Just your everyday stuck up, tasteless, male humor blog. I talk about everything from my crazy sex antics to helping you accomplish yours. Love it or hate it, you are still reading the best trash on the web.
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My blogging excellence has awarded with this really cool nomination. Please vote for this blog, and I will redouble my efforts to provide classy, refined sexual trash for your reading pleasure.
You've heard about my glorious tales of triumph and filth for over a month now. Let me hear what kind of crazed, deprived, horrific acts have you pulled off? I know they won't be as heinous as mine, but I'd sure love to hear about them.
So give it a shot. You know you want to. Send me your dirtiest tale or tip and I may publish it here on Old Dirty Blog. Who knows? It might inspire me to go off into the world and use your tactics to spread some sex sauce all over some young coed, and of course write about it here.
Whoever said honesty is always the best policy obviously never picked up sluts at a bar. Lying to drunken girls in the hopes that they'll show you a wider spread than a Colts - Raiders game is a right of passage for American males. But if you're going to attempt to get some hottie to spit on your man meat, then you need to know what you're doing.
My many years of not-so-honest interaction with women has taught me all the do's and don'ts of the lying game. First off, if you're going to lie go all out. Don't just say you're a lawyer; tell her you got Craig T. Nelson off for a double murder. There's a fundamental rule when it comes to lying to sluts: the bigger the lie the more they’ll put out. One of my favorite moves is to tell a few girls at a bar or a house party that I'm the assistant producer for Entourage (any popular show will do). After a couple of minutes of yapping to this slut, a friend of mine will come over and casually ask "Hey Brian, how's Entourage going? This works especially well if you have one of your cooler girl friends act as your wing man. Trust me, girls are more likely to believe bullshit from other girls. Once they've heard one or more of your friends come over and ask you about the show they'll do anything you want for the rest of the night, including any sick stuff you may be into like ass to mouth, salad tossing or the frosty walrus. I suggest renting a cheap motel room with one of those heart-shaped hot tubs that is guaranteed to give you a urinary tract infection.
You could also follow my friend Guy who has this classic move: sit in a bar that's not too busy and whose patrons include a group of good looking hopefully not catholic school educated girls. Now, for this to work you need to have scouted the right bar and you need to have your set up men ready (although women will work better in this situation). Sit near the group of girls and at some point have your friends come over and say something to the effect of "Hey, I'm sorry to bother you but I'm such a huge fan. Do you mind if I get your autograph? Then just play it cool and it's only a matter of time until they're mounting you like you're Secretariat at the Belmont Stakes. I've seen this move with my own eyes and it works.
The same friend and I were at a house party one night and he told a couple of girls that he was Matt Damon's stunt double in Rounders. It was easily the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard, especially as my friend looked nothing like Matt Damon. But at the end of the night those girls were back at our place and while I was busy scrambling some internal organs with my man piston I distinctly heard the girl in his room yelling "Give it to me Matt Damon."
There's one key thing to remember if you're going to try this strategy: don't say that you do something if you know nothing about that particular avenue. I was out the other night and for whatever reason I had a bandana on (I think I got drunk and listened to an old Marshall Tucker Band record). A cute girl with lust in her eyes asked me if I rode a motorcycle. I immediately told her no, at which point she lost all interest. Why did I do this? Because I know absolutely nothing about motorcycles and would not have been able to answer a single follow up question. Plus it's probably not a good idea to mess around with biker girls if you aren't a biker yourself, you’ll probably end up with something ridiculous shoved up your crack…and don’t ask me why I know this.
Remember gentlemen: no lie is too big if you know how to tell it. Hell, I once told a girl I opened for George Carlin at the Hampton Beach Ballroom Casino. Always make sure your friends have your back though, and always have theirs. Work as a team and you will be on pace for a legendary night.
Whiskey dick is a term for two different horrific afflictions that are all together too common among men, both old and young alike. Whiskey dick is an equal opportunity syndrome, striking anyone who has drank too much brown, hard liquor and has aspirations of letting loose some cock fuel.
More often than not, this takes place when you bring a young slam pig home from the bar after a long night of sucking down Jack Daniels, or Yukon Gold. That fire water makes you horny enough to stick it in an electric pencil sharpener, and your body is experiencing a desire to get yourself a face full of puss the likes of which cannot be properly explained in sobriety.
