Frankie Hogan Joke Notebook - July, Entry 2
Shit.
I got nothin’.
What if I can’t think of anything funny when Owen Brodie is being nice to me and my clitoris?
What if he kissed all the angst-based humor away and now I’m just going to be some well-adjusted, happy person for the rest of my life? What the fuck am I supposed to do for an act? Observational humor? Hey, have you ever noticed how garbanzo beans look like tiny butts? What’s up with that?
What’s up with how much I liked it when Owen spanked my butt? Why hasn’t anyone else done that to me before? What if he spanked the sass out of me?
What if I’m only funny when I date idiots named Justin?
What if my entire act and personality was fueled by my silent rage against Owen Brodie ignoring me when I was a teenager?
Why do I still have tiny micro-orgasms every time I think about him?
When will I stop feeling the ghost of his monster erection between my legs?
When will my vulva stop screaming at me for not getting up on that thing again?
How would it feel to actually have that thing inside me? Better, right? So good.
Where did he learn to kiss like that? It literally is not funny, how good a kisser he is.
Why should anyone be allowed to look that good and smell that good and kiss that well and be a good dad and have a successful career and make me feel that good and ruin my fucking life by being so sweet to me and my boobs?
Who does he think he is?
Maybe he’s terrible at going down on women. I should find out. If he’s bad at it, I would find a lot of humor in that. I would love that. I would never stop laughing.
Wait—am I an angry person again?
Do I hate Owen Brodie again?
Did I get my groove back?
…
Nope.
I want to put my mouth on his mouth and hear him tell me I’m pretty again while his love machine gets to work on me.
Shit.