Copyright© 2002

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   CHAIN LETTER                 CHAIN LETTER                CHAIN LETTER 

   If you do not mail this to 50 people, you will be cursed by a DEAMON.
   This DEAMON will POSESS you, curse you and possible KILL you. This
   is no joke. If you do not mail this letter in 24 hours, you will be
   sorry!!!

   A nice sweet girl named VICKIE was hopeless in love with this guy
   named JASON. She was totaly crazy about him, then she got this chain
   letter. She laughed and threw away this chain letter. When she got
   home from school her partents told here she was moving. She would
   not be able to see her Love again. Next day before she left to move,
   she found out her Love Jason had a girlfreind. The DAMON chursed her
   with bad love. She has not been able to get a new boyfreind since
   this chain letter.

                PLEASE DON'T NOT LET THIS HAPPEN TO YOU!!!
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I slamdunked that piece of trash into the trash, wondering just how clueless someone would have to be to fall for such a pitiful scam. Had a good chuckle, then forgot about it. That was when my problems with women began.

I was with Ann-Marie, my steady, when she had an attack. Actually, I was deep inside her when the cramps struck and her pussy clamped down on me. Like a vise. Pubic meltdown. It was uncomfortable, and she was in some considerable pain, but I couldn't pull out. Wedged inside, embedded. You could say I was in a tight spot. A half hour later, after moans and tearful consideration of the alternatives, she reached for the bedside phone and called 911.

The ambulance EMTs gave her a muscle relaxant injection, and that did the trick within a minute or so. They asked if she'd ever had vaginismus before. While they were busy with her, I hurriedly threw on my clothes and slunk out the door. Anything to get away from those smirking doctor-wannabes and Ann-Marie's tears of outrage.

That was the last of Ann-Marie.

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   Marvin Pudsmith got this chain in 1973. He asked his secrettary to
   make ten copies and send them out. A few days later he saw her in
   a red-light district making more than he had every payed her at work.
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Picked up Jill at the neighborhood bar, or rather, she picked me up. Tall, rough-looking babe, raggedy chopped-off dirty blonde hair, dressed head to foot in black leather. Sat down right next to me and bought me a Bud. The Harley wings tattooed on her left cheek should have warned me. That, and her habit of communicating in grunts and gestures. She had some kind of appetite for sex, all right, but affection just wasn't in her vocabulary. Not that she had all that much of a vocabulary.

Later that night, she'd just finished pumping me dry and had collapsed on top of me, drooling and starting to snore. I started getting tender feelings toward the wench, old sap that I am. Put my arms around her, nuzzled her lips, kissed her neck, whispered sweet nothings into her ear.

She pushed me away. Laughed. Sat up, grabbed a pillow, then damned if she didn't just wipe her dripping pussy on it. My favorite Smurf pillowcase! Dammit, that wasn't right. My bedchamber had just been desecrated. I followed her into the living room, and there she was, stark nekkid, cozily sprawled in my beanbag chair watching Geraldo, with the sound turned up to 140 decibels. She'd pillaged the fridge of my best Chianti and was drinking it straight from the bottle. She lit up one of her cheap Mexican cancer sticks, Delicados, I think they're called, and soon the room was reeking of acrid cigarette smoke and stale farts.

She had thrown herself together a sloppy sandwich from the last of my good deli pastrami and managed to slobber imported mustard and barbecue potato chip crumbs all over herself and the chair. I'm proud of that chair. Cost me $15 at Goodwill. The last straw was when she reached for the drapes to wipe her hands clean. "Dammit, woman, getcher filthy paws offa my Muppets curtains!" I threw open the hall doorway, propelled her through it, and hurled her backpack, shitkicker boots, leather pants and motorcycle jacket in the general direction of her retreating ass.

I guess that just wasn't destined to work out, but at least I had a good story to tell my buddies on the train to work.

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   James Jingleheimer, who sent this letter on, saw a nickle lying in
   the street. When he bent down to pick it up, a beautifull woman in
   a minnyskirt walked by, and he got a great view.
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I'd had my eye on Suzie, even back when Ann-Marie and I were tight. Better avoid the word "tight"; it still had painful associations for me. Anyhow, I called up Suze and asked how was she fixed up for tonight. "Not doin' much, big fella, but ain't you hooked up with what's her name, Ann-Marie?" Ouch. "Hooked up" conjured up images of two dogs in heat, unable to pull apart because they were literally hooked up. That was striking too close to home.

"Nope, we're unhooked now." (Yeah, with a little help from the medics.) "I'd like to take you out bowling, go to a nice restaurant afterwards, then maybe show you my bottle of belly button lint if you're willing."

"Herman, you really know how to bowl a girl over. Like, wow. I do wanna go with you. Like, wow. I had my eye on ya even back when you and Ann-Marie were tight. Like wow."

I cringed at hearing the word "tight" again, but at least we were on for tonight.