LIQUOR, BUSH, AND RUBBER NIPPLES

So I'm searching for photos of some folks who might make my next Celeb Crush list, and a name pops into my head: Jenna Bush.

Then the inevitable questions start bouncing around in my brain: Would I, could I, should I include "Doughnut Girl" in the next list?

The plus is obvious: She's fuckin' hot. The minuses are plenty: For starters, does she even count as a celebrity? Well, she's really only famous for being famous, but it could be argued that she's made a name for herself, what with all the drinking and partying and making out with her gal pals.



Then there's the fact that I hate her along with her entire family. If you hate someone's guts but would still fuck them if given the chance, does that really constitute a 'crush' per se? Doesn't a crush imply some measure of affection/admiration for the crushee?

Then of course there's the ultimate plus/minus: She's a booze hound. And as a rule, drunk women don't turn me on. Never have. (Unless of course I'm also drunk. But obviously that doesn't count.) Now mind you, in light of recent events in my life I've come to much the same realization as many before me: Drunk women are easier. Duh.

So it would seem that all I have to do is either set aside my self-imposed rule or just get myself sufficiently soaked to the point where I don't give a shit. And I happen to know for a fact that this works in my case. (With disastrous results I might add.)

So if I were so inclined (and really horny) I'm sure I could on a regular basis put into practice the routine touted by the late Sam Kinison, which was this: A) Get her drunk, B) Get her in bed, C) Cum all over her back, D) Steal 30 or 40 bucks out of her purse, E) Crawl out the window, and F) Never call her again. "Let them wake up sticky, broke and confused...let's see how they like it."

The trick is (and believe me I will keep this foremost in my mind in future if/when necessary) to make sure that the drunk woman in question is NOT someone I love or care about, and is someone I WON'T miss terribly when we never speak again afterwards.

I hate Jenna Bush. Okay, so that solves that problem!

Which leaves only the biggest hurdle: the ironically increasing lack of freedom of speech in this, the age of the internet. With the U.S. of A. becoming more and more like Nazi Germany under the so-called leadership of Jenna's neo-Hitler daddy, can I really expect to be allowed to post this very entry on my blog without repercussions?

If I wished, could I, in fact, state here in The Pond that *if* I were given the chance, I *might* be inclined to give Jenna the Kinison-style "sticky, broke and confused" treatment? And could I make such a statement without having Secret Service agents breaking down my door tomorrow morning, seizing all my belongings, and shipping me off to Gitmo as a suspected terrorist?

This remains to be seen. If I post again in a few days, you can assume a yes. If not, hopefully one of you will be willing to post my bail.

P.S. In order to maintain the relevance of the title of this post, let me quickly address the topic of rubber nipples:

Rubber nipples--good. Fire--bad.