What is the hardest you've ever been fucked?

I wrote a blog yesterday titled- It's 2022, and I'm tired of getting fucked.

The editors were nice enough to feature it, so I wound up getting a tremendous amount of feedback... All of it negative, and for good reason.

The blog was about how retail has a tendency to bend you over a sawhorse and violently fuck you in the ass more often now than ever before, so the feedback was mainly people telling me just how hard they have been fucked by one retailer or another in the past few weeks.

But what if we went further back?

What if I asked... In the spirit of the original blog, of course... What is the hardest you've EVER been fucked?

When have you had two rough calloused hands grasp your shoulders from behind, bend you over the retail sawhorse, and give you a price-gouging buggering that you'll never forget (even though you'd rather not remember)?

I'll go first...

I got married on May 8,1999... But that's not the fucking I am about to tell you about (although there was quite a bit of it that night, if you know what I mean).

5/8/99 was, as you may have guessed, a Saturday, BUT, it was also, as you probably haven't guessed, the Saturday of Mother's Day weekend... The busiest weekend of the year for florists and the weekend where I was about to throw a wedding where one of the biggest expenses would be flowers.

As a matter of fact, I think flowers are probably either the third or fourth biggest wedding expense behind only the venue (obviously), the engagement rings, and maybe the band/DJ.

So at one point months before our big day, my wife and I had to sit down to price out what is arguably the third biggest wedding expense on the number-1-with-a-bullet weekend for sending flowers.

We went to a highly recommended shop and decided to play it cool when we sat down with the event planner.  We agreed to keep our cards close to the vest, dribble out the details of our reception, and hope that he gave us a price range before he found out the true depth of our conundrum.  

So set up the appointment and started the whole conversation under the guise that we were simply looking to throw an event on a Saturday late-Spring for somewhere around 300-350 people.

And as soon as the planner (a beautiful gay man) heard the words "event" and "300-350 people" he excused himself.  He walked out of the room and returned with a small jar of lube and a rickety-but-relatively-comfortable sawhorse that he positioned directly in front of my wife and me.

As we chatted more, this goofy little freak managed to get out of us that not only was this an "event", but the event was actually a wedding.

And as soon as he heard the word "wedding", he quietly stashed away the aforementioned lube and original sawhorse, replacing it with an old spit cup and an even older sawhorse that was riddled with sharp cracks and violating splinters.

As we chatted even more, this devilish imp was able to learn that not only was this event on a "Saturday late-Spring", but that Saturday was the Saturday of Mother's Day Weekend.

And as soon as he heard the words "Mother's Day Weekend", he violently threw the spit cup and splintered sawhorse through his front window and replaced it with an ashtray filled with sawdust and a pommel horse studded with old hypodermic needles.

And then this abomination to the Lord began to dry fuck both me and my wife in the driest, most painful, AND most pricy way imaginable.




Now you may ask: "What was the final price tag for the flowers, Large?"

Which is the equivalent of asking me to point to the spot on the doll where this florist touched us inappropriately.

And the answer is a WHOPPER of a price paid.  And you deserve to know the exact amount because you've stuck with me through two inane and bitchy blogs in the same week... Therefore, telling you the damage is really the least I can do.

But you know what?

I am not going to tell you.

And you know why?

(as I slowly take out my sawhorse)

Because this is 2022: The year I fuck back... So, for no reason at all, go fuck yourself.

How'd that feel, bitch?

Take a report.