SlutWalks Are Great For Snagging Fat White Sluts

Have you ever heard of Slutwalks? You gotta try it out man, especially if you like being around fat white sluts like I do. These dimes won’t admit it, but the truth is that Slutwalks are really just Fat-Acceptance opportunities spectacles disguised as feminist activism. But hey, you know I’m super down with that. They’ll try to say specifically that they’re protesting against this whole notion that provocative dress invites RAPISTS. When they talk, I just nod my head, “okay whatever baby, that makes sense.” Seriously, It isn’t like walking around in the hood with stacks of money hangin’ out your pocket invites muggers, cause that’s way different. 

Believe it or not I’ve attended a few of these Slutwalk marches because I love fat sluts sympathize with the core principle of their movement: Overweight white women shouldn’t feel ashamed of looking and acting like fat sluts, they should flaunt it! They should feel encouraged and empowered to let their beefy muffin-tops and cottage cheese asses sag freely and openly. That’s why they got my fucking support. Amen.

Not too long ago I was in Toronto for a SlutWalk march, and boy was I surprised at the sheer size, density, and thickness of all the fat Slutwalker buffalo-bitches stampeding through the city. I couldn’t wait to join the crowd.

slutwalknigel

I’m looking smooth like Morpheus from the Matrix. 

Luckily I brought my sunglasses with me, because I recognized many of the BBWs from Craigslist personal ads I had responded to in the past. Many of them were past bangs, and I didn’t want them to recognize me; damn It really is a small world after all. Anyway, as the march went on, the women started chanting and yelling louder and louder. All of the sudden the crowd of thick, sweaty bodies started to clump together all around me, squeezing me in. With all that these thick walls of soft flesh around, my boner got more and more stiff, which subsequently became harder to conceal. One BBW felt the tip of my junk on her trunk and turned around to see what it was, but I played it cool, pretending my hand was in my pocket.

It didn’t help that I kept bumping into her ass with my stiff cock: the jig was up. She gave me a funny look. I tried apologizing to her, “Baby, excuse me” but she snarled at me and turned away, releasing a rancid angry-fart out of spite. My boner got even harder. That’s when I knew I had to improvise a way to prevent another accidental bump with my junk, or else the whole crowd of Slutwalkers would turn on me. So I took the sign I had and held it over my crotch as a barrier. Then I unzipped my pants and let my cock hang loose while I stroked it like a ninja, or just some Secret Negro Agent 007 shit. Ultimately masturbating helped reduce my boner so I could act more normal. Despite having so many fat white bitches up close, squishing me in, I was busting all kinds of nuts with maximum stealth. Dozens in truth. It was a long march.

Lookin' like Morpheus from the Matrix.

She’s not even looking at me, but I’m looking at her.

As the march was coming to a close, I left early and headed for my food truck, then drove it up to the horde of hungry Slutwalkers. A long line of fine looking sluts formed at the side of my truck, with their eyes were lit. All the sudden I went from being a random black dude in a white-feminist-march to feeling like a hiphop star with white groupies. I was killing two birds with one stone. As I say, “Make some dough, bang some dough.” That’s my motto. I even had a special offer for big sluts that signed up for my free dessert membership plan — which was actually just a cleverly disguised sexual-consent form. Shout out to my lawyer!

In conclusion, when it comes to RAPE, BBWs secretly love rapists and stalkers. On top of that, since when does any woman consent with a “yes” for a pussy pounding? She can’t even say “yes” or “no”, just “mmmm mmmm” when she’s got that whole 9 inches of Nigel’s snicker bar rammed down her turkey-necked throat.

“baby my bad, you gonna need some honey lemon tea for that sore throat.”

Follow me on twitter for more big game advice @NigelBigGame

How I pick the right woman

nigel kills it again

She was born hungry, and I fed her well.

