Really?  T BAGGR?  One of my friends took this over the weekend and I thought it was way too funny to keep from the world.  What kind of a guy gets this vanity license plate?  How do you drive around and openly tell the the world that you are in the tea bagging scene?

This license plate is on a Subaru, so there is a good chance that this is the work of a homosexual.  I don’t see a rainbow sticker, though, which really throws me off.

Is it a frat guy who got the vanity license plate as a gift a few years back?  Is it a douchebag who loved tea bagging drunk guys in college so much that he decided to take the joke way too far by getting a vanity license plate?

How do you drive up to a job interview advertising that, not only do you tea bag guys on the weekend, but you tea bag so many people that you feel the need to get a vanity license plate to let the world know about your sick (yet funny) hobby?  I may never know.

I’m not sure how I managed to blog last week. I was really busy locking myself in my room and masturbating to some new Casey Parker porn galleries while drinking Jack Daniels on the rocks and crying about my childhood. I haven’t posted any hot porn here for a while, so I figured I would give you, the Fat Dick Simon valued reader, some masturbation material to keep you busy for a while. What am I about to hit you with? Casey Parker, of course.

I’ve posted some links to Casey Parker free porn galleries in the past, but I am happy to be able to point you in the direction of some excellent hardcore galleries in this post. All of these galleries just surfaced, so I have some fresh pictures and videos for you to throw a beat to. Of course, if you like what you see, you should definitely consider joining her site so you can view all of the high-quality videos and high-resolution pictures along with taking advantage of regular updates and live shows. I’m actually a member myself, and I have to say that I definitely enjoy the content. You won’t find a better mix of hot solo photoshoots and hardcore fucking on any other site. Click here to check out Casey Parker’s site.

I’ll save you the extra commentary on how hot these galleries are and let them speak for themselves.

Casey Parker and Sascha fucking around [pics]

Casey gets worked on a hotel bed by a big cock [pics]

3-Way Lesbian sex on a slip-and-slide [movies]

Naked super soaker fight outside [pics]

Casey and her girlfriend have hot sex on a pooltable [pics]

Casey rides a thick dick like a pro [pics]

Casey fucks and sucks on her bed [movies]

Backyard pussy eating and 69′ing [movies]

Super hot strap-on dildo action [movies]

See more free samples at Casey Parker’s official site

So there you have it.  Don’t masturbate too much.  You’re welcome.

What’s the deal with this guy? I’ve touched on my feelings about bathroom attendants before, but a few recent experiences have me itching to elaborate on exactly how uncomfortable bathroom attendants make me feel. I challenge you to find me another occupation that relies more on the pity/race card in receiving tips than that of the bathroom attendant. I can soap up, wash, and dry my own hands. I’ve been doing it for years. Regardless of this fact, the bathroom attendant routinely forces his services on me and then makes me feel bad about his socioeconomic position in order to receive my porn money tips.

Each time I encounter one of these fuckers, my drug-riddled brain is becomes plagued by questions I wish I were comfortable enough to ask. Is there a competition for bathroom attendants? Is there a series of physical challenges that take place when a bar opens to determine which homeless-looking guy gets to control the bathroom sink? How often do these physical challenges take place? Is the bathroom attendant sanctioned by any members of management? Does the bathroom attendant have to pay a cover to get into hot Hollywood clubs, or is he always on the guestlist? Or does the doorman just waive him in and tell security ‘He’s cool?’ Are all bathroom attendants actually homeless or do they dress down to look the part? What gives the bathroom attendant the authority to shine his flashlight under the handicap stall when my crew is busy doing lines off the toilet seat cover dispenser?

I have no idea.

Is being a bathroom attendant even lucrative enough to justify hanging out with drunk people all night in a bathroom? Some of these fuckers don’t even earn their tips. I caught one guy having a conversation in Spanish via a Bluetooth headset a few weeks back. He didn’t even get the soap for me, then he handed me a pre-torn paper towel and looked at me with the notorious ‘Where’s my dollar’ expression that only a bathroom attendant can give. Really? A dollar for handing me a paper towel while you spit game at your chica during your free nights and weekends minutes? I think not, papi. I think not.

The bathroom attendant has the ability to test even the cleanest man’s higyene. Every man, after he is done using the facilities, asks himself whether he should wash his hands and risk losing a buck, depending on how good the bathroom attendant is at making him feel bad, or just say fuck it and dry the urine off of his hands with the outfit of whatever slut he is trying to do. I’ve seen guys puke, then take a dump on their hands, then get a terrible bloody nose, yet still decide to avoid the sink to save a dollar. This makes me wonder: should the department of public health be concerned about the bathroom attendant?

