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Charlie Hatton
Watertown, MA
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Okay, peeps and peepettes, it's time for another Blogger Idol. Hop on and hold tight, folks; this train's leavin' the station... now. Woo-woo!
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Week Eight: 'I Confess'
Aw, well, crap.
I don't know anything about confessing. It's just not the sort of thing I do. I get away with shit, or I get caught red-handed. There's really no middle ground, I'm afraid. I don't sneak off with somebody else's beer, or answers from their test, or their new Lexus, and then come back and say,
'Yeah, I'm sorry. I did it.'
Sure, I'll occasionally 'confess' to shit that I didn't do, but only to my wife. And only when I'm a-hankerin' for a spankerin', if you know what I'm saying. But I don't think that counts, really. I don't even think she really believes that I'm responsible for things like high taxes, or psoriasis, or the Crimean War. But she plays along. She's cool like that.
Anyway, I'm afraid that I really don't know much about confessing, in the usual sense. Usually, I get nailed in the act when I try anything surreptitious and sneaky. And I'm sure as hell not gonna start now, and give myself up on the few things that I was able to get away with. You never know who reads this drivel, or who's gonna hold a grudge when they find out that I took credit for their term paper, so they'd have to repeat a year of college instead of me. Or traded my lottery ticket with theirs before telling them the winning numbers. Or convinced the doctor that the kidney on ice was for me, not them, even when I didn't really need a kidney. Who knows which people out there are still hanging on to hard feelings over crap like that? People can be so petty sometimes, you know?
So I'm not going to do any actual 'confessing' in this post. I have precious few secrets left as it is, without digging through my closet, looking for skeletons to fling out.
(Besides, that's not where I keep the bodies, anyway. Oops, shit. I've said too much. Never mind the thing about the 'bodies', okay? Don't make me come over there.)
Maybe I should just clam up about this whole 'confessing' thing, before I let something important slip, eh? I think that's probably for the best; I'm in enough trouble as it is, from all the things I didn't get the chance to confess to. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go tell my wife that I'm really the one behind that whole Area 51 fiasco.
Yeah, I'm running out of things to confess to, I know. Look, I've needed a lot of spankings; what can I say? I'm a baaaad boy.
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Oh, hush up, Monkey.
What, do you think I'm actually gonna tell you about my illegitimate children? Or the breast implants I had installed on my thighs? Or all those nine year olds that I lured away from the school bus, and then made them work in my basement sweatshop making tea cozies? Or the time I... aw, dammit!
Monkey, you know I could never lie to you. Poopstain!
I will *NOT* spank you. I do not like the fact that you are basically begging for it either. I wouldn't be so concerned with the skeletons falling out of the closet either, I mean how do you expect anyone to see the frickin’ skeletons for all of the BDSM paraphernalia you have stuffed in there?
-nef
ps... when do you want your sunburst nipple guard back?
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Worst. Post. Ever.
Dish the juicy goss already! Don't make me come over there.