Back in my early days when I was a younger man, I was a french fryer at McDonald’s. I thought the smell I brought with me from work to the club was all i needed to be a big-ass-getter. But I was so on it, so hungry, so inexperienced, I didn’t even give bitches the chance to smell me. I just chased girls with big asses like I escaped from prison and had to bust a nut real quick before the police could catch me and send me back. I was always buying new clothes, trying to increase my swag, and hustling hard like a door to door salesman selling dick. Sometimes it worked, but man, It got tiring; it was hard work. I usually only drink Gatorade after fucking fat BBWs to replenish my electrolytes and energy/sugar-levels, but back then I had to drink that shit all the time because I was exhausting myself so much. At one point I had to smoke crack just to keep up and stay alert. Then my hair was starting to turn grey, and I had had enough. Those were the days… Then a major paradigm shift changed my game forever. One day I saw a man on TV hunting wild beasts in Africa. He took his time to wait and ambush big game beasts, and that’s when I knew that catching big game required big game. It was so much more strategic, relaxing, and intelligent than what I was doing all along. All the pieces of the big game puzzle finally came together. This ain’t checkers motherfuckers, it’s chess.

So let’s come back to the present, around last week. It was big ladies night at the Ham Hock Saloon. I weaseled my way into the VIP party room where they had an open buffet and strategically planted myself in front of it — specifically the table with the fried chicken assortment. The BBWs started waddling their way in like a stampede. I was gettin’ real excited but kept my cool with a big pitcher of beer in my hands. I stood there posted up like a soldier on guard duty, just watching them get comfortable, waiting for all that food to start digesting and sap up their strength. The time started to fly and the room got hot and sweaty, when all of the sudden I felt an intense pressure on my foot, like a truck had run over it. I thought my foot was about to be pulverized, but I held my breath to avoid screaming in public. I looked down and noticed it wasn’t someone’s foot stepping on my shoe, but instead the end of a walking cane — a fat ass woman (with severely debilitating gout) had inadvertently placed the end of her cane on my foot for support as she struggled in a lumbering waddle, on her way to the next buffet. Immediately all the anger and pain turned into excitement, because the weakest link in this procession of very big titties-n-ass had just stumbled into my clutching range.

She was short and very wide, especially her ass — no wonder she needed a walking cane, it was epic; or maybe it was because of her gout, which looked like a giant ass tumor. I had to make the first move, so I grabbed her by the love handles and pulled her closer, pretending to whisper something in her ear about how I noticed her checking me out, and how beautiful I think she is; see a little flattery goes a long way with big bitches, and it’s a great way to buy time. She smiled, and then I offered her some beer from the pitcher I was holding. She gave me a funny look and then asked me if I was just trying to get her drunk, but I was like, “baby, you serious? Just have a sip.” She looked thirsty, and I was thirsty for her epic ass and pussy, it was a win win situation. But being a black belt in big game, I also knew something else: if I could get her to drink the whole pitcher of beer, it would seriously agitate her gout. So I put the pitcher up to her lips and I started chanting, “drink! drink! finish it bitch!” and got the whole room to chant with me; the peer pressure set in and the beer disappeared. It didn’t take long for her  to guzzle it down, she was born to swallow.

After drinking all that beer, it only took 2 minutes for the pain to set in. Her big ass foot with the gout was glowing red hot and lookin’ ready to explode. She could barely stand up, even with her cane for support. She started leaning on me and moaning. I knew I had her right where I wanted. “Excuse me folks, coming through. She needs help taking a shit” was all I had to say, and everyone moved out of our way as I guided her to the restroom. One hater that supposedly was her friend jumped out in front of me and asked me what I was doing, but I pulled out my wallet and quickly flashed him my health insurance card that has a blue cross on it, “I’m a nurse at the hospital, I work with obese patients. I’m a professional, I know how to handle this.” He quickly shut up and walked away. Once we made it to the restroom, I guided her toward the stall. She put up some physical resistance; and being a big woman, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy to just push her in, so instead I yanked her walking cane away and she fell to the floor like a limp sack of shit. She fell into the stall perfectly, just barely fitting in with her ass hanging out. I couldn’t close the door, but it’s didn’t matter. I unzipped my pants and got to work, kneading her doughy ass with my chocolate dough roller.

