Attn: Ryan; This post contains "Filter" information. You should stop reading now.
I am learning about filters, guys! There are all kinds of filters. Coffee filters, oil filters, blowing pot through a downy sheet so your mom doesn't smell it filters (note: does not work with cigarettes).
According to Jamie's husband, she has an alcohol-soluble filter. Haha. Dave is funny.
I am seriously lacking in the filter department. For some reason, my subconscious feels like everyone around me should know everything about me. This really isn't a Gucci bag, I bought it in New York in some back room from some creepy Asian dude for 25 bucks. Sometimes my undertitty smells like an Astros game. I sharted. I hate the fucking alarm in that goddamn truck you gave me. Don't you hate it when you are sitting in a chair and you fart and it doesn't have anywhere to go and then it gets trapped in your p-ssy??? (Ok, that last one was Steph, but that is why I love her). Corn comes out like it goes in...on the cobb. Your balls smell like cornflakes.
I also tell Ryan lots of stuff he would rather not hear like, "So today at work, I let a guy vigorously rub his junk on my backside so that he would give me the form for business cards and even though I thought it was going to be gross, it was kind of cool." What? I needed business cards and he wasn't that ugly. Would you rather me let an ugly guy do it? Would you rather me just let him do it without giving me the form? For nothing? So you're calling me a whore. I hate you.
That didn't really happen. I would at least need something like a jump drive or a can of air to clean my keyboard with. I can get a business card form on the Intranet.
Ryan wants me to stop telling him about certain things that happen at work. So now I'm all, well when do you want me to tell you something? Some things are downright comical and, heaven forbid, what if they are serious enough that I need him to punch someone in the balls? I am having issues with that.
The guy that I work with doesn't have a filter. At all. These are some of the things he has said to me in the past 2 days:
1. So are your tits real or are they fake?
2. Have you ever had anal sex?
3. How many times do you masturbate in an average week?
4. That girl over there? We almost had sex in a bathroom stall. Her husband hates me.
5. I like titties.
Awesome.
According to Jamie's husband, she has an alcohol-soluble filter. Haha. Dave is funny.
I am seriously lacking in the filter department. For some reason, my subconscious feels like everyone around me should know everything about me. This really isn't a Gucci bag, I bought it in New York in some back room from some creepy Asian dude for 25 bucks. Sometimes my undertitty smells like an Astros game. I sharted. I hate the fucking alarm in that goddamn truck you gave me. Don't you hate it when you are sitting in a chair and you fart and it doesn't have anywhere to go and then it gets trapped in your p-ssy??? (Ok, that last one was Steph, but that is why I love her). Corn comes out like it goes in...on the cobb. Your balls smell like cornflakes.
I also tell Ryan lots of stuff he would rather not hear like, "So today at work, I let a guy vigorously rub his junk on my backside so that he would give me the form for business cards and even though I thought it was going to be gross, it was kind of cool." What? I needed business cards and he wasn't that ugly. Would you rather me let an ugly guy do it? Would you rather me just let him do it without giving me the form? For nothing? So you're calling me a whore. I hate you.
That didn't really happen. I would at least need something like a jump drive or a can of air to clean my keyboard with. I can get a business card form on the Intranet.
Ryan wants me to stop telling him about certain things that happen at work. So now I'm all, well when do you want me to tell you something? Some things are downright comical and, heaven forbid, what if they are serious enough that I need him to punch someone in the balls? I am having issues with that.
The guy that I work with doesn't have a filter. At all. These are some of the things he has said to me in the past 2 days:
1. So are your tits real or are they fake?
2. Have you ever had anal sex?
3. How many times do you masturbate in an average week?
4. That girl over there? We almost had sex in a bathroom stall. Her husband hates me.
5. I like titties.
Awesome.
posted by Crystal at 2:06 PM
13 Comments:
I would imagine you answered an emphatic "yes" to all those questions, regardless of what sense it did/did not make.
Oh, and as an addition to your filter vernacular; when you stuff a fabric softener sheet into a empty toilet paper roll to blow pot smoke through it, the proper name for the device is "odotron." Now you know.
I know lots of people without filters: I call them family.
Sweet... you know how much money you can make off a sexual harassment lawsuit????
Yes.. I typed ass .. make something of it ;)
HB
but otherwise he's a pretty cool guy right?
I don't smoke pot (anymore), but I want one of those odotron contraptions.
OMG. Welcome to Louisiana :)
Filters are over-rated. My grandma lost hers years ago and now she's the funniest person in the family. Guests don't get much of a kick out of it though.
I can understand him asking number 3, but seriously. ;-)
Merry Christmas, Crystal!
Marvy Crackhouse! Er, Christmas!!!
If you are not careful, Crystal, your boyfriend is going to have you shipped off to finishing school to become a refined lady.
um, filters are highly over-rated.
Merry Christmas!!
Tell him being completely honest is the right thing to do.
Jay got me an odotron for Christmas, isn't that romantic.
um.. soooo.... yeah.... what are the answers to the questions?
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