Yesterday, while I was on my 2 hour layover in Chicago, I sat at a “Beach” bar getting drunk. I was surrounded by other folks who found it perfectly acceptable to get wasted at 4pm in an airport. This consisted of hefty middle-aged men in khakis, a crew of fratboys, a lone tie-dye hippy, and a blonde girl my age who got stuck sitting next to a chatty grandpa. While I was sipping my Sam Adams and Strawberry Margarita (double fisting is for the booze, not the sack), the bigscreen tuned to Fox News taught me Paris is selling her house, and that parents somewhere are fighting back against a pedophile and his website. They showed the ped’s pic, and it could have been a younger version of anyone of the fags surrounding me (except the girl and the hippy).

I got home at 11pm and considered bar-crawling, but my five days in California stuffed me more than a thanksgiving turkey, that is if thanksgiving turkey’s were stuffed with cocks. I lost about five pounds from all the sex and traveling. What sucks is how sore my vagina and tits are, and the rugburn on my left ass cheek I don’t remember getting. I think I may close up shop for a while, keeping the play down to dry-humping, and the exchange of bodily fluids down to spit. But these resolutions always fall apart after 5 vodka-on-the-rocks, and by then I’m on my knees or back faster than you can shove the porn under your bed when your mom comes knock’n.

Here is Paris Hilton out on the town and attempting to close up shop. I guess being cut-off from her inheritance has inspired her to keep her clit from breathing free, in hopes of winning back grandpa’s approval. Come on Paris, it was the prison that pissed him off. We all know the quickest way into an old man’s heart is showing a little freshly shaved meat. Ew, I need a shower and you need some alone time with Ms. Hilton’s innermost thigh and invisible box.

Obediently yours,
Sugar Nell (ex-hooker, friend of Jesus)

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