"Sir Edmund Hillary (pictured with Bupep Sherpa)"
Boston, MA – In an earlier blog about my travels with Squirties the Pug, I said when climbers finished summiting Mt. Everest, the number one celebration on their mind was getting back to base camp and jerking off all over themselves. I stand by this. You can’t do it at 28,000 feet. Your little acorn top will freeze up and pop off like a tiddly wink. You have to wait until you get back to your dome tent, which is where? All together now, “Base camp!” That’s right. How do I know this? Look no further than the journal entries from Sir Edmund Hillary himself, which he wrote after summiting Everest (without oxygen by the way, unlike today’s pussies that pay $75,000 to walk through the turnstile at the top and take a picture).
Here is an excerpt:
“I summited Everest today. Boy oh boy was it was fucking cold. Thought about taking out little Edmund and having a wank, but decided I didn’t want to freeze and potentially shatter the capillaries in my shaft. I simply cannot wait to get back to my whack tent at base camp. People will want pictures and ask a bunch of questions about my stamina, my lung capacity at that altitude, and a bunch of other bullshit, but that will have to wait. I told that asshole from National Geographic to save his questions until after my victory orgasm, and that he could quote me on that. I spent the last 6,000 feet of the climb flipping a coin in my head. Heads I would pleasure myself off with my hands immediately upon return, or, maybe between my wrists using some lubricant from my kerosene lamp. If it came up Tails, I would order Bupep Sherpa to spend the evening in my tent. Like most Sherpa, Bupep is an inbred son of Nepal with the IQ of a donkey, which is actually perfect because he lugs all of my shit up and down the mountain. But, you get him in a tent with a pot of hot tea, some hand lotion, and put a few quid on your zipper? He’ll have you milked off like the family goat before you can take off your gloves.”
See?
