entry #39 - irony? never heard of it

                                    

                                          

In the end, Sean and I caught the tour bus just in time. And surprisingly enough, despite the hot stuff we indulged into, before leaving our hotel room ... we weren't the last ones to show up and hop on board. Bessie and Cuntrell were. I don't know what they were being all up to, before they hopped on... but if I know them well enough, and if the ass squeeze Cuntrell gave her as they got on the bus doesn't lie, they probably had a pre road trip quickie on the front tire of the bus. But I wouldn't know exactly, because I was a little bit too busy making out with Cuntrell's handsome, tall, dark everything'd bandmate. Yes, we made out an awful lot, out while munching on some breakfast, drinking hot coffee, smoking a joint, and talking a bunch of nonsense about bikes with Layne. Ideal. 
As soon as she got on board, Bess came to sit next to Sean and I. Us girlies politely turned down his offer to play poker, I smooched him dry, and miss super groupie, Cock Soup the Cockatiel of my heart and I headed to the next row of free seats. To have some healthy, girly, steamy Seattle gossip, y'know. Seattle Gossip Committee united for a reason, always, even on the motherfucking Phellus in Chains tour bus. 
Bessie told me about her sex adventures of last night with Cuntrell... and I stress out, adventures, because judging from her narration, fucking the Cunt personified feels a bit like going on a rollercoaster. Puke included, or at least gag reflex mandatory. 
This tour is called 'No More Tears', or whatever it is called I don't know, but I've shed way too many tears of terror, when Bessie told me that Cuntrell and her were so wasted on cocaine, last night, that they fucked without a condom. And this... this is concerning as fuck, so concerning that I'm afraid for Bessie's life as I breathe. 
Cuntrell is a peril, fucking him without a condom is a little bit of a liability, because you just can't know which one of his multiple STD's he's gonna pass on to you... and he ain't the brightest. If he was one of the bright kind, he wouldn't have come inside of Bessie as a 'punishment' 'cause she called him by another man's name while they were fucking. If Cuntrell was smart, or at least reasonable, he would've just said 'okay cool, you're a groupie Bess, you fuck many men for a hobby, and you can get a lil bit confused about who you're fucking, from time to time. No big deal'. 
But no. He didn't do the reasonable, he just can't do the reasonable, it's against what's in his blood. He did the petty cunt and blew everything out of proportion... I mean, he blew everything inside of Bessie, because he's a little bit too prideful. Ewwww.
Bessie is gonna die, or become a mother to a mini Cuntrell, we still don't know, and we'll only figure it out once we arrive in Denver. I cried my eyes out at the thought that I'm gonna lose my best friend to Gerry's crabs, my eyes are still stinging from all the tears I've shed, I've already mentally organised Bessie's funeral thrice, but y'know what? I cheered up a little and put a semi halt on the paranoias, when she told me that she's called the blondie cunt 'Stone', out of all the potential male names, during the infamous sex that either got her sick or pregnant. 
Stone. Stone as in loverboy, Pearl Jam rhythm guitarist. The guy I sponsor one hundred percent, since day one. Since even before Bessie knew that he would look at her with a frown on his face and a beer gripped tight in hand, at the sight of her disappearing into Cuntrell's bedroom, at that party with the Honda Four. And the fact that she's listened to me, and she's been thinking of Gossard lately...it was enough to warm my heart a bit, and slightly cheer up. 
My philosophy, and Chrissie's too, whenever we talk to Bessie about her antics ... is literally 'fuck whoever you wanna, but Cuntrell, please'. Not only he's got STD's for days, but he's also a toxic, mysoginistic, disrespectful, arrogant jerk ass. He ain't even good looking, he looks like your average ugly Country singer, so he's got nothing to make up for his peanut sized brain. Maybe the horse-like sized cock, yeah, but with 'em all diseases he's spreading, does it even count? To Bessie, yes. She digs Cuntrell and his trouser snake... and there's nothing I can do to change her mind.