tell me about (no, you don’t have to go into detail about your past per se) your weirdest, “How many?...” conversation you have ever had. I wanna know because I am a sick and twisted puppy. Extra points goes for the person who when recounting their tales of, “Well… I was very experimental in college…” or whatever actually included the words, “Yeah, I slept with your brother/sister/rabbi/mother/father/grandparent(ew… but also, no kidding?)”


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To understand this dear reward (above) at all, you must hie thee on and read gatsby’s grape ape entry and my comments.

And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

The Graphic Below Courtesy of Papernapkin.

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