My Own Worst Enemy

Ken [adjusting tie as he scrambles to the toaster]: Alright. Five minutes for breakfast, then I hit the 7:30 D Train.

Inner Ken: Hold it.

Ken [munching toast furiously]: What?

Inner Ken: Did you want to watch the news? Check the weather?

Ken: No, no, no. No TV. I'm all set. Nice day today. Mid-70s.

Inner Ken: Come on, let's just flip it on for a sec. You never know when a monsoon might hit. Here we go. Okay.

Ken [trying to look away as TV flips on]: I really don't have--

Inner Ken: Uh-oh. This ain't the Weather Channel. Looks like a new episode of In Shape With Sharon Mann on FitTV. Or is that Denise Austin?

Ken [looks at watch]: Fuck. Shut it off.

Inner Ken [staring at TV]: Oh my god. Those shorts. That body. Christ, her ass looks like it's carved outta marble.

Ken: I don't wanna see. I've got a train to catch. I can't be late again.

Inner Ken: Dude, just check it out for a second. It's glutes day! She's doing squats!

Ken: Squats? Fuck. Maybe I could just check it out for a sec.

Inner Ken: Totally. Jesus, look at that form. Imagine backing right up to that and... [does the patented, goofy-ass "white boy gettin' some" jig].

Ken: Haw fuck. And look at those legs. [Checks watch] But that's enough. I gotta go.

Inner Ken: Just a few more minutes. It's almost stretching time.

Ken: I know what you're up to, and it's not gonna happen. I'm not gonna make my self late for work again by jerking off to another women's exercise program.

Inner Ken: Whatever. Hey, check it. Leg scissors.

Ken [drops toast]: Holy jumping Jesus.

Woman on Exercise Show: Alright ladies. Now it's time to work that tush.

Inner Ken: Oh, yes!

Ken: Alright. The 7:45 train. Can't miss that one.

Inner Ken: Right, right. We won't. I promise.

Ken: 'Course I could always tell the boss the train got derailed... or there was an electrical problem... [starts jerking off to another women's exercise program.]

About Last Night...

The thing about traveling extensively for work is that I find myself in hotel rooms. A lot. Mostly, things are pretty uneventful. Other times, thanks to fire alarms, whiskey benders and new friends found in the lobby bar, they get interesting.

Last week, I stumbled back to my room after a few too many drinks and flopped down on the bed, still in my shoes and tie, fumbling with the phone to arrange a wake-up call for the next morning's sales meeting. About fifteen minutes in, I hear a steady banging against the wall. Then I hear moaning. Female moaning. I am intrigued, but it's nothing I haven't heard before. So I try to get to sleep.

But she won't stop. In fact, she gets louder. And louder. And the thumps against the wall start coming with extreme prejudice. So I bury my head under the pillow, but I can't escape it. Them she starts yelling things, like "Don't you fucking stop," and "I will ride your cock until it explodes" and "Is there no one on this planet who will challenge me?" (I'm a little hazy on that last one, but that's the best of my recollection.)

This went on all night. Blood-curdling screams, ecstatic moans, bedposts pounding. Eventually, it stopped, when either her partner died or I blacked out. But the damage was done. I was a wreck as the wake-up call arrived, and there's nothing worse than losing sleep over fucking that you're not actively participating in.

I showered, downed a couple Red Bulls and dragged my ass to the door. As I opened it, The Screamer next door opened hers to wheel a cart into the hallway. She was pretty, blond, probably in her late 30s, and while I couldn't see her body under her robe, I assumed she was made of mostly metallic parts. She looked at me without a whiff of embarrassment; I gave her a smile and a nod and headed down the hall to the elevators.

A few hours later I'm in the meeting and jabbing myself in the thigh with a pen to stay awake. Then our Executive Vice President says he wants to introduce our new west coast sales rep. And in walks The Screamer, all dolled up in heels that made her look about fifteen feet tall. She didn't seem to recognize me, and if she did, she was totally unfazed, as if damn proud of her fucking abilities.

She talked about her experience, her performance targets, her sales strategies, blah blah blah. All I wanted to know was the name of the lucky guy she was pulverizing last night--and if his health and/or whereabouts could be confirmed.

Not much of a story, I know. But I'm always happy when the magical worlds of business and fucking collide.

So Wrong, So What.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Katie Couric, Bring Me Your Hot, Unadulterated, Just-A-Few-Years-Away-From-AARP-Membership Love

Suddenly, working one out to Katie Couric is absolutely justified. Thank you, Gawker.