I’m big on the ‘Ah, sorry, I don’t have any cash’ excuse. Awkward? Yes. Untrue? Most of the time. But I try to treat all homeless people the same, and that is the response that I gave to cardboard box dreadlock guy on the way into the club. If the bathroom attendant is dressing like a homeless guy, as far as I’m concerned he is homeless. Just like how when women dress like sluts, they are asking to be raped. Same thing.

Granted, when I’m drunk, I tend to empathize with the plight of the bathroom attendant more, which translates into tipping, but the only way to guarantee a tip from me is actually taking my penis out, holding it while I pee, shaking it off, washing my hands (just in case), then ordering me a drink. Basically, I want to be able to act like that dead dude from Weekend At Bernie’s while in the bathroom, and any attendant who allows me to do so is in for a little something special. In the form of a dollar.

I’m pretty sure I have a really bad addiction. Don’t worry. It doesn’t really involve drugs or alcohol in any way. I think I’m addicted to my Blackberry.

Don’t even start in with a ‘You can’t get addicted to your Blackberry’ comment. I’m addicted as hell. My thumbs hurt. I don’t even really use my computer for email anymore. Fuck, if I could run Photoshop, an ftp program, an SSH terminal, and a decent text editor on this shit, I wouldn’t even need a computer. I bought my Crackberry a couple months ago, and after about two hours on the phone with Verizon level 3 tech support, I was surfing the web, emailing, and instant messaging some hoes. Oh yeah, and I was completely addicted.

There was a nationwide service outage a couple weeks ago, and during those eight hours or so, I was about as uncomfortable as I’ve been since I dropped my cellphone and broke its LCD screen back in 2001. Why was I incomfortable? No push e-mail. Granted, I was sitting in front of my computer all night, which receives e-mail fine, but since my love affair with the Crackberry, I’ve completely forgotten how to use the email client on my laptop.

I may need help, but the upside to this addiction is that my email response time is never more than like 15 minutes. Also, I can still do business while I am out drinking heavily. When I was in Vegas drunk as hell a month ago, I was sending emails to a European company I do business with at two in the morning. When I did acid last weekend, I was still able to fire off a few remarkably coherent emails to a server admin regarding a new server set-up. This thing is amazing.

How much do I love it? I’m blogging right now during a dinner. You think I give a fuck? Now that I have the Crackberry, I’m always working. I love it.

You may be asking yourself ‘Always working? What the fuck? Your blog was a ghosttown over the last month, Fat Dick.’. You have a valid point, but look who threw down two shitty blog entries over the weekend. What’s up now, bitch?

I would write more, but I’m going to point my mobile browser to some hot shemale porn instead. Holler.

Just wanted to let you know that I literally have absoutely no idea what happened last night. Also, I am pretty sure that I am going to die of a hangover within the next couple hours.

All I remember from last night is watching The Girl Next Door at my place by myself, calling a very incompetent black woman at Yellow Cab Co. around 1am, and then leaving for a party in Beverly Hills. After hitting the bar at the venue, the next thing I remember clearly is being driven back to my place in a really expensive car around 7am.

There is a good possibility I was roofied. Maybe I roofied myself. Actually, I don’t know what combination of drugs I did last night, but I doubt one vodka tonic was able to fuck me up so much. I’m pretty sure I did a lot of nose candy, and I have a hazy memory of also doing half an e, but I’m not ruling out harder drugs as well.

Going through my pockets, I recovered an assortment of business cards.

The problem here isn’t that I blacked out. I black out all the time. The problem is that I really don’t know who was at the party with me, so I don’t have anyone to call to ask what happened. This makes me nervous that there is a group of people located somewhere in the greater Los Angeles area that is currently talking about the highly inebriated douchebag they encountered at the party last night.

A couple hazy memories have come back to me throughout the day in between dry heaving episodes and naps. Each memory that surfaces makes me more convinced that I did things which disgraced myself and my family last night. I think I am alright with this. Here are some moments I remember:

• Attempting to light a cigarette the wrong way
  Someone had to point out that I had the wrong end in my mouth after several failed attempts? Have you ever smelled a burning filter? Smells like shit.
• Forgetting where I live
  I don’t know who drove me home, but I definitely gave him the wrong directions and ended up about a mile away from my house. I didn’t realize this until I staggered around and explored the area.
• Having a detailed conversation about my gay fantasies
  This has been happening more and more after drinking heavily, which leads me to believe that I should have a gay experience and blog about it in detail. I’ll keep you posted.

