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We were out at Springbok again tonight.  As usual, a great time had by all.  It happened to be my birthday yesterday, so everybody and their mother was buying me drinks.  Hot mothers, that is…we’re talking MILF status, for sure.

Springbok is a really nice, chill spot.  It caters to a wide variety of people, full of shenanigans,  And we all know how much I adore shenanigans.  I live, breathe, eat and shit shenanigans, so it is definitely the spot for me.  If you recall, I wrote about my last time there, which ended in a massive cockblock.  Tonight was not looking great, but turned out pretty sweet.

I was talking up this chick, that happened to have a boyfriend.  Usually I call bullshit on the boyfriend card, until they have undeniable proof there is one.  Why, you ask?  Well, in my experience, even the chicks that are in to you, will pull the boyfriend card, just to keep themselves “safe,” whatever that means.  But tonight, I was chatting up this cutie pie named Corissa.  She was pretty into me, but was saying she had a boyfriend.  Of course, like any red-blooded American, I called shenanigans on the spot.

Low-and-behold, Corissa’s boyfriend shows up.  What a kick in the nuts.  But I’m not phased.  I am the Redmanthatcould, afterall.  Like the Marines, I don’t die – I just go to titty hell and regroup.  So I am outside, waiting to call it a night, and what do I see?  Yep, you called it – Mandy is outside!  So in about six seconds, I call Mandy over, and she tells me how it is.

Apparently the night after I tried to chat up Mandy the last time, she broke ties off with her boyfriend.  Can I get a “score!” from the audience?  Nice!  So of course, I swoop in like the absolute stud I am.  Mandy text me her number, and we are all set.  Need I remind everyone that Mandy had an amazing set of tits, cute face, and banging body all around.  She is probably DTF (down to fuck, for those of us not in the know), so I am ready and waiting.

My time has come, Mandy.  This will be an adventure, no doubt.   And as always, good times at Springbok.  Amen!

A few days ago, I was out with my cousin, at one of her coworker’s birthday parties.  When we were done with that party at ONE Sunset in West Hollywood, we met up with some of my friends.  Among these friends was a new person – a French girl.  For the sake of easy naming, we will call her “French Whore.”  I have met French people people; I’ve even met a French girl or two before, so it’s not like this was my first rodeo.

What I mean, of course, is that this is not my first experience with a French person I hated.  The French have a pretty solid knack for being hated by me.

France Sucks

From what I hear, I am not the only person that hates the French.  You would think this stigma would find its way to France, and they would have a town meeting – do they like being hated?

So we meet up with my friends and the French Whore, and everything is groovy.  It is getting close to last call at the bar, and my cousin was getting tired.  I drop her off, and then the rest of us (French Whore included) decide to go get some late-night grub.  As I am driving, French Whore introduces me to surprise number one – she throws a glass beer bottle out of my window.  Maybe in some shitty, backwards ass countries (read: France), this kind of practice is acceptable, but in the beautiful U.S. of A., we don’t do that.

When I turn off the music, and ask what that was, I am greeted with a stroke of genius out of French Whore…

Don’t worry about it.

Well shit…thanks for putting me at ease.  Since French Whore tells me not to worry about it, who am I to dare worry?  OK.  We get to the restaurant, and take our seat.  I would say everything was going fine at this point.

Everyone is having a good time, we are being loud and obnoxious, and get our drink order in.  I try to talk to French Whore, which was obviously a bad move.  As I try to talk to her, she turns her head away from me, and puts her hand up to her head to “block me out” and avoid my questions.  I am not exactly the nicest guy in the world, but even I know rude when I see rude.  French Whore clearly thought her title was French Princess, and not French Whore.  As much as I wanted to give French Whore a piece of my mind, I bit my lip for the greater good.

We get to the food-ordering portion of our adventure, which goes pretty smoothly.  Until French Whore orders, of course.  You know, at this point, just about anything French Whore said or did bothered me, so I might not be looking at this with unclouded eyes.  That being said…SHE FUCKING ORDERS FRENCH FRIES.

