Return of the absent girlfriend wankathon – part I: Hot Sluts Fine Cuts

All day I’ve felt as though my eyes are sinking in vinegar. My body has been taut with the sort of tension M. Night Shyamalan stupidly believes he’s the master of. My nerves have been tighter than a Catholic choirboy’s asshole used to be and I’m so knackered I can barely think of a third cuntish sentence. Something to do with being highly strung… Any contemporary references to hanging? (Wait a minute, am I suggesting M. Night Shyamalan and Catholic choirboy gags are contemporary?) What about those emo kids who all committed suicide? They’d have probably cut their wrists; that’s what’s cool I guess. Hanging yourself is just so Shawshank Redemption. Which came out in 1994 and is another reference which doesn’t help my contemporary credentials much.

What I’m saying is that I should be sprawled across my bed cuddling a vodka bottle right now. Instead, I’m sat here in the dark listening to Thrash Unreal and wondering how to describe the sensation of two chilli powder-coated caterpillars attempting to force my eyeballs (which themselves feel like the planet Krypton moments before it exploded) across a pumping bass amp wrapped in glasspaper. Because that description was just wank.

Unfortunately, I can’t go to bed yet. My girlfriend left me alone (yet again) for a week-long tour of her native ex-Soviet satellite state (or something; she speaks commie) and I am therefore honour-bound to perform the obligatory wankathon in her absence. I don’t really fancy it, to be honest. Despite this, it is my duty as a man to tame the hairless mongoose at least as many times as I cook hot dinners while my girlfriend’s away. It’s for my readers and my gender that I declare the return of the absent girlfriend wankathon and prepare to flog the naked pirate like a champion.

The object of today’s wankathon (simply because I recently spent an obscene amount of money on some new threads and am feeling moderately fashionable) are the type of trendy, sub-trash, abused-chic style-whores who mostly exist to appear in the galleries of Last Night’s Party. It’s hard to pin down what’s best about these mistresses of the ‘victimise me’ look: the fact that half their monthly calorie intake comes from swallowing your load in the toilets of some electric jivebox or the accesible-only-by-force demeanour which makes you keep your distance until nightfall? Regardless of the answer, these chicks stumble along a 24-hour walk of shame safe in the knowledge that substance abuse never goes out of fashion. We should celebrate that.

More hot sluts in fine cuts (which I’m definitely going to turn into a website one day) can be found on Last Night Party (which is where I found these pics), Deadlamb’s Giblets and STNF, which is where I go to get all my style questions answered. Questions such as: if I was a grubby fashionista chick getting paid in ounces, exactly how much slut can I push into this pout…

I’m only kidding fashion chicks; I just really need to sleep…