Monday Morning Commute: Charlotte Bronte Sexy Cream Pies

…If you get the title, and you know what a cream pie is, you’re my target audience. Welcome to the Cult. My raging juvenility knows no bounds. It’s a gorgeous day out, the sun is shining, the window to My Dungeon is cracked open. Life is swell.

It’s probably going to rain tomorrow.

I’ve spent all weekend holed up in the cave, reading shitty Villette. I’m so fucking sick of British Women’s Literature, I could spit! Spit! Fuck.

Monday Morning Commute. Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide.

Eating / Oatmeal Creme Pies

I love eating creme pies. Take that as you will. But no seriously, last night I came across these bad boys and it was like pushing the Wayback Machine and ejaculating with early childhood awesomeness. My girlfriend and I make an enjoyable habit of rocking out in the aisles of Stop and Shop every Sunday. It’s nice relaxing habit. And last night I was pushing the cart inappropriately as usual, when I came across these sons-a-bitches. I stared at them, telling myself I there were nothing more than caloric death. And then reminded myself that didn’t stop me from my usual habits.

Girlfriend saw me staring, saw me lusting. Get them if you want, she said. Naw, naw, I responded. You sure, sure asked. Yeah, totally.

And then I threw them into the cart with a giggle.

Listening / Type O Negative, Bloody Kisses

I woke up today with Peter Steele cooing in my brain “Body of Christ, Corpus Christi.” I’m convinced that he is communing with me from beyond the grave. It’s still a bit bizarre that the dude is dead. I’m not weeping and cutting. But it’s sort of a mind-fuck. Slap on your favorite Type O Negative song and pour out a giant bottle of wine like the good man would want you to do.

Also, have you ever tried to Google Image Search for Peter Steele? It’s almost impossible to do so without coming up with a page full of him holding his cock in his hand. Ladies, if you’re not familiar, the dude had like an enormous dong (half of it would put my pud to shame, jk, sort of), and was in Playgirl.

Reading / Charlotte Bronte, Villette

Unfortunately for me, Villette does not feature cream pies. Or anything sweet.

A story about Charlotte Bronte:

When I was a senior in high school, I had to read Jane Eyre by aforementioned Bronte. And no, I’m not putting that retarded thing above the “e” in her name. I was mentally checked out, since I was a senior and all. My English class wasn’t challenging, and my teacher while kind, wasn’t particularly powerful in the Domepiece Department.

I told this teacher that I didn’t plan on reading Jane Eyre. She didn’t take too kindly to it. So knowing that I was a nerd, she told me that there was some supernatural element to the book. Oh shit!, I thought. So I kept reading, and became skeptical. Teach reassured me. Said there was something like a vampire in it. I kept reading and reading and reading. And there wasn’t no vampire in it.

I was bullshit. All there was, was like a first wife locked up in a closet.

Since then, Bronte and I haven’t seen eye to eye. I was hoping this book in addition to nine years of trying to appreciate the “intellectual” approach to books would help.

It hasn’t. Every page of this book makes me want to barf.