It was the last time the three of us hung out together- me, the Wife, and our third friend I'm now going to start referring to as Sister Wife. Sister Wife was moving back to Boston with her menagerie of animals and her wonderful dude that I hope she marries someday. It was our last hurrah of the three of us being together, and by the end of it, we wound up sitting crosslegged on Wife's floor, crying about some stupid shit that I was too browned out to remember. It was also that night that Wife found her way into my bed, on the one time I wasn't wearing any underwear (pfft, right). Next morning we were both sorta horrified, but confident that we hadn't consummated our hetero marriage. She just sorta looked at me bleary-eyed and said "Uh, you aren't wearing any panties are you?" And I, bleary-eyed, looked down at my Amazonian lady bits and said "Uh, nope." She dry heaved and got the fuck away from that shit and went off to find Sister Wife. As she walked out into the living room I heard her say "What the fuuuuuck??" It was THEN that we remembered that, before the female version of a circle jerk broke out on the living room floor, we'd tossed some frozen tots in the oven. Well, turns out we'd wound up emotionally circle jerking ourselves right into oblivion and forgot all about the tots. We woke up to three feet of smoke clinging to the ceiling and I'm pretty sure it took Wife two weeks to get the stink out of her apartment. Lucky for us, and for all you assholes, we all lived to tell the tale of Our Last Night Together Before Sister Wife Moved Back East.
Like most nights we'd vow to get crazy, the night started at the Town Pump for Jello Shots. And any night that starts with Jello Shots at the Pump is bound to be a good one. After the Pump, I can't recall for sure where we went, but I think there was a visit to a back patio somewhere in there - most likely at this joint we like to go to where all the people that were freaks-in-high-school-but-are-now-way-cool-beyond-measure like to hang out. You know, the place where people that hipsters WISH they could be like to hang out. Yeah, pretty sure we went there. But later, I know for a fact, that we wound up at this wee little place called the East Coast. Because, for whatever reason, we sometimes like hanging around a bunch of douchey college kids. Plus, the drinks there aren't bad.
So there we were. We'd finally stumbled our way to the East Coast, where we decided that, of COURSE shots of Jameson and tall boys of PBRs were good ideas. I mean, of COURSE. Who WOULDN'T think that was a good idea? But anyway, we found ourselves dancing (at least that's what we call it, others probably thought that we looked like three chicks flailing themselves around, running away from mice n' spiders n' shit). At any rate, amidst all that dancing and all those beers, I suddenly had to pee- BAD. I had to pee so bad that I was seriously considering jamming a beer bottle in my urethra and pissing in it like you guys do in Gatorade bottles while driving because the line for those nasty ass bathrooms was so fucking LONG. So long I needed a pair of goddam binoculars to see who was at the front of it. And that's when THIS FUCKING GENIUS came up with a plan.
In lieu of shoving a beer bottle in places I'm sure wouldn't fit anyway, I stumbled and swerved my way to the front of the line and said with a straight face and a mouthful of slurring words "Hey, lissssthen. I'm DD-ing for my friendsss toniiight and I've got to pee, like, REALLY bad. I'm PREG-NANT and the baby is pushing on my bladder. Can you PLEASE hook a pregger lady up and let me jump in line?" And you know what? That shit fucking WORKED! I'm pretty sure I was looking at that poor asshole with only one eye open, and that last shot of Jameson nearly put me on the floor, but somehow I managed to convince her that I was, indeed, carrying a fetus in that drunk-ass body of mine. And who in their right mind is going to deny a pregnant lady? I'm pretty sure I deserve some kind of medal for Assholes Who Come Up With Great, Mostly Useless Ideas.
But bitches, I give you permission to use that. I mean, it's not like I can trademark or copyright that shit, so go ahead and tell 'em you're knocked up. And later, when they see you doing shots of Alabama Slammers, look 'em in the eye and say "Don't judge me, you fucker."
