Grand Slam Breakfast

I have been with my girlfriend for around 7 months. She had just moved into my apartment in the city. Anyway I have always had this fetish for rape fantasy sex, but it has never felt that real with the girls that have done it with me because they were poor actors in bed. I told my girlfriend this and she agreed that she was up for fulfilling my rape fantasy sometime. So fast forward a couple weeks and I get off work at 7pm and head back to my apartment. Instead of going in through the door I walk to the side of the house (it’s dark out) and look through the window to see my gf lying in bed reading a magazine with a lamp on. I pull out a cig and start to plan my assault. I put on the ski mask that I brought with me and cut the screen out of the window. I, as quietly as possible climb through the window into my apartment. Silently I walk to the bedroom. My girlfriend screams and I jump on her and hold the knife to her throat. I ripped off her pants, then her thong and fucked her. It was the best sex ever. She was screaming the whole time. After I came I ran out of the house got in my car and drove to Denny's. I ordered the grandslam breakfast and waited for my gf to call. She soon called crying saying that she was raped. I told her that I had raped her and described my actions to prove it. She broke up with me the next day, but man that was some good sex.

First Time

When I was 15 my girlfriend at the time was finally ready to have sex. I, as one might expect of a 15 year old, was excited. Neither hell nor high water was going to stand between me and my final destination.

I get ready for the night, trim everything up, shower extra well. Unfortunately there was also an issue. I have a digestional disorder that sometimes cause my shit to become large and quite solid while still inside me. I wasn't aware it was a treatable problem and, in fact, just thought everyone had to deal with the equivalent of anal kidney stones. I bring this up because I had a mighty one which had been loaded into the gun for several days.

Let me set the scene. Her parents are away. We have her house to ourselves. She was always a little kinky so she demands we do it in her parents bed. I walk in to a candle holocaust. She's been working on this all day apparently, and its as bright as high noon in there with the lights off. Which is good, because she proceeds to do a sweet, sexy little dance for me. At 16, she was AMAZING. For those of you who never experienced a female at that age, I pity the fool.

Now I'm sitting on the bed, watching this dance. I smile and tell her how good she looks. Unfortunately, most of my attention is focused on the dull throbbing from my sphincter and the large amount of intestinal discomfort associated with not dropping duce in days. But somehow I still get hard and we go to town. She starts out on top, then we switch. I bend her over the bed, and I even smack her ass (a ballsy move at the time, but she loved it). Due to my built up distraction, I last for what seems like FOREVER. She can't stop moaning and telling me how good it feels, and then she says what every man wants to hear "I want to make you cum in my mouth." I fucking love women.

So she goes down on me. She was always average at best in the head department but at least she tried. She pops my cock out of her mouth long enough to look up at me and say "tell me if you like this". Then I feel it.

She stuck her finger up my ass.

My brain hits the panic switch and every muscle in my entire body locks up tighter than a three year old virgin. But its too late.

I take a massive, PAINFUL, PAINFUL shit, all over her parents comforter.
No, you aren't understanding. I mean large. Huge. IMMENSE. Take your largest shit and multiple it by forty-two and you'll have an idea of what flew out of me.
And gents, when I say flew, I don't mean "I pooped." I mean "projectile". I mean "hurricane force winds hitting an umbrella stand". And due to my condition, it comes out as a large, dark brown, smelly harpoon.

I know it hit her. I didn't see it. She ran screaming "OH MY GOD OHMYGODOHMYGODEEEEEWWWWWWWW" but I always imagined that, due to her position, it hit her right in the chin. Or at least the tits. I would like to say I got up to go after her. But I heard the bathroom door shut and I just lied there. The smell hit me after a few seconds. It smelled like someone rolled a cat in shit and threw it into a tire fire. I looked down and saw, to date, the largest bowel movement I've ever heard of laying on the bed. Then I noticed the blood, and when I did, I noticed the pain.

Apparently the fact that it was so large caused it to rip my ass a little bit (thought I was bleeding from the inside. This little doctors trip the next day is what taught me of my condition). There was a small pool of blood where my ass had been. A final reminder of the exact place and moment I lost my virginity. I will treasure this memory for all my days.