If anyone has any details on what happened last night, please let me know. Thanks.

I don’t know when it happened, but sometime in the last year, all celebrities became expert scientists in the field of global climate change. Apparently they are the definitive sources on what we can do to stop global warming now. I have difficulties understanding why anyone would ever take scientific advice from any of these douchebags. Seriously. Actually, I find it so hard to understand this that whenever I even think about thinking about it my head hurts and I get cold sweats until I wash a Xanax down with a bottle of Chardonnay.

Does any celebrity have any type of educational background in science? I don’t think so. In fact, I’m pretty sure that I am more qualified to remove a brain tumor than Sheryl Crow is to tell me that only wiping my ass with one square means that the ice caps will stop melting.

I wipe my ass with at least six, by the way, and I only use ten-ply. Yeah, I said it. Sometimes I just throw toilet paper in the toilet and flush it to make sure that my plumbing is working properly.

It seems like everytime I read the paper I hear about some celebrity who is on a crusade to end global warming. How do these people get from public appearance to public appearance? A limo, of course. Or an SUV which transports their entire entourage. Real fuel efficient, dickfor.

I’m willing to wager that the majority of celebrities don’t understand what global warming is besides the fact that it has to do with the environment and that it’s really trendy to talk about.

I’m pretty sure that global warming does not exist, by the way. I don’t know about you, but I thought last winter was cold as hell. In fact, it just rained in Los Angeles last week. It’s April. You think it would be raining in motherfucking April if the world were heating up? Explain that one to me, Sheryl Crow.

Regardless of whether or not global warming is a reality (unlikely) or an old wives tale cooked up by the bored liberal media, I am sure of one thing: no one is dying, and accordingly, I don’t care. According to my actuary, I have about ten more years to live. I’ll die in my mid-thirties as a result of a hooker-administered drug overdose at the Chateau Marmont hotel in Hollywood. In light of this, I’m pretty sure that global warming does not have any effect on my life. Unless it leads to the world turning into a giant fireball in the next ten years. The odds of the world turning into a giant fireball in the next ten years, according to my actuary, are identical to the odds of me willingly having children, which conveniently leads me to my next point. Since I am not planning on [willingly] having children, I have no connection to anyone who will possibly be affected by this supposed global warming crisis within the next hundred years.

Sometimes you have to look out for number one.

So to recap, I don’t want to hear celebrities talk. About anything. Also, I haven’t blogged in a while and I needed to blog about something but I haven’t gone on a drug binge lately, which explains why this one was weaksauce.

It’s been super slow around here for the past few weeks, but I think I have a good excuse…

I don’t want to jinx anything because the ink has not dried yet, but I am set to launch two major projects over the next few weeks.  One will be launched within a week, and the other has a tentative timetable of five weeks.  Both are pretty major projects as opposed to the shit that I typically turn out to pay the rent.

So, you’ve been warned.

I will be making a conscious effort to actually post here now that things are returning to order.

It’s been really long since I posted last. I’ve been super busy, and I’ll probably get around to posting some sweet stories about my heavy drinking, drug use, and trip to Las Vegas last week tomorrow. Right now, it’s about 3am, and before I go to sleep, I wanted to tell you about my newest site, XXX Whack Shack.

First, let me say that it is a complete piece of shit. I made it in about forty-five minutes. (I started around 2am).

Regardless of how shitty my sites are, you, the surfer, always win. Why? Because XXX Whack Shack contains a pretty lengthy list of pornsites you can join for free. And I’m not talking about being able to view a few pictures and a grainy video. No, my friend, I am talking about legit memberships to pay pornsites for free. I know that I have showed you how to join pornsites for only a buck in the past, but this is a completely different ballgame.

You’re probably asking how it is possible to join a membership pornsite for free. The answer is simple. Many pornsites offer free trials in hopes that surfers will eventually join the paysite once their trial expires. I could give a flying fuck whether or not you eventually start paying. Allow me to point you in the right direction via XXX Whack Shack.

So stop getting jerked around all day trying to check out free porn. Stop going through pop-up window hell, and stop your monthly visits to Best Buy to get your spyware deleted. Check out XXX Whack Shack and enjoy full-length porn movies on paysites completely free of charge.