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Monday, July 30, 2012
What it takes to make a hetero life mate marriage last
Earlier today, well, meaning two seconds ago, my "wife" just asked me if I'd go see the new Step Up movie with her and some gal she's been wanting me to meet for years. And, even more exciting, it's in 3D. Fuckin' Super fuckin' Duper. Would I rather jab my eyeballs out with a dull, bent knife? Probably. Am I going to go? Well, yeah. Yes. Skampcity is going to the movies to see Step Up in 3-motherfucking-D. Shit. But what the fuck. Anyone can get tortured for two hours and not tell all the world's secrets, right? Well, I know I can. I can definitely sit through it, but only if I shove an entire tub of movie popcorn down my throat. That, and the biggest thing of soda I can afford- that'll give me at least 7 excuses to get up and go take a leak.
So you ask why the fuck I'd agree to do something like that? Well, because she's the very best friend I have in the whole fucking world and she's seen me in some pretty awful states. Like that one time I cried so hard I was literally blowing snot bubbles (the cats were fighting over who got to pop them). Or, when I dragged her to see some band that she had zero interest in listening to, just to tell me that the girl my ex had cheated on me with had a dumpy ass. And another time, I made her get up before the shit crack of dawn so that she could go with me to Colorado Springs and watch me in my first (and maybe last) 5K. She's been there for me, supporting all the things I do, and now it's time to do the same for her. I WILL draw the line, however, at watching a remake of Dirty Dancing. That, she's on her own for. Because that's just blasphemous- remaking that shit. But Step Up? Yeah, I can do that. I'll probably sneak in a flask of Jeremiah Weed and a bottle of Percocets to get me through it, but hey. That's what friends are for, right?
And who knows? Maybe some teenaged (and hopefully legal?) eye candy will keep me from remembering that my chest still tightens up when I think about me n' breakin' up n' all that emotional garbage one goes through when life's a changin'.
What I DO know, for absolute certain, is that if something happens to my wife, I'd totally wipe her ass for her. I'd chew up bits of food and spit it in her mouth, if I had to, just like the birdies do. So if I'd do any of that, I can go to the movies with her, too. Because she's pretty fucking awesome, and I love her almost as much as I love my dog. And that's really sayin' something.
So you ask why the fuck I'd agree to do something like that? Well, because she's the very best friend I have in the whole fucking world and she's seen me in some pretty awful states. Like that one time I cried so hard I was literally blowing snot bubbles (the cats were fighting over who got to pop them). Or, when I dragged her to see some band that she had zero interest in listening to, just to tell me that the girl my ex had cheated on me with had a dumpy ass. And another time, I made her get up before the shit crack of dawn so that she could go with me to Colorado Springs and watch me in my first (and maybe last) 5K. She's been there for me, supporting all the things I do, and now it's time to do the same for her. I WILL draw the line, however, at watching a remake of Dirty Dancing. That, she's on her own for. Because that's just blasphemous- remaking that shit. But Step Up? Yeah, I can do that. I'll probably sneak in a flask of Jeremiah Weed and a bottle of Percocets to get me through it, but hey. That's what friends are for, right?
And who knows? Maybe some teenaged (and hopefully legal?) eye candy will keep me from remembering that my chest still tightens up when I think about me n' breakin' up n' all that emotional garbage one goes through when life's a changin'.
What I DO know, for absolute certain, is that if something happens to my wife, I'd totally wipe her ass for her. I'd chew up bits of food and spit it in her mouth, if I had to, just like the birdies do. So if I'd do any of that, I can go to the movies with her, too. Because she's pretty fucking awesome, and I love her almost as much as I love my dog. And that's really sayin' something.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Car Got Drunk Last Night
The title says it all. That stupid fucking piece of German engineering can't figure out how to drive itself home after my ass gets all drunk and happy. Jesus. I have to either bum a ride, or stumble the 6 blocks it takes to get to my house. Fucking car, I swear.