I grab my shit with my hands and go to the downstairs bathroom. I throw around 1/3 into the toilet and flush, fearing any more will clog it and only add to my already significant woes. I stand there, holding 2/3's of my biggest shit of all time, feeling a trickle of blood flow down my leg, trying to ignore the sharp pain stabbing my rectum. I find myself wishing I had a photo of this.

Anyway, I finish flushing my baby, clean off my hands, jam toilet paper between my cheeks (I skipped the bandaid) and went upstairs. I could hear my girlfriend sobbing from behind the bathroom door. I decided not to say anything to her and just keep moving. The smell in her parents room was abysmal. Its like when you take a shit and walk out of the bathroom you think "hey not so bad today," but then you walk back in to grab your magazine and go "HOLY SHIT!". It was one of those moments.

The scene is burned behind my eyelids for all time. My life. My shame. My very first time smelled like a pile of dead babies. I quickly got dressed since the heat from ten thousand candles was making the room feel more like a port-a-potty. I was aware enough to grab the comforter on my way out and drag it downstairs to their washer. Also the top and bottom sheets since the blood had leaked on through all the way to mattress. Still no sign of the GF but at this point I considered it a blessing.

I jammed in the washer with 3 loads worth of detergent and set it on spin, knowing that not even the hand of God would save these linens, let alone Tide and Snuggles. Then I left. I avoided my GF's calls for days until she came to my house. We had a long talk about what happened. Talk being synonymous with "breaking up with me because I shit on her". And it was all over. She promised not to tell a soul and I don't THINK she ever did. She was probably as ashamed as I was about the whole deed. But I will always this happening as the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me.

Stranded

Recently I came across a question online I thought I could have fun with. It was as follows: "If you were stranded on a tropical island by yourself with boxes of cornflakes and 6 chickens, how would you survive the longest off these two resources?". So, I came up with the most reasonable and appropriate answer.....

I’m assuming that out of the the 6 chickens, there is at least one rooster, and that the cornflakes are infinite since no specific amount was provided. I will create a cage for the chickens using the cardboard from the cornflake boxes, and cornflakes will be spread around the cage for the chickens to eat. Eventually, the chickens will start laying some eggs, and I can rip up some more cornflake boxes for them to use as a nest. At first, I will allow the majority of these eggs to hatch into chicks and save a few for gourmet meals for when I get sick of eating cornflakes every day.

After a couple of months/years of this, I will have a suitable enough chicken farm that I can start harvesting a lot more of the eggs, and even eat a chicken every now and then. Once this happens, I will get some more cardboard from a cornflakes box and rip it into a triangle shape, and I will kill a chicken and use its blood to write a message on some more cornflake box cardboard, using my makeshift pen. On this piece of cardboard I will advertise that I have fresh eggs for trade which were grown by the loving care of a man stranded on an island with an infinite amount of cornflakes, and an infinite amount of heart. There I will wrap my message in the skin of a chicken to keep it dry, and throw it into the ocean. I will do this multiple times so that I can assure that my message will be received.

So eventually somebody gets my message, and they think “oh man, I could really go for some eggs right now”. So they rent a boat and come to my island (I forgot to mention that in this time I constructed a rather large sing out of cornflake boxes and chicken blood, and I also sent out some maps) where the person has a taste of one of my delicious eggs, and cannot fathom ever eating an egg coming from another chicken in his entire life that tasted as wonderful as these, so he offers me some money to take home a dozen of my “god eggs”. I refuse his cash offer, and instead ask him to bring me some gardening tools, and to spread the word of my perfect egg farm. He agrees.

My egg island becomes the talk of the town. People are raging to get a taste of these eggs, and I get customers almost daily. I do not take cash, for I will not need it on my island, but I instead barter for the eggs. I ask for things like seeds, tools, building materials. I want to start living it up on my island. One day, a strapping young lad approaches me, and begs to learn my secret. “How could somebody make such wonderful eggs?” he asks. I offer him a position at my side as an apprentice, for in the years that I have spent putting together my island egg masterpiece, I have gotten rather lonely, almost insanely so, with the chickens as my only companions. He accepts.

Now that I have an employee working for me, things begin to go a lot smoother. I am selling eggs by the hundreds, and have started work on building myself a proper house to replace the cardboard roof I have been living under for all these years. Building even a simple cabin proves to be an extremely difficult task, but with weeks of hard work, me and my apprentice (who will from now on be referred to as AJ) construct a fine little shelter, complete with different rooms, and a nice little fireplace to keep us warm at night.

