I was talking to a male friend from high school the other day, and as sometimes happens, our conversation veered into a discussion about boys and girls. “I only crush on rock star boys,” I said. He told me he had a secret: He wasn’t really a breast man, when it comes to the ladies.

“Me either,” I said, “Boobs are so overrated these days.”

HS friend replied, “Yeah….Have you ever seen any?”

Ooh burn.

They aren’t that small, but thanks.

—————-
You know the drill. Secret. It really is real. It really is coming.

Yesterday, very randomly someone IM’d my yahoo, mwahahahanni. Initially I was v. excited b/c I figured it was a haus fan – someone who read the post where I messaged Manuel, and wanted to know more about me.

All access hannihaus, you could say.

But it became apparent two messages into the conversation that this person had other ideas. This Mr_Lover_Can was way more interested in my a/s/l than my b/r/ain.

Obviously, the conversation ended shortly thereafter, but it got me thinking. What can Mr. Lover do? (Besides cyber and annoy people who would otherwise be working).

Mr. Lover can dance the fandango?

Mr. Lover can curdle cheese from ten yards away with telekinesis?

Mr. Lover can make a shelter out of coconuts and kidney beans?

Mr. Lover can swoon, smile and beguile hairy-lipped lunch ladies?

Mr. Lover can whip up a souffle whilst simultaneously performing brain surgery?

Mr. Lover can get Lindsey’s boobs back?

Mr. Lover can wear a leather loincloth to church and a suit and tie to sleep in?

Mr. Lover can burp the alphabet, backward?

Mr. Lover can light his farts on fire and call it performance art?

??????????????????????????????????????????

Hannihaus readers, what do you think? For a good time, comment on what Mr. Lover can do. There’s a prize in it for you! Anyone who submits gets to be published on what is officially The. Best .Blog. Ever. (No, I’m not talking about Celebrity Smack, though that one gets an honorary mention. Any site that shows Beyonce’s panties is a-okay in my book.) But really, to clarify, Hannihaus is The. Best. Blog. Ever… so let’s post folks, and you can ride my coattails to infamy and beyond!

Reason #423 to move out of apartments and buy a home in BFE: the neighbors.

I was having a bout of insomnia last night and was, for a brief time, able to drift off to la la land. That didn’t last too long though. After about 10 minutes I was quite rudely awakened by the unmistakable moan of a woman participating in unchaste activities.

And she was audibly unchaste for about six minutes.

I then drifted back to sleep for another 15 or so minutes before – you guessed it – Miss Sexpants started back in with the boffing bedlam.

And I tossed and I turned, trying to shut out the disquieting sexcapades that were being (loudly) played out in apartment 202.

Needless to say, I didn’t get too much sleep last night. Apparently, my neighbor, She-Who-Whinnies-While-Riding-The-Pony, didn’t catch too many z’s either.

Kristoff told me that the last time he was on a roadtrip, he stopped by a gas station that was selling more than petrol, powerade, and chili dogs. At this inconspicuous shanty out in the middle of the marshlands, along with your hohos and coke, you can purchase the finest in smut mags.

Proudly displayed to the right of the cashier station, in the very location where you’d expect to find the more demure reads – i.e. The People, US Weekly, Rollingstone and Women’s day magazines – is a prodigious pile of porn.

We’re talking about a three-tiered display that’s roughly five feet wide. By my estimate, this contraption can hold 49 separate and distinct chronicles of the Hustler, Playboy and Juggs Monthly varieties.

In short – this is a pubescent boy’s dream.

Oh, and the name of said service station is so appropriately (and ironically) called: The Handimart.

Marinate on that one folks.