But here's the thing: I live in such a small town, that it'd almost fit in a WalMart parking lot. And also because I live in a small town, every time I leave my car in front of the tavern, everyone knows it. I mean, I live in the middle of Wyoming, where everyone drives a one ton pick up and so my VDub sticks out like a sore thumb, with its fancy fucking wheels and low profile tires (which I can't fucking STAND, but that is another story, for another day). EVERYONE knows my car, and I inevitably hear about said car, and how it must've gotten drunk last night. Fucking super. Super and awesome. But to those people, I tell them this:
Listen, assholes, I was thinking about it a few months ago and have decided that this town is so fucking small, it fits in a Super WalMart parking lot. Or, at the very least, it fits in the parking lot, and maybe spills over into a goddam KMart right across the street. Do you really think it's a wise choice to get a fucking DUI driving from one end of the parking lot to the other, or, say, driving from WalMart to some store across the road? Do you actually think I'd rather drive home instead of listening to you dicks giving me shit about it? Well, you can give me shit all day long, but I'll be happy as a fucking clam that I ain't gettin' tossed in the slammer 77 miles away, sitting in a fucking drunk tank waiting to sober up because I was too stupid to get behind the wheel of my car after having three too many fucking Dirty Hippies (which is a shot, by the way, the Dirty Hippies-- it's not like my vagina suddenly opened itself up for business for unkempt, stinky dreadies, with their shitty drumming skills).
So anyway. YES, my car got fucking drunk. But my ass got home, not arrested.
But here's the thing: I live in such a small town, that it'd almost fit in a WalMart parking lot. And also because I live in a small town, every time I leave my car in front of the tavern, everyone knows it. I mean, I live in the middle of Wyoming, where everyone drives a one ton pick up and so my VDub sticks out like a sore thumb, with its fancy fucking wheels and low profile tires (which I can't fucking STAND, but that is another story, for another day). EVERYONE knows my car, and I inevitably hear about said car, and how it must've gotten drunk last night. Fucking super. Super and awesome. But to those people, I tell them this:
Listen, assholes, I was thinking about it a few months ago and have decided that this town is so fucking small, it fits in a Super WalMart parking lot. Or, at the very least, it fits in the parking lot, and maybe spills over into a goddam KMart right across the street. Do you really think it's a wise choice to get a fucking DUI driving from one end of the parking lot to the other, or, say, driving from WalMart to some store across the road? Do you actually think I'd rather drive home instead of listening to you dicks giving me shit about it? Well, you can give me shit all day long, but I'll be happy as a fucking clam that I ain't gettin' tossed in the slammer 77 miles away, sitting in a fucking drunk tank waiting to sober up because I was too stupid to get behind the wheel of my car after having three too many fucking Dirty Hippies (which is a shot, by the way, the Dirty Hippies-- it's not like my vagina suddenly opened itself up for business for unkempt, stinky dreadies, with their shitty drumming skills).
So anyway. YES, my car got fucking drunk. But my ass got home, not arrested.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
First Date Definte Don'ts
A couple of years ago, I had just gotten out of a terrible, really fucking terrible, relationship and I went back home to NY to ease my troubled heart. On that particular trip, I couldn't find a rental car to save my life, and found myself stranded at my mom's house while she was at work. So as I was sitting there, channel surfing with one of my little sisters, an ad for eHarmony came on the tele. I looked over at her and said "Eh, what the fuck. With 20 million users, I'm bound to find my soul mate, right? I mean, RIGHT??" So, to beat the boredom of being trapped at Mom's, we decided to make up a profile, just for shits n' giggles.
Now I don't know if any of you have actually tried that dating site, but it is a pain in the mother fucking ASS. The questions were horrendously long and tedious. "Do you like to sleep in? How do you feel about Velveeta? Have you ever stuck a finger in your dog's ass to express its anal glands? Do you eat out, or would rather cook at home? How about toothpaste? Squeeze from the middle, or roll up the end? And, perhaps most importantly, which way do you put the roll of toilet paper on the holder?" And on and on and on and on. It got so fucking tedious that I started to question my sanity in choosing THIS to be how I'd spend my afternoon. But, I finished up and then came the exciting moment of truth: pressing the button that would now match me up with the perfect man. But right before doing so, they ask how close you want that person to be, geographically speaking. Well, seeing as how I lived in Fort Collins at the time, I figured 40 miles would be sufficient. So there I went, I pushed the button..... And as I sat there watching the loading circle-thing spin round and round and round, I was beginning to feel the excitement building. And Tada!!! My results!!
