Skip to main content

Help Tucker Breathe

Let me begin by stating the obvious: I have no interest in anyone but myself at any given moment. I think charities are a waste of money. Money that should have been siphoned into my bank account.

Why? Because doghouse- fuck you I'm broke.

However, there is one recent fundraiser that has caught my attention and gimp-masked my ordinary megalomaniac tendencies. The name of said fundraiser is the "Help Tucker Breathe". Go look it up. I'll post the link at the end but please take a second to look at it now.

Tucker Gordon was a coworker of mine when I lived in Richmond VA. He worked at a daycare/preschool with me.

Let me explain how impressive this young man is. Not only does he have the capacity to withstand children screaming and throwing tantrums, he genuinely loves to be with children. And for the modern 20-something male, that's fucking impressive.

Not only does he love children, but he is loved by them. Enthusiastically. Enough to make Michael Jackson so jealous, he climbs out of his solid gold grave.

Children love Tucker and trust him. Because he's down as fuck.

But he also survived working with a bunch of ladies who spared no prisoners with extremely graphic conversation. A matriarchy of explicit subjects. Any ordinary man would have been emotionally castrated. Not Tucker Gordon.

Do you know what happens when ladies work together for a while? Two words: synced cycles. Yeah, he survived that too.

Tucker works hard, keeps an excellent sense of humor and deals with bullshit exquisitely. Everybody likes him. He doesn't mean anyone harm but he isn't a namby-pampy pussy. He's just a great guy.

And while I didn't know him as well as some other coworkers, I did have a disastrous 4th of July on the James with him. What started out as a group tubing adventure became a clusterfuck of cut-up feet, slippery rocks, deflated rafts and ruined electronics. But Tucker kept his spirits up; he still had me laughing despite all the ills of that day.

Tucker has cystic fibrosis. He needs a double lung transplant. It costs an incredible amount of money to get this done. It's absolutely critical that he receives this treatment as soon as possible. I usually don't promote anything besides my own tits, but this is worth your time. Please go to:

http://www.gofundme.com/helptuckerbreathe

He's an amazing person and deserves whatever help you can offer.Donate. Spread the word. Do what you can. But please don't let this man die. $50,000. We can do it.

I shouldn't have to offer you any more incentive. But I'll send you nudes. Full frontal nudes for any $200+ donation. I'll get a notary on it.

Help Tucker breathe. Please.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

I Can't Hear Your Little Red Rooster

Fright

I call this room Home.

He will not look at me

His eyes flicker with

a speck of violence.



my strained smile,

disgusted by

my pleading eyes.

my veins freeze

icy blood

tearing through coronaries




May Day

'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

'There's a bullet for you, just in case.'

Hope had left the gun on the table.

A week earlier, drunk off self-pity, she had taken it out of its case and walked to the kitchen, where she stuck the barrel in her mouth and proceeded to take pictures of herself to send to Ray.

In a rare instance of good fortune, her phone ran out of battery before she could indulge her sense of pithy revenge. She woke up and pried open her tear-salted eyelashes then made sure to delete an…