Please Scroll Down to See Forums Below 
Hilarious thread by a guy on the college/law board I frequent. For some reason it reminded me of EF. Enjoy 
So, I just got back to the United States today, around 4:00 am Eastern Time, and already I'm in the swing of things. This just shows how elite I am. I'm also $700 richer. Thbat may not seem like a lot of money, but hey, it's almost half a day's interest on my trust fund. I can't complain.
My friends and I have a thing we like to do called "hogging". It's when a bunch of rich kids go out and try to score with the fattest women they can find. We usually make it a contest: each of us throws in $100, and whoever gets the fattest woman gets the pot. Of course, the tricky part is weighing them. They usually haven't used a scale for months and have no idea what they weigh. (And what use would scales be to such women? They'd need someone else to read the number, and they always live alone.)
Anyway, so on my first night State-side in over a month, my prep school buddies and I decide to hit the clubs, hogging. Hogging is my favorite sport of all time because it doesn't take a modicum of social skill, but requires a high tolerance for irony. After all, what could be more ironic than seeking out the very women that are most undesirable?
When my friends and I go hogging, we generally restrict it to one of the five trashiest bars in New York. Hogging will negatively affect one's reputation in a place, so it's wise only to do it in trashholes that never have good pickings. We hit the smoky places where no one has a college education, the women are all used-up by 27, and half of them wear belly shirts showing off their wrinkly, mangled navels that could turn off a perpetual motion machine. We hit the places that most kids of our means only read about in books. Then, we go to work hitting the fatties.
It was a delicious time. Imagine 3 hot, rich, early 20s guys competing over a piggish woman in moo-moo. This girl was wearing shoes two sizes too small, and they looked like they were going to burst under the stress caused by the excess flesh of her cankles. She was wearing a tanktop and had twin fractal patterns of cellulite on her upper arms. She claimed she was a "receptionist". No way. No one would hire her as a receptionist. I later found out from the bartender that she worked at Wal-Mart, that she went to the place every night and usually stayed there crying past 1:00 am.
Anyway, there were 3 of us competing over this pig. Guess who got her? Moi. So I took her back to a fleabag hotel (you NEVER use your own place when hogging) and brought her in. She sat on the bed, bending it into a U shape, and looked at me.
"Well," I said, "you know the deal." She stared at me.
"You're not getting any foreplay, pig."
"The lights are on. I can only take off my clothes with the lights off."
I couldn't believe her lack of self-confidence. This was a grade-A cow. At least 300 pounds, the fattest I've been with. What did she have to hide. In any case, I turned off the lights and we went at it.
Five minutes in, I started to smell something coming from her armpit. Something salty. So, I sneak my hand in between her arm and her ribcage and start fingering around in the sweaty creases of her rolls. Truly a disgusting texture. Does anyone remember in 7th grade when SPAM was the funniest thing ever, because of Monty Python, and everyone bought a can of the stuff just to see what it was like? Her rolls had a similar texture to the SPAM, coated in a similar salty jelly. So I'm feeling my way around her rolls (disgusted, but morbidly curious) and finally I get to the offending object. I draw out-- I kid you not-- a half-eaten sandwich. It must have been trapped in there for days. I honestly didn't peak into it to see what kind it was. I was too grossed out. I stuck it on the dresser while pumping her, half-flaccid because I was so grossed-out.
I didn't come, and I don't think she did either, but because she probably never had an orgasm and didn't know what it was, after about 3 minutes she starts shaking, thrashing violently, as she has seen in the porn movies she, surely, watches every day. (Before that, she had been a still, dead fish.) Which relieves me of my duty, so I get out of there. My last gesture is to rip the covers off the bed, turn on the lights, and flash a picture of her with a digicam. Pwned, bitch.
This isn't enough, though. This woman was truly a disgusting pig, so even this wasn't enough revenge at her for being so filthy and ugly. So after I pull on my clothes, I take the nasty, sweaty sandwich, yell "Disgusting Pig!", and chuck the sandwich right at her abundant gut, lodging it into one of her fat crevasses. I snap two more pictures and leave her in the hotel room, probably crying and eating that sandwich or something. I run out and catch a cab.
Around midnight, all of us in the group are back in a pizza shop where we like to hang out, comparing digicam shots. As it turned out, none of us had gotten our hogs onto the scales, so it was hard to judge who won. However, my shot was perfect: a fat, naked bitch with a look of betrayed shock on her face, a rotten pumpernickel-bread sandwich wedged between her fat rolls on her left side. Since I clearly had shown the best photographic prowess, my buddies agreed that I was the winner. Sweet. This puts me up $700. It's not a lot of money, but it'll pay the bills for a couple of days.
One of my prep school buddies has a few servers on the Christmas Island domain (.cx) of goatse fame. These are the best for shock images, because they don't require registering and therefore there's no chance of being outed. Sometime this summer or fall, I'm putting a picture of my sandwich bitch up on the Internet with full name and location, along with some of the other hogs my buddies bagged. You watch: my sandwich girl will be the next .