"We're sorry, but there are no matches for you within 40 miles of your location." What?? Are you fucking kidding me?? In all of Fort Collins, no matches?? Well, how about I pick 100 miles, because that includes Denver. And SURELY there's a match for me in DENVER, I mean, it's HUGE, right? Wrong again... "We're sorry. We have no matches for you." What the FUCK? FUCK THIS. Ok, WORLD FUCKING WIDE, THEN-- some French asshole with a really hot accent is sure to find my American charm totally irresistible. Nope. FUCKING, NOPE. My little sister thought that this was the funniest shit ever-- her big sister can't even find a date on the largest dating site in the world ("over 20 million members", after all). Well, that's just fucking bullshit. Either I'm the world's biggest schmuck, or I'm such a rare creature that no man can possibly measure up to me. In any case, I immediately deleted my account and demanded my money back.
Fast forward a few weeks later: This time, I saw an ad for match.com advertising a free three day trial. So, I thought: what the fuck? Why not try again-- none of these ass shits I'm meeting while out with my girlfriends are worth a damn (Roger That, Markus Balarkus, Fanny Pack guy, the puppet guy, and many more, believe me). Match can't be any worse that eHarmony, right? So once again, I make up a profile. I can't remember the questions, or the format, or really anything much about it. But I CAN, without a doubt, tell you about the one date that I managed to go on after meeting someone on there.
He was a tall, rugged-looking sort of fellow, a timber framer in the same business that my ex and I were in, so we knew some of the same people. His photos showed a broad shouldered jolly ol' fella of a guy, someone who looked like a lot of fun. Plus, he clearly loved spending time in the woods, given the amount of photos of him in them. I thought, sweet! Shows at least a little inkling of promise.
After some phone correspondence, which was witty and fun and more or less comfortable, we decided to Do The Deed and go on a real date. That night, I was working at Rasta Pasta (a real fun joint at the time) and told him that I'd meet up with him at a busy brew pub a block away from work, just as soon as I'd gotten off for the evening. And to make sure I knew who he was, I asked him how I'd know which fella he was. He said "I'm wearing a grayish blue polo with a red hat." Awesome. I scooted my buns right over there, excited at the idea of a date with a fun, cute guy.
So there I was, walking up to the joint (that has HUGE windows, by the way, perfect for people watching, both in AND outside the pub). As I recall, there was bit of a wait so I had ample time to look in the window and find the guy with the grayish blue polo, wearing a red hat. And, I did. Oh yes, I sure as fuck did. OH FUCK. Oh fuckity fuck fuck. Oh, fuck me like a pervert fucks a sheep. FUCK. That motherfucker clearly posted pictures that were a solid 75 pounds ago. OH SHIT! Goddammit, shit fucking shit balls! And he knows I'm on my way! What the FUCK??
After some self medicating (hopefully, I had a pile of some sort of drugs in my bag at the time, I can't recall), I hopped on the bravery horse and walked through the door. I walked up to the quivering pile of lard that was my DATE and introduced myself. His eyes, well, they lit up like fireworks in July. Mine, I'm pretty sure, were probably glassy as fuck by that time (the right kind of drugs work pretty fucking quick). I coolly smiled and offered my hand and said it was nice to meet him (LIES!).
So, we bellied up to the bar, where of course the bartendress asked us for our IDs, which we promptly provided. Mine was legit, duh, but his, I happened to see, had the big and bold RESTRICTED glaring across the top of it. He rather proudly, I think, told me he was on his third DUI but had somehow found some stupid loophole that allowed him to keep his license. Fucking SUPER. Red flag number TWO. Well, I let that go, because there was no way in hell that those sausage fingers would be making their way anywhere near my lady bits. No fucking WAY. In fact, I was so turned off by that guy that not even my Rabbit would come out of my drawer for fucking WEEKS. Ugh. I shiver to think of it.
