Little Miss Sunshine

Great movie.

I saw it tonight with my sister and her boyffrind and my girlfriend. We went to some vegetarian restaurant.

“My girlfriend’s a vegetatarian; which pretty much makes me a vegetarian.”

-Jules (Pulp Fiction)

We went apartment hunting fo a little while beforehand. Kelly and I are going to try living together. This should be fun. It’s going to be the first time to live with someone we love under the same roof. I’ve got to admit, I’m excited.

We want to live somewhere near downtown Dallas. But, we don’t know where, so my sister and A (My sister’s boyfriend) took us to look around and see the areas we could possibly want to live. It was fun.

Then we went to set up my brother’s proposal to his woman. We just went in and lit the candles just before they got there.

They got there and the candles were lit and he proposed and she said yes.

Congratulations David Whitmore. We all had bets to see who was the first sibling to get married out of the remaining three of us. We all won so I guess no money changes hands.

May you two have much happiness in your lives together.

This brings me to the responsibilities of being the best man for my little brother. We’ve grown up knowing that we would be each others best men, but I didn’t think I would have responsibility for it for a time. I am responsible for my brother’s bachelor party and a toast at their wedding. Planning parties is not fun, but I have a feeling this toast is going to be fun.

After the set-up for the proposal, we left and went and ate. Good food. Cosmic Cafe. Check it out.

We then went to go see the movie.

Best movie I’ve seen in a long time. Great acting by all actors. Great Story. Great Direction.

Almost a Modern-Day National Lampoon’s Family Vacation with a Royal Tenenbaums twist.

Go see it now.

Why are you still reading?

I said go see it NOW!

That is all.

Thank you.

Keep reading and re-reading

Keep your thirst for more Whitmore. I keep writing on my book, which takes up most of my writing time. So sorry to those who care. But, you will be able to read a whole book soon. I’m on Chapter 8 which talks on the issue, “Am I gay.” It’s going really well so far. I just hope this isn’t one of those projects I start and don’t follow through on. Those are the worst. Failures to yourself.

Exhilarating stuff. But if you have any new topics I would love to complement on. So I guess I’ll become Dear Team Abby for a little while.

Have a question you want answered from a male perspective? Ask away.

Men, who don’t how to be men. Ask away?

Jessica VS. Ashlee. I don’t care. I can write about people with perfect implants and be mean to the likes of the world.

Jest Let me know.

To Friends, send me stories that you think are worth rewriting them in my book. Become a famous legend as a part of John Whitmore’s New York Time’s Bestselling Book.

C’est la vie.

Buenos noches.

Good night.

Haga la más con tu tiene.

Adios

If I were president

First of all, I would disallow all further Bush’s into the white house. I swear I’ll kill someone if I have to deal with JEB Bush in office.

I don’t have anything against Bush, I just hate it when it’s not well-groomed and articulate. I like my pussy in peak-performance shape and, well, our executive chief has been slipping as he turns 60. He put on five pounds during this last year. He also swears he’s going to take 10 days off this summer. Like I care, let him be gone 364 days out of the year. The more he’s out of office, the more he’s out of office. Brilliant!

Does my generation have wiithin it a president who will guide America throught the storm it has created for itself? Why, of course, Me.

If am elected the first thing being addressed is, “Why is Hussein alive but all of his prosecuter’s aren’t?” Don’ you think that a bit odd?

I’m officially putting myself on the ballot in 2016 or 2020 presidential race. You better watch out.

Salvation is only like 10-25 years away.

So know this World, you have not seen the last of the left Whitmore’s, only the beginning.

Congratulations to me.

Helo my constituents.

By the way, “No new taxes.”

I bid you adieu,

Team Whitmore ’20 for the Democratic Presidential Election.

The Unwinnable War

Boners.

I have absolutely no control, the relationship between my self and my penis is a bit of a dictatorship. I can no longer make rules against it. It becomes angry and goes the soft on it’s own volition. It’s interesting.

It’s unfair.

Our penises alone are what make us men, yet we cannot control our own.