It really is completely free. I swear to Allah.

I started drinking around 4:30pm yesterday. I was drunk by 5:30pm. I passed out in my boy Avi’s guest bedroom after puking in his guest bathroom around 7:45pm. Instead of talking about the excessive drinking that happened at Happy Hour, the oral sex that may or may not have occurred between two members of my group, the various illicit substances that were made available once I awoke from being passed out, or the sexy dance number given by a certain someone wearing no underwear while at Happy Hour, I would like to talk about what happened after I woke up from being passed out. Why? Um, four words for you: tequila and gay bars.

After waking up around 8pm from being passed out, I got a cab back to my place so I could puke more, take a shower, change my shirt, masturbate, and put some expensive product in my hair. Why the product? I was on my way to hit up the gay circuit.

While at home, I did all of the above, had another beer, and hopped in a cab to head out to some hipster bar in Hollywood, where I ordered a 32oz High Life. Yes, they serve High Life in 32oz bottles at hipster bars. No, I don’t like High Life. Yes, the 32oz High Life bottle is typically split among multiple. No, I did not attempt to split the 32oz High Life bottle with either of the two classy bitches I was with.

After the hipster bar, the ladies and I went to West Hollywood to get drunk(er) and see a lot of cock. If you are a regular Fat Dick Simon reader, you know that everytime I do shots of Tequila, crazy stuff happens. That being said, we started out with a round of double Patron shots. That’s how I roll.

We made our way to another gay bar, where I got some more double tequila shots and transformed to a dancing machine as soon as I heard Kelly Clarkson. Speaking of being a dancing machine, there was another dancing machine (gay) who tried to make out with me after I rubbed my ass on his dick. Call me crazy, but I would rather give another guy a blowjob than make out with him.

Unfortunately, I can’t mention certain activities that happened at the gay bar because what happens at the gay bar stays at the gay bar, but I will say that there were plenty of gaysians, and there was plenty of dancing, including some super hot action involving the railing on the dance platform.

My favorite thing about being at a gay bar is that you can dance with anything and everything. No one gives a fuck. AND everytime you urinate, you get at least one blowjob offer. Oh, also if you pretend to be gay, you can grab boobs all night without fear of being slapped. Gay guys get away with that shit for some reason.

While leaving the bar, I realized that one member of our group, let’s call her Classy Bitch #1, was starting to feel the effects of the roofie-colada I gave her was pretty inebriated. The other member of my group, we’ll call her Classy Bitch #2, had somehow managed to take off her bra and was looking good. Classy Bitch #1 had problems walking, so we had to rest on the corner while a big group of flamboyantly gay guys were flashing a camera. These gay guys were under the impression that they were being filmed for The Real World. Hey, jackasses, Real World Los Angeles was done in 1993. Remember? That was the season with that alcoholic Irish guy and the black guy that got kicked out.

Let me paint a picture for you. No really, I opened up MS Paint and painted this gem below because it was the highlight of my night, and even a literary talent like myself cannot skillfully craft the English language well enough to accurately describe what happened. The scene below depicts Classy Bitch #1 puking on a hill, Classy Bitch #2 holding back Classy Bitch #1’s hair, and your boy Fat Dick holding Classy Bitch #2’s bra. I smelled it.

You’ll notice that Classy Bitch #1 is in the doggystyle position and Classy Bitch #2 looks like she is mounting classy Bitch #1. This was really hot. I got a halfie when I was imagining them doing that scissor thing with their legs that lesbians always do. Hot. Plus, since Classy Bitch #2 had already removed her bra and since Classy Bitch #1 was getting into some weird positions, I got plenty of nipple peeks. Hot.

I expected the night to end with me trying to leave the club with a creepy older guy who invited me back to his place to ’smoke some weed and watch his plasma TV’ (that’s how it starts with the homosexuals), but I ended up being remarkably sober at the end of the night despite having consumed somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty drinks throughout the course of the day.

Realizing that I was sober made me wonder if the night was a waste until I heard Classy Bitch say the following:

“I haven’t been this drunk since my 21st birthday”

Success. Hey, tequila will fuck you up. I can’t even count the number of times that I have puked outside of gay clubs after taking tequila shots.

I would write more, but I have an appointment for an AIDS test that I have to get to.

I would rather give another guy a blowjob than make out with him.

Call me gay, but for some reason a blowjob seems less personal and making out with another dude seems really unnatural.

By the way, gay people are great.

That is all.