We get it – we know you are French - good for you, chief.  But to say you want to eat, and then only to order fries?  French fries, of course, means she’s supporting her country, right?  Why didn’t she order freedom fries?!

Fuck you, France

Several minutes after we order our food, French Whore decides she wants cigarettes.  What this means, of course, is that her freedom fries will get to the table before she does, and thus I will have to endure her company well-after I am done with my meal.  On top of that, as to be expected, she eats as fast as John McCain could bust a nut in his wife’s ass.

Finally, French Whore (with the help of my friends) polishes off her freedom fries.  We are ready to leave, and I make sure we blow this Popsicle stand lickity split.  Luckily, all I have to do is drop everyone off at The Good Reverend’s car, and no longer have to experience French Whore.

Think that’s it?  Wrong.

After The Good Reverend drops people off at their respective cars, I meet up with him for a late-night movie.  I need to grab something out of my back seat, and notice an unfamiliar sight.  There lies an open glass bottle of Corona.  Where do you suppose it was?  That’s right, exactly where French Whore was sitting.

I suppose I forgot to take down my “Trash Here!” sign, above my car.  My mistake.  Fucking whore.

I went over my buddy Grayson’s place today. We were going to hang out and watch the Pittsburgh Steelers vs. Cleveland Browns game, for Sunday Night Football.  In my opinion, the game was very entertaining, but I was hoping the Browns would pull it through.  Not to say I am a Browns fan, because I just considered myself a fan of football, but I do love me some underdog victories.

The game was pretty close all the way, with a huge focus on defense.   It took the Browns until late in the 4th quarter to start feeling a consistent offensive push.  A couple questionable coaching decisions from the Browns head coach – one during the last two minutes of the 2nd quarter, and the other at the end of the ballgame with their timeouts – which could have changed the outcome.

Enough with the men in tight pants talk…we all want to hear about the big tits, right?  Well, in the position I was sitting, I happened to be facing the window in the living room, which faces the inside of the complex.  What this meant was that I was able to see as the neighbors across-the-way were leaving their apartment.

One of the girls that left the apartment was magneficinately stacked.  My oh my…simply delicious.  As the two girls (stacked girl leaving second) walked down the stairs, I walk over to Grayson and yell “Look at the big tits on the second girl!”

There is definitely no guarantee that I caused any harm, but there are two things I am certain of: 1.) I did yell that, but I wasn’t trying to have anyone but Grayson hear me, and 2.) The window in the kitchen was wide open, which meant both girls heard me.

I guess it is a good thing I am not living there.

So so so…Lots of stuff to talk about, in the wacky world of your lord & savior, World Chancellor Jefforiah the Valiant, but it’s late, and I have a flight to catch tomorrow. So I will keep this sweet, and as short as I can…but I’m already starting to ramble.

Anywho…this won’t be about me trimming my pubes. Although, I must admit, last time around I did a hell of a job. I’m not talking award-worthy…but maybe “honorable mention” – you know? OK.

About four weeks back, I heard about this thing called the “Master Cleanse”…which apparently has been around for 40 something years, but I’ve never heard of it. Let’s not forget I don’t get out much…what with world Chancelloring and all…it’s tough to keep up with every little thing – you dig? Cool.

So I think about doing the “Master Cleanse”, after reading up on it (all of 12-14 minutes), I check out the pricing, etc…it all seems pretty a-OK. I figured, if I do it and I die, then my family would collect on insurance, but if I do it and I live, then I’d finally have proof of my superhero status.

In a nutshell, the cleanse is a fasting diet, that consists of drinking lemonade, water, morning/evening laxatives…and that’s it. No food, no other liquids. That’s it. Read it again if you don’t believe me, but this time stop at “That’s it” and just skip this sentence completely. I know, I know…that’s not healthy, that’s dumb, that could kill you, that’s a gimmick…whatever whatever whatever. Listen – I was born to rule the world, so I don’t give one hair on one rat’s piece of shit what anyone else thinks about my dumb and extreme decisions – me me me.

