American Dirtbags Page #3

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was making hand-over fist money

and was still bangin'

tons of chicks.

- Bro, got this mad kinky

b*tch in my room right now,

- sh*t is going crazy.

- - Hell, yeah.

- She's lettin' me

f*** her like Anthony Bourdain,

- f***ing no reservations.

- - Nice.

- The sh*t's good.

Here's the thing, though, she's

like a little bit married.

- Harvey.

- Here's the funny

part, her husband,

- his nickname's Bigfoot.

- - No.

- Here's the funnier

part, she wants you and me

to f*** her together.

- Man, I don't think

I'm interested in

f***ing somebody's wife.

- Dude, come on, it's not a

third-party's responsibility

to make sure that your

girlfriend isn't a whore.

Now let's go f***

this dude's wife.

- One thing I could

say about Harvey,

he always made a good point.

But if I had to

pinpoint the moment

that sh*t spun totally

out of control,

this was definitely it.

Her appearances started

to become more frequent.

Sometimes I'd f*** her,

sometimes Harvey'd have a

go, but most of the time

she wanted to be plugged

like a damn electric socket

you were trying to keep

the kids from touchin'.

But today,

that sh*t was not her.

Huh?

- Motherf***er, huh, you

like to f*** people's wives?

- Who the f*** are you, what

the f*** are you talking about?

- You like to f***

people's wives?

- Now I ain't exactly

sure how he found out,

but with a wife like that, you

know you would be suspicious.

Harvey was right, though.

It wasn't no third-party's

responsibility to make sure

that your wife isn't a whore.

But what he left out is if

you go porkin' someone's wife,

just know that one day you

might have to fight that dude.

And when that day comes, that

son of a b*tch might kill you.

But like I said,

I can't blame him.

Probably shouldn't have

been f***ing his wife.

- My name is Alaina Sage.

I know it looks like I'm being

a total mega-b*tch right now,

but trust me, this

a**hole deserves it.

He said his name was

Jimmy, but who knows.

I told him my name was Melissa.

Guys like him are animals.

They only want one thing, p*ssy.

And once they have

their little squirt,

then they want you to

just, like, f*** off.

And sometimes without even

giving you any cab money.

Well, Mr. blonde hair found

out that this p*ssy costs

a little more than, like, a

few watered-down vodka tonics.

- Hey, whoa, hey.

- Unh, please.

I'll never forget the first

a**hole that burned me.

All night long, all he did

was talk about all the game

the other guys were spitting

and how he was different.

He wasn't just trying

to get in my pants,

he thought we had a connection.

Harvey Schindler.

And I f***ed him, thinking

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