Things To Admit To

(filed under Can You Doubt We Were Made For Each Other)

In anticipation of the bitter aftermath of my seduction under the insanely passionate wiles of Rosario Dawson, actress and joi de viver extraordinaire, then found out by the Wife, who will pretend to not understand but, come on, it’s Rosario Dawson, I shall get a few things out of the way:

Did I disappoint my fans and family? Hell no. It’s Rosario Dawson. High fives all around.

Am I sorry? Not as much for getting caught as for having to act like it wasn’t Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride times eleven.

I admit that Tiger Woods is a bazooganaire, so poon is basically chiclets, so screw him for being a corporate puppet and flagellating himself so we can have the Last Temptation of Gillette played out in 30-second spots nationwide. Hell, he can’t act anyway. In any commercial. A “darker, edgier” Tiger will be able to act even less. Skeezes don’t give poon to charity, folks, so let’s call everybody out. Get the skanks a podium and let’s call it a media event!

I admit to wanting to grope certain teachers through the years. Hotcha! There was one that, as I think on it, reminds me of Rosario Dawson.  I never realized the connection before.  Fate is not to be laughed at or fickled over. There’s more danger in ficking fate than admitting to consequences once caught up in it.

This may sound way too generous, but I admit that Ms. Dawson is so close to perfection I need to go suck her daddy’s dick. Forgive me, Rosario, but it's true.  The sentiment itself is not original to me. I think it’s in the bible, and is about the most heartfelt sentiment a woman will ever hope to hear from a man. It is deep. Cherish the love.

In trying to determine whether I’ve let down my faith and core values: is heathen a religion yet? What if I start a Religion of the Unzipped Fly? In that case I’ve kept up the faith as the zip goes down. Praise and hallelujah.

I admit that not being rich, no one wants me televised, apologizing or otherwise; however, let me remind you all: it was ROSARIO DAWSON. Or will be.   If I'm apologizing for future indiscretions we have to start somewhere.  Rosario, send me an autographed picture. For you sick bastards out there, no it’s not for a shrine. I’ll tape it to the headboard above the Wife’s pillow. Hey, she’s got an autographed photo of the Temptations in craning distance of our bedroom in her home office. Judge not lest ye be judged.

Ma? I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody. (For all the mothers out there truly ashamed of this unpublished, piddling--and here you have to spit the word--writer.  Not even an author, yet he suckles our time as at a teat of Mountain Dew.)

Lastly I apologize for the damning limitations of static reality. Once I get a handle on the multiverse you’d best believe there’s an entire world populated with Rosario Dawsons…and I’ve got the only movie script.

And please understand: at no time did the Wife try to club me with anything other than her hands. She’s a tactile person, not a slave to this machine age we live in. She will be blameless in this tawdry aftermath, stoic even as, after much ass-kickery her to me, she finally meets the other woman face to face…and stares into Rosario’s elf-queen eyes…and the lips, the ripe, full lips that treat every word and smile like sweet fruit…tugged into her sphere, feeling the desire mount and being afraid of it, but at the same time relishing that fear and daring it to increase, daring Ms. Dawson to prove herself, to surrender wholly and totally to the Wife’s carnal demands until Rosario begs (begs!) forgiveness for being brash enough to even think she was woman enough to engage in pleasing her Boo.

Yeah.

You get her, Babe.  (Wait for the deadpan eyebrow wiggle)

… There it is. Goodnight.

And sweet dreams. Not yet brought to you by Gillette, Buick, Nike or the company that plans to make curling (the "sport"…with the brooms…and the ice…and the sweeping) edgy and dark next year.

But they’re working on it. You’d be amazed what an unlimited budget can do.