I don’t mean to brag, but I’m pretty good at receiving blowjobs. I mean that in the sense that if we were both getting blowjobs, I’d not only win, I’d embarrass you in the process. I’ve always had special talents like that. When I was six I found out I was great at receiving blood transfusions. But I discovered that only after learning how much scotch and cars were in love with my dad.
Of course I’m better at receiving blowjobs: my senses are just more acute than yours. My hearing is ten times bigger and my sense of smell is three-and-a-half inches longer than yours, not to mention double-jointed. It’s a simple matter of fact, then, that while I succeed at listening to the sweet song of a summer flower, you inevitably and continuously fail.
It’s not like I’m claiming to be the greatest guy in the world; I’m just really good at everyday things. My vote counted a little bit more than yours, but only because I live in double-Florida. I can type sixty words a minute, given three minutes to type that phrase. I’m really good at knowing when people are calling me, which you’re just jealous of because I can swallow more phones than you.
I also once got oral herpes, which isn’t all that amazing, except that I got it from a handjob.
As a top-shelf kind of guy, I like the finer things in life. I like my fine imported beers ice-cold, and my ice to taste like warm Schlitz. I like to have more than anyone else, which is great when it comes to all my caviar, but not so great when you consider all the extra teeth I had surgically added just to eat it all.
Sure, a lot of people call me average, but I never pay them much mind because even though their words come in huge and clear, I’m usually too busy averaging your mom to notice.