They recommend that people do the fast for 7 to 12 days, but it could be done up to 40 days. I’m talking consecutive days, of course. I picked 18 days. Why’d I pick 18 days? 1.) Go fuck yourself if you didn’t get the hint from above, & 2.) It just worked out that I could do 18 days, have 3 days to come off the diet, and then head to the convention in Florida.

Was it hard? Heeeelllllooooo superheros love love love to eat. Did I cheat? No. Not even once? No. You sure, buddy? Yes. 18 days is a long time…not even one little itty bitty morsel? No and fuck you. Is it for everyone? Probably not, but then again, we aren’t all lords/saviors/world chancellors/superheros…go fig. Would I do it again? Yes. Will I do it again? Probably, but not any time soon. Am I the greatest? Duh.How much did you lose? I lost 26 pounds.

If, for whatever reason, you want to try it yourself and have any questions, feel free to ask. There’s a lot of pointers I picked up over the 18 days that might be universally applicable, plus I read things on their forum boards, etc etc.

It’s getting late, and I don’t feel I can sustain my charm and wit for much longer, so I think this is where you and I part. But my last two thoughts….

1.) Ashley – you are fucking awesome as shit for making me vegetable soup. If you ever need a left or a right nut, for whatever reason…lab work, research, etc – you can count on me.

2.) This is another plug for Ashley, ’cause someone cooking for me is unheard of, and deserves double thanks. If you don’t know Ashley, and you are totally bomb ass cool, then you should add her and read her blog – http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.ListAll&friendID=76700166. Note : no one will ever be as totally bomb ass cool as me, ’cause I am da bomb, but don’t feel as though you need to be at Jefforiah level.

That is all from my brain – MUAH!

My buddy Mike and I were having our usual AIM conversation…bullshitting about this, bullshitting about that…you know, the usual shit. Essentially, imagine two hyenas trying to make each other laugh SLASH cry.

Well today, my friends, I laugh, and Mike…well…Mike CRIES.

There’s this on-going territorial battle between males over instant messengers…we try to always one up each other. Whether it be pointless arguments, out linking one another, or out LOL’ing the other. These sorts of shenanigans are probably lost on vaginas, but you know what? I don’t give a SHIT.

Mike and I have been having this epic, mind-fuck battle for several months. Many of you have been a victim of it, in one shape or form, but many of you are weak. Mike and I…we are strong. We are always on the look out…we are always watching, and waiting. Waiting for the subtle mistake…the subtle misstep…when your guard is down…WE POUNCE!

Today was my day to POUNCE.

Mike and I were discussing how hot the new VP candidate is that Mr. “I’m going to ruin the country if you elect me” McCain picked. Mike’s going on and on about how hot she is. So I’m thinking “you know what? let me Google image this bitch, and see what’s what.” ‘Cause you know, even if she’s hot in some pics, chances are that I’ll be able to find some really juicy uggo pics of her, just the same.

I’m looking. I’m hunting.

I find several pics of her, and you know what? I’ll be damned if I can’t find a really uggo one of her. So I’m now thinking, “Shit. What if Mike’s right? Then…then what…do I lose?” I can’t lose. I’m fucking Jeff, after all. Give me a break.

Innovation happens.

I link Mike to the first pic I find of her, to see his reaction. Then I link him to a second one…but you know what I did for this second one? That’s right, I Rick-Roll’d him, friends. So I’m waiting in anticipation, to see if I succeeded or not. Rick-Rollin’ is very much a sport of honor, and trust. But I know that if I did in fact Rick-Roll the shit out of Mike, he’d man up, and be straight with me.

A few seconds pass….

Time is standing still….

And Mike utters his most famous words to date…