(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=228161&forum_id=2#3420615)
So, I just got back to the United States today, around 4:00 am Eastern Time, and already I'm in the swing of things. This just shows how elite I am. I'm also $700 richer. Thbat may not seem like a lot of money, but hey, it's almost half a day's interest on my trust fund. I can't complain.
My friends and I have a thing we like to do called "hogging". It's when a bunch of rich kids go out and try to score with the fattest women they can find. We usually make it a contest: each of us throws in $100, and whoever gets the fattest woman gets the pot. Of course, the tricky part is weighing them. They usually haven't used a scale for months and have no idea what they weigh. (And what use would scales be to such women? They'd need someone else to read the number, and they always live alone.)
Anyway, so on my first night State-side in over a month, my prep school buddies and I decide to hit the clubs, hogging. Hogging is my favorite sport of all time because it doesn't take a modicum of social skill, but requires a high tolerance for irony. After all, what could be more ironic than seeking out the very women that are most undesirable?
When my friends and I go hogging, we generally restrict it to one of the five trashiest bars in New York. Hogging will negatively affect one's reputation in a place, so it's wise only to do it in trashholes that never have good pickings. We hit the smoky places where no one has a college education, the women are all used-up by 27, and half of them wear belly shirts showing off their wrinkly, mangled navels that could turn off a perpetual motion machine. We hit the places that most kids of our means only read about in books. Then, we go to work hitting the fatties.
It was a delicious time. Imagine 3 hot, rich, early 20s guys competing over a piggish woman in moo-moo. This girl was wearing shoes two sizes too small, and they looked like they were going to burst under the stress caused by the excess flesh of her cankles. She was wearing a tanktop and had twin fractal patterns of cellulite on her upper arms. She claimed she was a "receptionist". No way. No one would hire her as a receptionist. I later found out from the bartender that she worked at Wal-Mart, that she went to the place every night and usually stayed there crying past 1:00 am.
Anyway, there were 3 of us competing over this pig. Guess who got her? Moi. So I took her back to a fleabag hotel (you NEVER use your own place when hogging) and brought her in. She sat on the bed, bending it into a U shape, and looked at me.
"Well," I said, "you know the deal." She stared at me.
"You're not getting any foreplay, pig."
"The lights are on. I can only take off my clothes with the lights off."
I couldn't believe her lack of self-confidence. This was a grade-A cow. At least 300 pounds, the fattest I've been with. What did she have to hide. In any case, I turned off the lights and we went at it.
Five minutes in, I started to smell something coming from her armpit. Something salty. So, I sneak my hand in between her arm and her ribcage and start fingering around in the sweaty creases of her rolls. Truly a disgusting texture. Does anyone remember in 7th grade when SPAM was the funniest thing ever, because of Monty Python, and everyone bought a can of the stuff just to see what it was like? Her rolls had a similar texture to the SPAM, coated in a similar salty jelly. So I'm feeling my way around her rolls (disgusted, but morbidly curious) and finally I get to the offending object. I draw out-- I kid you not-- a half-eaten sandwich. It must have been trapped in there for days. I honestly didn't peak into it to see what kind it was. I was too grossed out. I stuck it on the dresser while pumping her, half-flaccid because I was so grossed-out.
I didn't come, and I don't think she did either, but because she probably never had an orgasm and didn't know what it was, after about 3 minutes she starts shaking, thrashing violently, as she has seen in the porn movies she, surely, watches every day. (Before that, she had been a still, dead fish.) Which relieves me of my duty, so I get out of there. My last gesture is to rip the covers off the bed, turn on the lights, and flash a picture of her with a digicam. Pwned, bitch.
This isn't enough, though. This woman was truly a disgusting pig, so even this wasn't enough revenge at her for being so filthy and ugly. So after I pull on my clothes, I take the nasty, sweaty sandwich, yell "Disgusting Pig!", and chuck the sandwich right at her abundant gut, lodging it into one of her fat crevasses. I snap two more pictures and leave her in the hotel room, probably crying and eating that sandwich or something. I run out and catch a cab.
Around midnight, all of us in the group are back in a pizza shop where we like to hang out, comparing digicam shots. As it turned out, none of us had gotten our hogs onto the scales, so it was hard to judge who won. However, my shot was perfect: a fat, naked bitch with a look of betrayed shock on her face, a rotten pumpernickel-bread sandwich wedged between her fat rolls on her left side. Since I clearly had shown the best photographic prowess, my buddies agreed that I was the winner. Sweet. This puts me up $700. It's not a lot of money, but it'll pay the bills for a couple of days.
One of my prep school buddies has a few servers on the Christmas Island domain (.cx) of goatse fame. These are the best for shock images, because they don't require registering and therefore there's no chance of being outed. Sometime this summer or fall, I'm putting a picture of my sandwich bitch up on the Internet with full name and location, along with some of the other hogs my buddies bagged. You watch: my sandwich girl will be the next .
(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=228161&forum_id=2#3420615)