It is thanks to my strategic approach to big game that I don’t have to break a sweat and waste my time if I don’t want to. Sun Tzu would approve.

my man sun tzu

follow me on twitter for more big game advice @NigelBigGame

With huge size comes huge responsibility.

“Daddy, why is my dick so big?” These are the words I remember so vividly, that one terrible day when I came home from school in tears; I was only 10 years old. My new step-dad was hanging out on the front porch, smoking a joint in his rocking chair when I asked him. I told him I couldn’t handle all the teasing and insults from all the other kids at school about my penis being too big. At first he just laughed at me and didn’t understand, then he told me “shut the hell up you idiot” and ripped off a huge ass branch from the tree in the front yard — the kind that black parents typically use to discipline their children — and beat my ass with it. My grandmother showed up and stopped my step dad, grabbing the branch out of his hand. I thought I had been rescued, but it turned out she just wanted a piece of the action. She beat me even harder while the whole neighborhood cheered her on. Growing up black in the south is not easy.

From then on I kept my emotions to myself; and eventually the teasing also stopped, but things didn’t necessarily get better. While other boys openly fantasized about becoming professional football players or baseball players, my ever growing dick brought me nightmares of being confined to a wheelchair. I couldn’t dream like they could, I couldn’t feel comfortable in my own foreskin. Because of this, it became harder and harder for me to socialize with other boys. Instead of playing basketball, football or baseball with other boys, I was wrestling with wild hogs in the mud, all by myself.

Drawing I made while I was in elementary school. My worst nightmare was that I’d end up in a wheelchair.

As I got older, it became a sexual insecurity. And It didn’t help that every pair of pants I bought, within a couple months, started to get holes in the front where my tip hung out. I never could maintain a nice pair of pants. Some of the girls made fun of me and called me patches, because I had patched up my pants to cover up all the holes and stains. At one point my dick was big enough that it would sweat all on its own, leaving hot sweat spots on my pants. It looked like I peed my pants sometimes, shit. And in high-school, where having a bigger dick was all the rage and gossip, you’d think I’d be the top dog. Not at all, every bitch in town knew there was something wrong with Nigel the recluse. I felt like I was the Hunchback of Notre Dame or something.

It wasn’t until one hot Sunday at church that my perspective and self-esteem changed. After the church service and singing, the preacher pulled me aside for a little talk. He told me that he knew God had a plan for me. He told me that he had noticed that I had an extra beat in my walk, an extra skip in my step. He didn’t go into any explicit details beyond that, but he was an intuitive man of God. I knew that he knew that I possessed the staff of Moses. He told me that with a great gift comes great responsibility, and that’s why I gotta have a big heart too. After I parted with the preacher I headed outside to mingle with the crowd that had gathered for their after-church gossip. And I swear to God that sun rays were shinnin’ down on me, and also shinnin’ down on this very big lady with a small hat and a huge fan. Her ass was of biblical proportions: something you’d need to carry on Noah’s arc. And yet that mammoth momma looked sad, depressed… And she was dressed to the nines. What the hell I thought. So I walked on up to her with my 3 beat stroll and asked her if she had a man: a tear fell from her face. She told me that god made her so big that she could never find the right man. I put my arm around her and the spirit of God spit holy game from out my mouth. I lost my virginity that night! Praise the lord for showing me the path to the P. Through Jesus, I had discovered that my gift from God was perfectly suited for bigger women; my joint was perfect for flossing each slab and buttering every roll in her bakery. While other men fear Goliath pussy, I slayed it like David. I went on a path to feed the hungry and help the needy. I got the biggest, baddest, fattest ass in town when I accepted Jesus into my game. He showed me that my game is big game.

Be charitable with the dick, let God into your game. If you have a gift, you have to use it to help those in need, of all sizes. With a huge dick comes huge responsibility, so you gotta have a huge heart.