My life is a breeze now. My egg farm is now providing over 90% of the eggs to the surrounding townsfolk, and I am one of the most renowned people around. I trained AJ well enough that he has taken over most of the business because I am starting to get a little bit old, though I will still be running things behind the scenes. I decide that it is time for me to obtain a wife.

Most of the townsfolk seem uninteresting to me, until one day when a woman I have never seen before approaches AJ. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever laid eyes on. I knew that I had to get on that! I approached AJ and tell him to go rake the leaves or something, I don’t even care that there are no trees; I just want to get rid of this little cock-block. I introduce myself to the lady, and tell her that these are the best eggs she will ever taste, and offer her to dine with me. She accepts, and I tell her to return not a moment after sunset.

I spend the rest of the day preparing the greatest meal I have ever made; A boiled chicken with a fried egg on top of it, and a side of cornflakes in chicken milk. Ok fine, so I haven’t become the best chef in my time here, but by God I’ve become a farmer, I tell AJ to try some of my meal and he dies. SHIT what the fuck do I do now? That chick I want to bang will be here any moment! Quick as lightning, I go outside and find the dude I hired to hold up my sign that I made, and tell him to come inside for a second. He hasn’t moved at all in the three years that he has been my slave, so he is very excited as to what I have in store for him. Little did the poor fella know.

As he comes into my house, I push him into the fireplace. His shrieks are almost deafening, but I endure as he slowly dies and begins to bake, I remove his clothes and rotate him every half hour or so, blasting him with the bodily fluids of AJ, who is starting to decompose, until he is a fine golden brown in color. My mouth waters just looking at him. I realize that I am running out of time, and quickly carve up the meat and serve it with a side of cornflakes. It looks delicious.

I hear a knock at the door. It’s her! “Come in, there’s no lock” I say as she opens the door, slowly revealing her beauty. She complements the homeliness of my place, and I offer her a seat and a glass of “Wine” (AJ). She says that it is one of the more unique wines that she has tasted, but she likes it anyways. Off to a good start it seems, hopefully she thinks the same about that retard sign guy.

We chat for a while, I learn her name is Alexis and that she travels the world looking for good tasking eggs. I tell her that’s a fucking retarded job and she’s all like “haha just kidding dumbass, I’m a librarian” That’s a pretty shitty job too, but whatever, I haven’t had this much contact with another person besides AJ in years, so I nod along and pretend like I give a shit until I finally decide it’s time to eat.

So we’re sitting at the table and I’m all “Dinner is served bitch!” as I bring her the shredded remains of that retard sign guy and the cornflakes. “What the shit is this?” she asks. “Cornflakes? I thought you were famous or some shit, why the fuck are you eating cornflakes?” I smack her and tell her to eat what I put on the table, the undeserving bitch. She eats some of that retard and she’s all “Wow this is actually pretty good, what is it?” and I tell her it’s lamb or something, I don’t really give a shit anymore, I just want to rail this bitch all night.

We finish eating and she’s like “Well thanks for the meal, I’m leaving.” NOT ON MY WATCH BITCH. Quick as lightning, I beat the shit out of her with that retard’s femur or something, I don’t give a fuck what bone it actually is but it was pretty long and sturdy so I guess it’s a femur or something. She’s unconscious and bleeding so I wrap her head in a chicken skin bandage I made, and tie her to my bed using AJ’s skin.

She wakes up about an hour later, and she’s all screaming and shit like “WHAT THE FUCK UNTIE MY SHIT I DON’T WANT TO DIE NO!!” and being an annoying little bitch like that, crying and shit, staining my sweet-ass chicken skin bed sheets. So I march up into this fucking room and kick her right in the puss and she starts crying and bleeding and crying harder. I fuck the shit out of her right there, using the blood as lubrication. This shit goes on for like 18 hours until I finally get tired and hove a sock in her mouth so that I can have some peace and quiet while I get some rest.

When I wake up, she’s dead, probably from all the blood loss. I fuck her for a couple more hours until her shit gets too dry for even me, so I skin her and chuck her into the ocean…anyway, that’s how I would survive.

When men cry

I have composed a list of the few times it is acceptable for a man to cry:

1. Testicle Injury
2. Breakup with hot girlfriend
3. Sports team loss
4. Watching the end of "Old Yeller"
5. Death in the family
6. Condom broke
7. New car stolen
8. Out of beer
9. $5 footlong promotion ends

If Hitler wrote a rap....

