You and these new fcners! I am fed up. Ciao
My psychic told me that you'll leave me soon, so I'm leaving you before that happens. Good luck, etc.
That’s it. You take better photos than I do and I can’t cope with that. We are over.
more like "lil wanders". You'll all over the place, but never there when I need you.
Enjoy your journey.
Enjoy your journey.
Let me just cut to the chase. One, I don’t think you’re an artist. You may dress like one but I’ve seen your drawings. Two, I can’t be with someone who drinks as much as you do. You need help. What’s that? I’m thinking of an alcoholic and not melancholic? Don’t change the subject. I know what I meant. We’re through.
Every time we go to a pool party, all you wear is a bow tie. And not on your neck. This is ruining my reputation. I hope you know you did this to yourself.
Speaking of doing this to yourself, you ever see those Progressive commercials where they try to keep people from becoming their parents? That’s how I feel when we go to parties. “Did you see the size of my Zucchini I brought today? Has to be a good foot long and six inch girth”! I have to stand behind you telling everyone you’re not talking about your cock as you move from group to group talking about your zucchini. We are done!!
You know, I like have a sexy girlfriend but you always flash your breasts … at everybody. I do mean everybody! I don’t mind seeing them out in the public but c’mon. I just don’t think I’m the right guy (I am) for you. I think it’s best if we just (don’t go) break it off because you just show off (can I see them one more time) too much. May wear more (less) conservative clothing (none). Anyways, see you and your breasts around (I hope) most likely.
Dear Fildo (or should I say Mr. Party Bus Driver Extraordinaire),
I hope this letter finds you well, preferably somewhere between a bus of bachelorette party gone wild and a gaggle of groomsmen too drunk to care about my feelings.
First of all, let me say, thank you. Thank you for the laughs, the late night rides, and the unforgettable karaoke sessions where you somehow managed to turn "Don't Stop Believin" into "Please Stop Screaming." Those moments will always hold a special place in my heart, even if I now have a mild aversion to neon lights and the smell of spilled tequila.
But Fildo, we need to talk. Or, well, I need to talk, because you are probably busy adjusting the fog machine or explaining to Brenda why there’s no poledancing option on her mom's 60th birthday party bus (unless its you). I know you're juggling a lot. Your marriage, your job, me, and probably 3 or 17 others, but let’s face it, you’ve got more balls in the air than I have patience. (And having your balls in the air ...well, we know what that means is happening)
At first, the thrill of sneaking bj's behind the strobe lights and pretending the "Do Not Disturb the Driver" sign didn’t apply to us was intoxicating. But as the weeks rolled on, I realized something. I deserve more than being your side passenger of pure pleasure. I deserve someone who isn’t going to call me "brah" during a strip club pit stop to keep things on the down low. Although those times with the strippers was...memorable.
And Fildo, I can’t keep competing with your wife for attention. It’s not fair to her, to me, or to your beloved bus. Plus, the day you told me that “technically, the party bus is our love child” was the moment I realized I had to leave before you started naming the seats after us (or I sneak Heidi onboard for a quickie or 3).
So this is it. I’m hitting the brakes on us. I’m hopping off your bus, but I hope you’ll find someone who loves your disco ball as much as I once did. Or, at the very least, someone who can tolerate your playlist of nonstop Pitbull remixes. pew.....peeeeewwwww....boom shaka laka or something.
Take care of yourself, and maybe invest in some better air fresheners for that bus, it might help get the sex smell out. Oh, and if you ever see me at a bar, please don’t offer me a ride home. I’ll ride Heidi.
Goodbye, Fildo. You’ll always be my favorite (former) detour.
With fondness and slight regret,
Your ex-backseat (back door?) lover,
Someguy
P.S. I took my fuzzy dice from your rearview mirror. They were never yours to keep. I am dangling them like your balls from a 2x4 to remind me of you.
I hope this letter finds you well, preferably somewhere between a bus of bachelorette party gone wild and a gaggle of groomsmen too drunk to care about my feelings.
First of all, let me say, thank you. Thank you for the laughs, the late night rides, and the unforgettable karaoke sessions where you somehow managed to turn "Don't Stop Believin" into "Please Stop Screaming." Those moments will always hold a special place in my heart, even if I now have a mild aversion to neon lights and the smell of spilled tequila.
But Fildo, we need to talk. Or, well, I need to talk, because you are probably busy adjusting the fog machine or explaining to Brenda why there’s no poledancing option on her mom's 60th birthday party bus (unless its you). I know you're juggling a lot. Your marriage, your job, me, and probably 3 or 17 others, but let’s face it, you’ve got more balls in the air than I have patience. (And having your balls in the air ...well, we know what that means is happening)
At first, the thrill of sneaking bj's behind the strobe lights and pretending the "Do Not Disturb the Driver" sign didn’t apply to us was intoxicating. But as the weeks rolled on, I realized something. I deserve more than being your side passenger of pure pleasure. I deserve someone who isn’t going to call me "brah" during a strip club pit stop to keep things on the down low. Although those times with the strippers was...memorable.
And Fildo, I can’t keep competing with your wife for attention. It’s not fair to her, to me, or to your beloved bus. Plus, the day you told me that “technically, the party bus is our love child” was the moment I realized I had to leave before you started naming the seats after us (or I sneak Heidi onboard for a quickie or 3).
So this is it. I’m hitting the brakes on us. I’m hopping off your bus, but I hope you’ll find someone who loves your disco ball as much as I once did. Or, at the very least, someone who can tolerate your playlist of nonstop Pitbull remixes. pew.....peeeeewwwww....boom shaka laka or something.
Take care of yourself, and maybe invest in some better air fresheners for that bus, it might help get the sex smell out. Oh, and if you ever see me at a bar, please don’t offer me a ride home. I’ll ride Heidi.
Goodbye, Fildo. You’ll always be my favorite (former) detour.
With fondness and slight regret,
Your ex-backseat (back door?) lover,
Someguy
P.S. I took my fuzzy dice from your rearview mirror. They were never yours to keep. I am dangling them like your balls from a 2x4 to remind me of you.
I just can’t do it anymore, I can’t compete and I’m tired of keeping on trying. I know now that you only have enough space in your heart for one … and that one is … your tractor.
I have to agree. We’re just not cutting it anymore. You always blame the tractor for everything. Didn’t it have sex in the past 15 minutes. “What’s wrong? Thinking about your tractor”? Get in a little argument. “I bet you don’t talk to your tractor like this”. Late for dinner. “Were you hanging out with your tractor naked again”? “ WHY DON’t YOU MARRY THE TRACTOR!”
Anyways, that’s not feasible and we’re done. Sex is great though sooooo….
Anyways, that’s not feasible and we’re done. Sex is great though sooooo….
*hangs up phone*
Deleted member 1437867
Resident
I am fed up with your silly posts. I mean stop pretending you're funny
