It's 5:30am and I just woke up with an intense urge to play dodge-ball. God damn. Dodge-ball? As the fat kid in middle school, I hated that game. I knew I was going to be, like, THE FIRST FUCKING TARGET. I hated dodge-ball. Ten-seconds into the game I'd get hit and spend the next twenty-minutes watching my classmates have fun while I sat on the bleachers. Eating a candy bar. And now I want to play it? I should be like a dodge ball assassin. Fuck yeah. I should find all of the kids that used to throw the ball at me first during a game. They're grown up, many married with children. I wonder how they'd feel when they woke up and saw at the foot of their bed a silhouette of me holding a red, rubber dodge ball. WHAM! I'd hit them in the head with the 35 psi overinflated rubber ball. WHAM! I'd hit their spouse, too. Fuck 'em. Fomer class chums pushing a grocery cart through a Safeway and SMACK! I've struck again. Don't think you're safe in church either, you bitches. I'll smack the yamulka or the communion bread off your heads and right out of your mouths (respectively). Who's out now, motherfuckers? The game didn't end at the lunch bell. It's on, cocksuckers.

Dating tips for men from Gooch: Don't talk during sex. Nothing you will say will enhance the moment. I don't care what happens or what you hear in porn movies. Just shut the fuck up.