Wake up in the morning feelin' like Der Fuhrer
Write Mein Kampf, tell Germany I'm gunna make race purer
Before I leave, fuck my niece, with Eva Braun too
Cuz when I leave for Mein Reich, I'm gunna kill some jews

I'm talking
Takin off all their clothes clothes
Gassin' them 'til they choke choke
Throwin 'em in some stoves stoves

Goose steppin
Right into all your cities
Spreadin' the Nazi party
Tryin to take over your countryyy

Don't stop, make 'em drop!
Nazis blow your cities up!
Tonight, they gunna fight
'Til you give into the Reich.

That high?

Dancing around in my room listening to the most upbeat song ever only to realize that it was actually the wind and decided that Lady Gaga ain't got shit on the wind. Then a bird started chirping and I started smiling at the idea of the bird coming in, yelling out "remix" and joining in on the song. i spent the next 30 minutes just enjoying that perfect moment of happiness. Did I smoke that much weed?

Biters

Now, I’m sure many of you have encountered little shits in supermarkets. Little kids running about and knocking things over, being rude, walking all over their parents, you know the kind. But the worst are the biters. Yes, those little bastards that feel it is okay to bite you whenever they feel like it. Okay, here’s the best part. A biter got me today when I was grocery stopping. He broke the fucking skin, too. This was when the gears started turning, the moment I saw a tiny sprickle of blood on the little shit’s teeth as he was grinning at me like the little bastard he is. I made my eyes get wide, and started screaming “SHIT! SHIT!.” Now, my good friend, Tom we’ll call him, was there too, and he instantly picked up on it. He started shouting “FUCK! MAYBE HE DIDN’T GET IT! FUCK!.” By now, the kid is scared shitless and starts crying, and instantly, Mizz Mom appears out of nowhere and starts getting pissy at us for yelling at her kid. Here’s the kicker, I look her straight in the eye and say, “Ma'am, get your son tested as soon as possible, he just bit me and I’m… I’m FUCKING HIV POSITIVE.” And now there is silence. Not a peep in the entire store. The brat knows he just fucked up big time because his mom isn’t defending his ass. She just stares at me wide eyed. I walk away from them, buy my shit from the wide eyed cashier, all the while blood is dripping from my calf, making a nice little trail on the floor. And, just s we leave, we start to hear the mother sobbing. Sobbing like the bitch she is. I have never felt any more satisfaction than the moment I heard that sob.

Unholy creation

Last summer after I was finished administering a good hot dicking to my girlfriend, I go to the bathroom to clean up like I always do. This time I had to take a shit. So I'm about to throw the condom into the toilet to get rid of it when an idea comes to me. I put four fingers into the open end of the condom and stretch it out and hold it up to the my asshole and shit into the condom. A perfect smooth finely tapered poop. It slides all the way down into the bottom of the condom. Coming to reset in the pool of ejaculate, and displacing some of it so that it flows up the sides of the turd. Perfect. It fits like a banana in its skin. Then I look at my creation, wondering if anything could possibly be more awesome. Then i clip my toenails and drop them in there for good measure. I take the whole thing, hold the opening over the faucet and start filling it with warm water. I'm thinking of all the awesome things i could do with my newly acquired disease balloon, running all the different scenarios through my head trying to select the single most awesome one. "This is going to be epic!" I tell myself. I take it off the tap, it's about the size of a volleyball now, and I go to tie it at the end. I have the bit stretched around my fingers, ready to put the tip through the loop and complete the knot when the motherfucker slips out of grip because the freshly unrolled end was still lubricated. It starts spewing it's payload before it even hits the floor.

