When we took up the mantle here at Holy Taco we were told we had to engage in some social drinking in the office if we wanted to get anything done right. This was not a problem as most of us had been drinking mouthwash recreationally for years. This, of course, lead to slacking off and scrolling endlessly through girl galleries on the computers of the guys over at Chickipedia. And that, in turn, lead to this argument – if you have to have bad sex, what kind is worse? Scary sex or boring sex?
Drunken Argument That Scary Sex is Better
John Carpenter would slap a bitch. Are you serious? Listen, people like to be scared, that’s why horror movies and rollercoasters and family reunions exist, it’s an adrenaline rush. When you put the hump on a chick who starts crying and screaming about Jesus and pulling out handfuls of hair and stuff, sure, that’s off-putting, but it’s not the end of the world. And even if it is the end of the world, say she handcuffs you to the bed and leaves you to die a miserable death due to dehydration, or maybe she looses some coons in the room that will eat you or something, at least she didn’t suck when she was doing you. That’s important. And realistically, crazy chicks are probably really exciting during those few moments of sexual lucidity before they bust out the sacrificial dagger and the pictures of their father. Plus, man, you know what, that kind of shit is hot. I’m just going to say it. Crazy people are only ostracized by society because we’re scared of their boning skills. Look at Dr. Jekyll and Mr Hyde, that whole story was about sexual repression and how when this uptight Englishman got drunk on absinthe and opium cocktails he was all about donkey punching and strap on dildos. It’s all right there in Shakespeare’s plain English. Bottom line is that if you’re having crazy sex there’s a good chance your heart is pounding so hard it makes your boner into a sexual lightning rod that’s all BZZZZ BZZZZZT SQUISH BZZZZ!
Drunken Argument That Boring Sex is Better
So she fell asleep with your weiner in her mouth, big deal. I’m just happy any time someone takes the time to lazily rub my sack a few times before passing out. It’s comforting, like a tepid bath or a pillow that your head has sweated through after years of use. Is it extravagant? Of course not, but its yours to cherish nonetheless. That’s shit you can count on, man. If every day was filled with exciting Yahtzee games and exotic Bartlett pears we’d all get spoiled horribly and start expecting every day to be the 4th of July – which it isn’t. You know how you know that? They got these things called calendars that were invented by Mayans and shit and they say that today is like July 2nd or something. How can it be the 4th of July on July 2nd? It can’t. Ask a scientist, it’s bullshit. Scientifically. What you need is good old reliable sex because that way you can still plan the rest of your day, like if you need to go shopping later or maybe visit the zoo. You pencil in humping at 3 and at 3:30 you’re purchasing a new ottoman. That’ll make the whole rest of your life pleasant and that ain’t bad.