But, your man piston is nothing more than a flaccid, limp man sprout. No matter what you do, or how long she licks your balls, it won't get up. Your mind is thinking that you should have a woody large enough to hang a flag from, but it just isn't happening. The cure for this is simple- don't drink so much next time, moron.
Having this happen to you is embarrassing, and sometimes can stick with you for years to come. The best way to overcome this, while in the presence of the same woman, get a case of the second kind of Whiskey dick.
The second, less common version of Whiskey dick comes after similar circumstances have taken place, but maybe you've drank slightly less and maybe had some red bull. This time, your purple headed monster is standing at attention like George C. Scott in the opening sequence of "Patton." He's so numb that you might as well have shot him up with Novocain before entering her honey pot.
Sure, she's having a great time for the first half hour, but soon enough, her slam hole dries up like the Gobi desert, and your left with a massive erection and nothing to do with it. She can tug, jerk, suck and massage all she wants, but the inseam army is holding back in defensive formation.
A good idea when this takes place is to pummel your sex mate into submission, then travel next door and see what her friends are doing. Explain your condition (without slurring your words too much) and add that you will be able to pound your throbbing spunk lance through her without shame or commitment, and if all else fails, say something like:
"It's better than doing it yourself"
If that doesn't work, get back into bed and continue exploring the desert. Perhaps you'll find an oasis eventually.
We've all been there. The night's going well; things are looking up and that hot little sex kitten that's 8 cosmos and 2 shots deep is ready to get slammed harder than an Onyx reunion tour. But just when you're about to take her to your place it happens: the sex equivalent of Dikembe Motumbo shows up waving the finger at you.
The cock block comes in two main forms: the fat friend who is angry at all men because they always go for her hot friend and never her because even the biggest Star Wars fan does not fantasize about porking Jabba the Hut.
The other famous cock block is "the friend who doesn't realize they're cock blocking you". There are certainly other cock blockers, such as the guy friend who wants to bang the girl but doesn't realize he's never going to, but we're going to deal with these two.
The fat friend is the most common, and sometimes to fiercest, of the cock blocks. We all know this is where a good wing man comes in handy but that's already been covered, so we're going to cover a few alternative solutions. There's the classic give fatty a twenty and send her to get drinks, telling her that you'll be "right here" when she gets back. I pulled this at a bar in Boston and as soon as fatty left for the bar I grabbed the hottie and ran. Since I was taking a cab I thought ahead and had a buddy flag one down right before I sent fatty to the bar. Once we were in the cab we started slobbering all over each other. I remember her briefly asking where fatty was. I explained (i.e. lied) that she was going to catch a cab with my buddy and that they were into each other. She was happy with this answer and we continued our grope fest. Things were looking good but I wasn't in the clear just yet.
I grabbed her cell, explaining that mine was dead and I just wanted to call my friend at the bar to see when they were coming back. After making a fake call, I turned the volume on her phone all the way down. This way, if fatty calls, she can't cock block me via the phone. The rest is history my friends.
When we woke up the next morning my roommate, being the great wing man he is, explained that fatty came over late and left early. Two other surefire methods of dealing with fatty; head butt to the tits which will put her down long enough to get hottie out the back, or if you planned ahead you brought a couple of Wendy's junior bacon cheeseburgers with you just for this reason. Wendy's is like kryptonite to cock blocking fatties. Simply wave the burger in her face, throw it, and watch her run for it, much like a dog running for his favorite Frisbee. When she runs to the corner to eat simply grab hottie and walk out the front door.
Now for the "friend who doesn't realize he's cock blocking you" cock block. My friend Brett, while he can be an amazing wing man, is proficient in the art of the accidental cock block. My freshman year at college I was in a dorm room with my girlfriend at the time and we were invited upstairs by our friend "Lisa" whose roommate was gone for the night. As we entered her room, ready for a fun game of whack-a-hole, I noticed Brett in the room trying to score with Lisa. Despite her rejections Brett persisted, not realizing the whole time what was about to go down. Now, while this situation can be as aggravating as a fatty cock block, it is much easier to solve. I watched this happen for a while and then yelled "BRETT!! GET THE HELL OUT BEFORE I SNAP YOUR KNECK!!"