But the best of that date was yet to come....
When one is on a first date, one generally tries to be on one's best behavior, am I right? One generally does not fart, or burp, or say or do much of anything that may be unattractive to a potential mate (even if only a one night sort of mate). Well. It became really clear, really fast, why this guy was using the internet to score chicks, this inner tube of pale and jiggly fat notwithstanding. After his second double Makers, he looks me dead in the eyes and asks me "Do you think it's weird to shit outside?" Me (in my head): "What?? What the FUCK? You're a fucking douchetard and I'm about to bounce this shit as soon as you tell me why you're asking me this" Me (verbally this time): "Well, I don't know. It depends. I mean, if you shit in the woods, that's fine. But I doubt the neighbors would appreciate you juicing a deuce in the front yard." He: "Well, what about the driveway? Here, I've got something to show you."
And much like a proud grandmother showing off pictures of the grandkids, HE PROCEEDED TO BUST OUT HIS PHONE AND SHOW ME A PICTURE OF THE SHIT HE LEFT IN HIS FUCKING DRIVEWAY!!!!
Friends, I'm proud to say that I immediately picked up my bag and, without saying a fucking word, got up and left. And I vaguely remember hearing him call after me "Does this mean we won't be seeing each other again?!"
Seriously. Fuck that guy.
Now I don't know if any of you have actually tried that dating site, but it is a pain in the mother fucking ASS. The questions were horrendously long and tedious. "Do you like to sleep in? How do you feel about Velveeta? Have you ever stuck a finger in your dog's ass to express its anal glands? Do you eat out, or would rather cook at home? How about toothpaste? Squeeze from the middle, or roll up the end? And, perhaps most importantly, which way do you put the roll of toilet paper on the holder?" And on and on and on and on. It got so fucking tedious that I started to question my sanity in choosing THIS to be how I'd spend my afternoon. But, I finished up and then came the exciting moment of truth: pressing the button that would now match me up with the perfect man. But right before doing so, they ask how close you want that person to be, geographically speaking. Well, seeing as how I lived in Fort Collins at the time, I figured 40 miles would be sufficient. So there I went, I pushed the button..... And as I sat there watching the loading circle-thing spin round and round and round, I was beginning to feel the excitement building. And Tada!!! My results!!
"We're sorry, but there are no matches for you within 40 miles of your location." What?? Are you fucking kidding me?? In all of Fort Collins, no matches?? Well, how about I pick 100 miles, because that includes Denver. And SURELY there's a match for me in DENVER, I mean, it's HUGE, right? Wrong again... "We're sorry. We have no matches for you." What the FUCK? FUCK THIS. Ok, WORLD FUCKING WIDE, THEN-- some French asshole with a really hot accent is sure to find my American charm totally irresistible. Nope. FUCKING, NOPE. My little sister thought that this was the funniest shit ever-- her big sister can't even find a date on the largest dating site in the world ("over 20 million members", after all). Well, that's just fucking bullshit. Either I'm the world's biggest schmuck, or I'm such a rare creature that no man can possibly measure up to me. In any case, I immediately deleted my account and demanded my money back.
Fast forward a few weeks later: This time, I saw an ad for match.com advertising a free three day trial. So, I thought: what the fuck? Why not try again-- none of these ass shits I'm meeting while out with my girlfriends are worth a damn (Roger That, Markus Balarkus, Fanny Pack guy, the puppet guy, and many more, believe me). Match can't be any worse that eHarmony, right? So once again, I make up a profile. I can't remember the questions, or the format, or really anything much about it. But I CAN, without a doubt, tell you about the one date that I managed to go on after meeting someone on there.
He was a tall, rugged-looking sort of fellow, a timber framer in the same business that my ex and I were in, so we knew some of the same people. His photos showed a broad shouldered jolly ol' fella of a guy, someone who looked like a lot of fun. Plus, he clearly loved spending time in the woods, given the amount of photos of him in them. I thought, sweet! Shows at least a little inkling of promise.