They’re always eager to stand up and say to your classmates and coworkers, “Hello. How are you today? I’m doing absolutely grand as you can see my good friend. Cheerio!”

When I think of my penis having a personality and a voice, I like to think it’s British.

Hello Mr. Penis.

He’lo Miss. Top of the morning to ya. Would you like to join me a spot of tea and some biscuits (known as cookies here to you and me in the States). You’re lookin’ mighty well fit. Care to snag a shag behind the bush? I’ve got me raincoats in the boot of me trolley.

Though not genuine, my tallywacker is instantly a little more endearing with an English twist.

Then there is the drinking.

Oft referred to as Whiskey Dick, penises and alcohol, like oil and vinegar, do not mix. I won’t go in to details to spare my family but, there has been has been more than a couple alchohol-related deaths in my pants (or out of my pants if you want to get technical).

Alcohol + Penis = Breakdown.

On more than one occasion, I have become that guy who can put on the jumpsuit but never jump the plane. In a manner of speaking anyway. Planes weigh tons, I never do fat chicks, their too clingy, with all that sweat and all.

Nothin; says lovin’ like a floppy burrito in your pantalones. It happened once the first time I slept with a girl. How embarassing is that? What was really fun was seeing her the next day at work. This is what played out in my head when I saw her:

Hello. Did you have a limp time last night? Yeah, just hangin’ out with your girlfriends? Yeah. Talkin’ to me is like talking to your sister but at least your sister has a fully-functioning vagina. Jesus! How could I do this with a girl I was ever going to see again, much less, work with on a daily basis? I tell you… it’s the Whitmore luck.

Oh, Jesus. How do I dodge, how do I dodge?!

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Cool. You tired?”

Shit. How could I ask the girl of which whose guts I was going to stir, “Are you tired?” (Did that make sense? No? Oh well.)

“Yeah I’m tired.”

Lying bitch. Don’t you remember I tried to get all Michael Jackson Beat It style with my wet noodle? “That’s good.” Jesus this is awkward. “Well, I’d like to hang out with you again sometime?” Jesus, I can’t believe I just asked the only witness of my most humbling incidents as a man out again.

“O.K.”

Holy Shit, she just said, “O.K.”

You see Boys and Girls, this Whitmore charm can get me anywhere I want. Well, apparently not anywhere. But close.

Long story short, we saw each other for a while after that. Just goes to show you. Women want to be held and men want to be erect… through the whole thing.

But really, this has probably been my most embarassing and chauvinistic thing I’ve published since I’ve been writing this blog.

Notice, I saw “published” and not written.

To man and his bread, may the brotherhood be with you.

Cheers, mate.

Girls CAN tell if you’re looking at their boobs

I have officially never been a woman. There was I brief period when I was a new born that I was both man and woman, but the doctors took care of that quick. Whew. But I do know this, women can tell if your looking at their boobs.

How do I know this? Adult acne syndrome.

Not long ago, I had the biggest pimple of my life. Huge. Red. Pussy (meaning containing puss, not he, one who resembles a vagina). I think that’s how you spell it anyway. Anyhow. A huge pimple. Right on the point of my chin. Mount Whitmore.

All my life I had been a tit looker. A boob glancer. A melon beholder. I thought I had been staring covertly. Turns out, women could see me oogling their chests my whole life. Good lord.

Let’s get back to how I know they can tell. Like I said, I had the biggest pimple in Texas history, and I had to go to work waiting tables, an industry known for not pulling any punches.

Hey man, nice pimple!

Hey Whitmore, what the fuck is that thing on your face?

John, did you staple a scab to your chin and let it get infected?

Those are some examples of what fellow waiters will say to you. They’re a good people but don’t know how to compliment a good zit.

But throughout the night, I had noticed my customers staring at it. Over the course of the evening I heard a couple more jabs at my pimple. People would try to look me in the eyes and they could not stop staring at my pimple on my chin. If this tiny breast on my chin is getting looks, women surely know we are looking at their street rockets. WOMEN KNOW WE ARE LOOKING.

Gentlemen, back to the drawing tables. We must devise a new plan.