Most guys will get the message right away, but Brett takes a little more convincing so I went to plan B: physically picking him up and carrying him out of the room. I'm not completely heartless so I let him listen through the door and made both girls yell Brett's name when I asked them "Who's your favorite new kid??? Call me Donnie!"
Well there it is gentlemen. If you have any questions about how to deal with other kinds of cock blocks simply post a comment and you will be answered.
Chris Rock, while a very funny dude who really changed my life with his whole "Robitussin" standup routine, is a liar. It's possible he didn't know this, but I am here to tell you that it is all together possible to have sex in the champagne room. Yes, friends, stop the presses, call your friends and send out press releases to local media outlets. I accomplished this feat last weekend during a 72 hour bender with my buddies in Atlantic City. I did, in fact, slam my chubbed, booze-fueled baby batter bomber into the sultry slam hole of an exotic dancer, without getting arrested, or having my clavicle broken by a linebacker-sized goon.
Heed my warning, friends and fans alike. This maneuver is not for the faint of heart, or the sexually un-skilled. If, for example, you have not already achieved 8/10ths of the depraved, sadistic, lewd acts that are described on this illustrious website, then maybe this one is not for you. But if you're daring, read on, and I will show you how I defied an Emmy-award winning comic, and urban legend to achieve a glory greater than the Nobel Prize, the Fields Medal and the Keystone Cup beer pong championship combined.
First, my buddies and I decided to hit a titty-bar that was not too classy, but not a raunchy, sloppy pit filled with illegal immigrants and Rahway State Penitentiary parolees. A happy medium was key. We actually chose a place with featured all-nude dancers. Now, this is not always a good idea, because some asinine law states that when there is raw snatch available for all to see, then alcohol is not served. If it was not for booze, there would be no titty-bars in the first place. What a senseless law.
Anyway, we bought a case of St. Ives 40 oz malt liquor beverages. These $1.40 jugs of fire sauce get you randy, rowdy, and sloppy in record time. It's a great feeling.
After a few of those and some browsing of the available trashy nude slam pigs, I decided to pick a victim. I should take the moment to add that in order to have sex in the champagne room, and debunk years of incorrect societal laws, you need to actually pay for the champagne room. It's sometimes pricey- but worth it.
Anyway, your luck honey pot can't be a girl who ends up in the champagne room often. Do not take the best looking girl there. Also, don't take a girl who tells you it's her first night stripping. Not only is she dishonest, but she's probably desperate for cash.
You need a marginally attractive woman who isn't super thrilled about being a trashy stripper. Someone who is looking for something better, or is about to take an job as a receptionist, fry cook or blowjob girl and has little to lose. Possibly an orphan or a minority, or someone who really, really needs a green card.
That was the case for me. This particular strawberry blonde pseudo streetwalker hailed one of those countries that used to give steroids to their hockey team in the 1980s. I did a lot of drugs in college so the name of the country escapes me. I let her rub my cum-launching lance for a little while, just like you test drive a used Infiniti before you buy it. I took her in for a lap dance, with was a 5 minute preview of the horrid, soulless act I was about to attempt.
"So what's your name baby?" she asked. Clearly using my own name, was out of the question.
"Randy Piston" I replied- thrilled at my creativity. The St. Ives had only clouded my judgment, not wits. I would need them all.
"Piston, I would like that as my last name" she said, sounding like she was reading straight out of a Russian to English dictionary.
"I'll marry you if you take me into the champagne room, Olga," I said.
"It's Helga"
"Whatever"
The champagne room is a magical place full of smoke, mirrors, 80's clam rock, and Moet White Star. It's a lot like trying to rub one out to scrambled porn, in that you're not really sure what you're looking at, but you know there are jugs and a slam hole involved.
She climbed up on me, and I said "Olga baby, do you really want a green card?" I made sure to make sure my Red Army Rocket was directly lined up with her vag, which was very restricted considering I was wearing thin pants, my Johnson was willing to break free as if the Iron Curtain itself was holding it back.
"Helga.."
I leaned in real close, so she could smell the aroma of malt liquor, champagne and sin on my breath. I bet it smelled like Chernobyl on a hot summer day. "If you let me take it out, we'll go to city hall right away. Just think, you can finally go to college...."
