Before we belly flop into this mess of dick grease and red dye stains, can I just say that I’ve been trying so hard to exorcise RiRi’s “Oh naaa naaa naaa” shit song from my head for weeks. It follows me wherever I go and terrorizes me no matter what I’m doing. Yesterday, I was FINALLY able to wash it out and replace it with Lady Analbelly’s (or whatever their name is) “Need You Now” (you can file your judgments here). Yes, I know it’s like replacing caca with vomit, but I was happy to flush the NA-NA from my head finally. But last night, as I was waiting in line at the grocery store to buy jelly beans and a bag of carrots, a child eviling with a raggedy ponytail started singing THAT SONG out loud. This confirms that children are creatures from the dark side who can scan your mind for weaknesses and use it against you when you least expect it. And now the NA NA is back thanks to that little girl with a jacked up ponytail. Moving on…
The Sun’s technical engineers built a microscopic BlackBerry dingle that crawled into RiRi’s phone and sucked in all the text messages she sends out including the ones to Colin Farrell. Apparently, Colin and RiRi got hard for one another when they met on Graham Norton’s show last December. They exchanged numbers and she’s been filling his BlackBerry screen with all kinds of naughty shit every since. Colin, who is split up from the mother of his child, can’t wait to make their sext adventures happen in real life. The Sun’s source went on, “Colin was taken aback by some of the texts. He reckons he might well be in there. They’re both single, so why not? Colin and Rihanna have made plans to meet up in LA when their hectic schedules allow.”
So this story is about two individuals who are currently partaking in the dry sport of text fucking and will most likely never take it further than that… Okay. But this totally reminds me of one of the best (see: most pathetic) sext sessions I’ve ever had. It was the dude from Oregon that I met online. This motherfucker never wanted to talk on the phone and I quickly learned why. He was like the Fellini of sexting! It was a serious art for him. Dude would write detailed stage directions like: *walking into the room while slowly ripping my shirt off over my head*. Stupid shit like that. I’m a wham, bam, let’s do this kind of bitch, so I finally asked him to send me a picture of his peen. This ho wrote back, “Let me describe it instead.” BITCH WHAT?! Stop harlequin-ing my ass, get in front of a bathroom mirror and take that dick shot! Seriously, the only reason they have cameras on phones is for dick picture taking! But I let him continue to write his soft core text play, because it was funny.
I’d try to play along, but sometimes I’d forget the format and he’d remind me in a not-so-polite way how he does things. He’d text in parenthesis: “(don’t forget to use the * when describing an action).” Shit. Since when did sexting become a community college English class? I should’ve received credits for that shit. Oh, how many times I wanted to type: “*CUT. SCENE. *going to get a bag of cheese curls*”
It was seriously one of the most unsexiest things I’ve ever done and that’s saying a lot. The only thing he made me want to grab was my throat to keep from laughing.
After Cyrano de Bergerwhack ate up my text message plan by writing the worst romance novel ever, it was time for the grand finale and I really couldn’t wait. The anticipation might have given me a twitch or two. It was like waiting for the last episode of Lost. And then it came, this ho actually typed out: “oh my god *i’m cumming so hard* xcvdjfdsalkjflaksdfjoidfuoudfads123adfjkljsdeoi.”
I STILL CAN’T.
What the hell was that tossed salad of characters supposed to mean? Bitch came so hard that his cum drops shot at the keys? Or that he had a full body seizure which made his fingers pound against the keys before conveniently landing on “send“? No, thanks. I turned off my phone and made a mental note to block his number. Ho went too far.
And now that I think about it, it was probably Colin Farrell.