It lands on my foot, bounces a little and empties itself all over my white socks. My girlfriend, who is still in the bedroom is started to hear a loud "FUUUUUUCCCCKKK!" emanating from the bathroom. She then opens the door to check on me and is greeted by the sight of her boyfriend standing in a puddle of shit stew with a limp condom at his feet. She just stares for a moment, dumbfounded, like she can't believe what's happening. She doesn't want to believe. There's poo and cum and toenails on the floor, on the walls, on the mirror, and on me. While her brain tries to make sense of the scene in front of her, I slam the door in her face, which seems to snap her out of the daze. "What the fuck?! What the fuck did you do?!" she screams, like she's about to cry. I feel regret. Not for what I did, but for what I could have done. It smells now. I dry off with her towel then drop in on the floor, covering what part of the mess I can. I put on my cool face and exit the bathroom, gently shutting the door behind me. My girlfriend eyes me. I know she's waiting for an explanation, but I don't think she could hand it. So I walk past her without saying anything. I put on my coat and tell her "It's getting kid of later. I'm going to head home now." She just stares at me with the dumb look on her face. I drop my poo socks in her mailbox and walk home. That was the last time i would hear from her. But I had something better now. A dream. I would make another.

A letter to the pickle company

To the fine people at Van Holten pickles,

I'm writing you to express the deep satisfaction I've experienced with your product. Some time ago I stumbled across your pickles, disheveled, at the bottom of a cooler in a local grocery store; a display unbecoming of the admiration they deserve, in retrospect. Instantly I was infatuated with the prospect of a "sour pickle". I love sour. I love pickles. Never before had such a synergistic compilation of olfactory stimulation been placed conveniently before me in its own individual wrapping. I felt obligated to buy one on that merit alone.

My first sour pickle was eaten in the company of a tuna fish sandwich. I quickly learned, however, that it was indeed the sandwich which was second to the pickle, as the tuna succeeded only in diluting the awesome flavor of the Van Holten. I've since concluded that your pickles are best eaten by themselves, lest the accompanying food item be delegated a role of ancillary filler. At present, I eat perhaps two or three of your pickles per week.

Yet the potency of your brine is not the telling aspect of my testimonial. Rather, it is what I eat your pickles in spite of that shall serve as vindication of my endorsement. You see, eating one of your pickles causes me to **** profusely. At first I thought it was only a coincidence. No, it must have been that entire can of corned beef hash I ate last night, I would think. Perhaps I need more roughage. Yes, that's it. A bowl of Raisin Bran with my hash next time, and I'll be all set.

Unfortunately this was not to be the case. As time went on I could see there was a distinct and undeniable pattern: I eat a sour pickle; I wait a few hours; I **** with a vengeance. I try to hold it off sometimes, like I might with an average bowel movement which strikes me at an inopportune time, but it is to no avail. The Van Holten sour pickle cannot be contained by any mortal sphincter. Just the other night I found myself atop the porcelain repository, hands clutched in a white-knuckled death grip to the tub and sink at either side of me, my *** in a seemingly perpetual cycle of dry heaving as it searched the deepest recesses of my bowels for more of the virulent filth to expel. I couldn't have stopped it if I wanted to. The process was completely involuntary. As I sat there, diaphragm convulsing, I reflected on my decision to consume your product. I reflected, and I had no regrets. My dedication remains steadfast.

I must also confess to offering a bit of free advertising on your behalf, albeit in a form that's viewable to a select few. I couldn't resist, upon reading your packaging, clipping out the section which reads "contents: one pickle" and affixing it to my belt buckle. You may rest assured that everyone who removes my pants and inquires as to the origin of the pickle advertisement receives nothing less than a favorable review on your part.

Your loyal customer,
Donovan S. Cummins

P.S. It should also be noted that I've yet to sample the Little Pepe picante pickle. I recommend in the meantime you take the opportunity to purchase stock with the Charmin corporation.

Shameful shitter

All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad Traffic, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent callers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I had last taken a dump. I'd tried to jump start the process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal, following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-lade lunch at Taco Bueno. As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart the big things would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at the mall to pick up a new hat from the smoking hot chick that works at Lids. I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything Must Go!". This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go.

I hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1 through 4:

1. Occupied
2. Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied one
3. Poo on seat
4. No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of toilet

Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped trou and sat down. I'm normally a fairly shameful shitter. I wasn't happy about being next to the occupied stall, but as i mentioned earlier, big things were afoot.

I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from the next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8dB louder than it needed to be. Out of shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on. Mr. Shitter was blathering to Mrs Shitter about the shitty day he had, I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, i became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but i was too polite to yak about it in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.

Finally my anger reached a point that overcame shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude -- a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.

Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent: 1. The next door conversation had ceased 2. my colon's continued seizing indicated that there was more to come, and 3. the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench. It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way underneath the stall and began choking my poop-mate. This initial "herald" fart had ended his conversation in mid sentence.