"Really?"
"I promise. Why would I lie to a beauty like you?”
As soon as I said that, she fished out Randy’s Piston, and hopped on, humping away as if Lenin's secret police were around the corner. I did not knew it possible that a woman could bounce on a man's sex staff with such vigor and fortitude. It was like, Olympic level cowgirl chair humping.
I let loose an inseam army that the Boris Yeltsin would have been proud of. Totally under my spell, she looked at me like a sick puppy. "Randy, are you ready to leave? I want to live American dream...."
At this point, I took off like an intercontinental ballistic missile. I put my pants back on and yelled to my buddy Cross-eyed Keith to score us a cab. I rode off into the night, went to the hotel, and promptly used the raid and rubbing alcohol combo on my communist slaying pistol.
Next time I attempt history, I plan on bringing a rubber.
It's hard to believe, but today marks a huge milestone in the history of this fine blog. Today, OldDirtyBlog.com turns one month old- that's 30 days of polluting the world wide inter-web with some of lewd tales of Pile Driving, sex-pistoling and whore-chasing, all plucked from my lifetime of sin, booze, and objectification of women- especially Asian hookers.
In 30 days, thousands of you have spent your time drooling over this abject grammatical mess of slovenly prose dedicated to topics that are range from morally impure to certifiably heinous- and I appreciate every last one of you. Seriously, I do. I appreciate you so much that I'd probably apologize after I covered your sister in sex stucco and then moved onto getting into your mom's pants. That's just what kind of a guy I am.
While the span of 30 days may seem infinitesimal in the grand scheme of things, I have used this time to begin what I consider to be one of the paramount humping blogs in all the vast lexicon of cyberspace. Many of you have written me about my site- and the responses have ranging from very flattering to downright creepy. While many of you have offered praise, and some of you have even been to my apartment for a casual slam as a result, some of you have offered your feelings of disgust and shame that Old Dirty Blog gives step my step instructions on how to execute pre-mediated acts of sodomy and dishonesty.
It's these morally sensitive, Dr. Phil loving types that egg me on. Every day I roam about looking to add to my massive cache of entertaining sex stories by filling young women with joy, and child paste, and I can tell you now they will not stop. My efforts will simply be re-doubled, because, above all things, I am truly a man of the people.
So, it is with a swelling, almost chubbed, definitely half erect sense of pride that I trudge into the trenches of creating nasty, wretched yet classy blogs for month two of OldDirtyBlog. I hope you have enjoyed it thus far. If you haven't and you've read this much, I suggest you promptly fornicate with yourself. Maybe use a jagged tire iron.
You've heard about my glorious tales of triumph and filth for over a month now. Let me hear what kind of crazed, deprived, horrific acts have you pulled off? I know they won't be as heinous as mine, but I'd sure love to hear about them.
.
Whoever said honesty is always the best policy obviously never picked up sluts at a bar. Lying to drunken girls in the hopes that they'll show you a wider spread than a Colts - Raiders game is a right of passage for American males. But if you're going to attempt to get some hottie to spit on your man meat, then you need to know what you're doing.
Whiskey dick is a term for two different horrific afflictions that are all together too common among men, both old and young alike. Whiskey dick is an equal opportunity syndrome, striking anyone who has drank too much brown, hard liquor and has aspirations of letting loose some cock fuel. 
We've all been there. The night's going well; things are looking up and that hot little sex kitten that's 8 cosmos and 2 shots deep is ready to get slammed harder than an Onyx reunion tour. But just when you're about to take her to your place it happens: the sex equivalent of Dikembe Motumbo shows up waving the finger at you.
Chris Rock, while a very funny dude who really changed my life with his whole "Robitussin" standup routine, is a liar. It's possible he didn't know this, but I am here to tell you that it is all together possible to have sex in the champagne room. Yes, friends, stop the presses, call your friends and send out press releases to local media outlets. I accomplished this feat last weekend during a 72 hour bender with my buddies in Atlantic City. I did, in fact, slam my chubbed, booze-fueled baby batter bomber into the sultry slam hole of an exotic dancer, without getting arrested, or having my clavicle broken by a linebacker-sized goon.