The only go-to hookup buddy I’ve ever had in my life is kind of a dud. My 8th grade best friend and I aptly dubbed him “The Skankmaster.” Going into high school, he got alot of ass because he played the guitar. At that age, I was young and impressionable and fell easily for his young Bob Dylan-esque charm. But in college, he stopped shaving, developed a beer belly, and addled his brain with drugs to nearly Ozzy Osbourne levels of cognitive faculties. So, now he’s more like modern-day Bob Dylan.
But, because I’m a masochist who likes hobbit-esque men, I continued to hook up with The Skankmaster into college. Eventually, shit got messy, and he decided he wanted to make things between us serious, which was the last thing I wanted. He would propose a plan, I would just happen to be buzzed or horny enough to agree, and then would come
to my senses and realize that the last thing I wanted to do was hang out with him. One weekend when I was on a vacation up in a heavily wooded part of Northern Jersey, Mr. Skankmaster decided he was going to call me out on my tragic indecision.
Skankmaster: Yo flakester, what the fuk you doing?
Me: I’m on a mini vacation
Skankmaster: Where to?
Me: Up north by mountain creek…
Skankmaster: O fun watc for bears. they can smell the menstruation
If it’s candidates like this that my offspring will share half of their chromosomes with, I am getting my tubes tied tomorrow.