After some phone correspondence, which was witty and fun and more or less comfortable, we decided to Do The Deed and go on a real date. That night, I was working at Rasta Pasta (a real fun joint at the time) and told him that I'd meet up with him at a busy brew pub a block away from work, just as soon as I'd gotten off for the evening. And to make sure I knew who he was, I asked him how I'd know which fella he was. He said "I'm wearing a grayish blue polo with a red hat." Awesome. I scooted my buns right over there, excited at the idea of a date with a fun, cute guy.
So there I was, walking up to the joint (that has HUGE windows, by the way, perfect for people watching, both in AND outside the pub). As I recall, there was bit of a wait so I had ample time to look in the window and find the guy with the grayish blue polo, wearing a red hat. And, I did. Oh yes, I sure as fuck did. OH FUCK. Oh fuckity fuck fuck. Oh, fuck me like a pervert fucks a sheep. FUCK. That motherfucker clearly posted pictures that were a solid 75 pounds ago. OH SHIT! Goddammit, shit fucking shit balls! And he knows I'm on my way! What the FUCK??
After some self medicating (hopefully, I had a pile of some sort of drugs in my bag at the time, I can't recall), I hopped on the bravery horse and walked through the door. I walked up to the quivering pile of lard that was my DATE and introduced myself. His eyes, well, they lit up like fireworks in July. Mine, I'm pretty sure, were probably glassy as fuck by that time (the right kind of drugs work pretty fucking quick). I coolly smiled and offered my hand and said it was nice to meet him (LIES!).
So, we bellied up to the bar, where of course the bartendress asked us for our IDs, which we promptly provided. Mine was legit, duh, but his, I happened to see, had the big and bold RESTRICTED glaring across the top of it. He rather proudly, I think, told me he was on his third DUI but had somehow found some stupid loophole that allowed him to keep his license. Fucking SUPER. Red flag number TWO. Well, I let that go, because there was no way in hell that those sausage fingers would be making their way anywhere near my lady bits. No fucking WAY. In fact, I was so turned off by that guy that not even my Rabbit would come out of my drawer for fucking WEEKS. Ugh. I shiver to think of it.
But the best of that date was yet to come....
When one is on a first date, one generally tries to be on one's best behavior, am I right? One generally does not fart, or burp, or say or do much of anything that may be unattractive to a potential mate (even if only a one night sort of mate). Well. It became really clear, really fast, why this guy was using the internet to score chicks, this inner tube of pale and jiggly fat notwithstanding. After his second double Makers, he looks me dead in the eyes and asks me "Do you think it's weird to shit outside?" Me (in my head): "What?? What the FUCK? You're a fucking douchetard and I'm about to bounce this shit as soon as you tell me why you're asking me this" Me (verbally this time): "Well, I don't know. It depends. I mean, if you shit in the woods, that's fine. But I doubt the neighbors would appreciate you juicing a deuce in the front yard." He: "Well, what about the driveway? Here, I've got something to show you."
And much like a proud grandmother showing off pictures of the grandkids, HE PROCEEDED TO BUST OUT HIS PHONE AND SHOW ME A PICTURE OF THE SHIT HE LEFT IN HIS FUCKING DRIVEWAY!!!!
Friends, I'm proud to say that I immediately picked up my bag and, without saying a fucking word, got up and left. And I vaguely remember hearing him call after me "Does this mean we won't be seeing each other again?!"
Seriously. Fuck that guy.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Death of a Gerbil
Once, many moons ago (well, way after the Mayans all died off, so not quite THAT long ago-- hell, it was even after tight-rolling your jeans was cool, so really.. just a few years ago), I had a brief friendship with a fella who shall remain nameless. (Let's just say that currently, he apparently has a thing for foxes.) ANYWAY, this fox fella, he once said to me "never let the truth get in the way of a good story." Fucking fantastic words to live by. But yesterday, it occurred to me that, you know, what if the truth IS the good story? Because sometimes, I come up with some pretty stupid shit that I've said and done throughout the years. And in this little nugget of shitheadded awesome, I did not, in fact, let the truth get in the way of a good story, and friends, this is just a taste of what a horrible person I really am. As I think I scarred some of my siblings for at LEAST a couple of days.
As anyone who knows me knows, I'm pretty open about shitting and farting and find such matters utterly hilarious. Basically, I'm a 13 year old boy caught in the body of a 35 year old woman. Not such a bad way to live, you ask me. And I will never forget that one fine day on a hot summer afternoon while driving my two sisters and one of my brothers to god knows where (a detail that no one gives a shit about, least of all me). So, we're driving and this lovely woman, me, squawked out some pretty foul smelling air shit. I rolled up the windows in the middle of July and fucking cranked up the heat. And if any of you have ever done that, you know and can appreciate the complete and total satisfaction of torturing your passengers. In fact, it should absolutely be one of the things you need to put on the über hip Bucket List of Things To Do Before You Die.
Ok, back to this story, that isn't really even much of a story:
So, I've got three of my adolescent siblings trapped in the back of my car, hot as fuck, windows rolled up, heat cranked on high. I can barely see them because the gas is just horrific. Through incessant whining and begging and pleading for relief (I gave them none), they asked me "Jesus, Sissy, why do your farts smell SO BAAAAD?? Mom's aren't even that bad!" I looked 'em dead in the eyes and said "A gerbil died in my ass and now it's rotting. I can't get it out so I have to keep farting till it shoots itself out of my ass and into my underwear. Pooping is a real bitch right now."
Suddenly, it got real fucking quiet in there. The questions came later.
As anyone who knows me knows, I'm pretty open about shitting and farting and find such matters utterly hilarious. Basically, I'm a 13 year old boy caught in the body of a 35 year old woman. Not such a bad way to live, you ask me. And I will never forget that one fine day on a hot summer afternoon while driving my two sisters and one of my brothers to god knows where (a detail that no one gives a shit about, least of all me). So, we're driving and this lovely woman, me, squawked out some pretty foul smelling air shit. I rolled up the windows in the middle of July and fucking cranked up the heat. And if any of you have ever done that, you know and can appreciate the complete and total satisfaction of torturing your passengers. In fact, it should absolutely be one of the things you need to put on the über hip Bucket List of Things To Do Before You Die.
Ok, back to this story, that isn't really even much of a story:
So, I've got three of my adolescent siblings trapped in the back of my car, hot as fuck, windows rolled up, heat cranked on high. I can barely see them because the gas is just horrific. Through incessant whining and begging and pleading for relief (I gave them none), they asked me "Jesus, Sissy, why do your farts smell SO BAAAAD?? Mom's aren't even that bad!" I looked 'em dead in the eyes and said "A gerbil died in my ass and now it's rotting. I can't get it out so I have to keep farting till it shoots itself out of my ass and into my underwear. Pooping is a real bitch right now."
Suddenly, it got real fucking quiet in there. The questions came later.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Alright, nanu nanu, motherfuckers. A little Mork n' Mindy never hurt nobody.
Right here n' now, I just wanna say that..... IT'S UP N' RUNNING, BITCHES! I have no fucking idea what the fuck I'm gonna write about, save for making sure you all know that any day you don't find your shit stained underwear wadded up in the bottom of a trashcan in the men's bathroom at a low rent Chinese joint, is a good day. So today? Yeah, today's a good day. Yesterday? Well, let's just say I've had better yesterdays, shall we? And we'll leave it at that.
So look out, 'cause Skampcity is about to get totally taste-free. Well, mostly.
Right here n' now, I just wanna say that..... IT'S UP N' RUNNING, BITCHES! I have no fucking idea what the fuck I'm gonna write about, save for making sure you all know that any day you don't find your shit stained underwear wadded up in the bottom of a trashcan in the men's bathroom at a low rent Chinese joint, is a good day. So today? Yeah, today's a good day. Yesterday? Well, let's just say I've had better yesterdays, shall we? And we'll leave it at that.
So look out, 'cause Skampcity is about to get totally taste-free. Well, mostly.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)