"Oh my God," I hear him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking, and then, "No, baby, that wasn't me (cough, gag), you could hear that (gag)?""

Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all it was worth. I could swear that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and blasts, that I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in me was incredible, It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surveying the damage, I'd see that liquid poop had actually managed to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side onto the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang on for the ride.

Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony: "Gotta go... horrible... throw up... in my mouth... no... make it... tell the kids... love them... oh God..." followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.

Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one's phone and wipe one's bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I hear a plop and splash from next door, followed by a string of swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.

There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily into the water. That must have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

After a considerable amount of paperwork, i got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad for the janitor who'd be forced to deal with this, but i knew that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.

As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.

I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me, but i saw no one. i suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my shamefulness to my anonymous poop-mate. I think it'll be a long time before he can bring himself to poop in public -- and i doubt he'll ever again answer his cell phone in the toilet. And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom again.

An explanation

I entered your fine eatery alone today. You greeted me with a great big smile and I was smitten immediately. You are gorgeous and exactly my type, down to the perfume you so delicately shared with me as you passed by. I'm really a normal guy and I'd like to explain myself. Perhaps we can put today's unfortunate events aside and start over in a few weeks, should I be lucky enough you read this.

Men are pigs. This is a simple fact of life. I'll be the first to admit it. That said, I was admiring you work for a while and was becoming more and more attracted to you. The more I watched, not all stalker like mind you, the more I was sure you were in fact as beautiful as I had first observed. When you came back to my table and offered to top off my coffee, I was so focused on being close to you, so enamored, I failed to recognize what was going on in my pants.

What I FELT was something foreign moving in my pants. What was ACTUALLY happening was, I was getting an erection. My first gut reaction was to immediately, without hesitation, rain death down upon this uninvited intruder. Kill it before it killed me.

What you SAW, was me grab my fork off the table and stab myself in the dick.

I was as shocked as you were. BELIEVE YOU ME! I'm not one to go around stabbing myself with forks all the time. Especially in the groinal region. This was a simple case of my "fight or flight" mechanism working overdrive. I was also as shocked as you at the sheer volume of blood involved.

I reached for a napkin to fashion a tourniquet with. You ran screaming for the phone to call th police. To say the least our time together did no go as I'd hoped. I did the only thing a self respecting guy could do. I tossed $40 down on a $5 tab and ran like a bitch.

What I'm looking for from you is just some information and perhaps a second chance.
Are the police still looking for me?
Do you want your napkin back?
Are you single?

I should be all healed up in a few weeks....Drinks?

Internet question

So as i was browsing the internet (as I do very frequently), I stumbled across a question that I thought intriguing. With that, I made a very strange and jumbled question even more strange and jumbled.


Question:
Who should i choose out of these girls?

Well this is the story... I started going out with this girl named Katie last year and a little bit this year and I became friends with another girl named Amber but we stayed friends the whole time. And while Katie and I were dating, these two girls named Vanessa and Ally flirted with me the whole time and then Katie broke up with me because of that, so Vanessa told me she like me and we almost went out (then i became friends with another girl named Becca) but ally asked me out first ( and then someone tole me Becca was going to try to break up Ally and I) but then I found out Amber like me so I broke up with Ally to go out with Amber and now I hear Becca's going to try to break up Amber and I.

Also-
Becca can't go out until she is 16 years old
Amber and I text more than talk
Vanessa doesn't like me as much any more and she's a slut
Ally isn't as hot as anyone else but like me the most
I don't like Ally as much as she like me
Becca and I talk like crazy

So who should I go out with and why?
Here are the choices:
-Amber
-Ally
-Becca
-Vanessa


My response:
Alright, let me tell you something, Trevor. Is your name Trevor? No? Well it is now. You see, Trevor, if you date Becca, you will be a child molester. I'm guessing you are like 18, or 36. So scratch Becca. Let's move on to Vanessa. You say she's a slut. Well, remember, when it comes to sluts, you got to look at the pros and cons Trevor. The cons definitely outweigh the pros here. Sluts come with herpes, syphilis, genital warts, and crabs. Do you want crabs, Trevor? I didn't think so. So bam! Just like that, Becca and Vanessa are gone.

Let's move onto Ally. You say Ally likes you the most. She sounds like a nice sweet girl. However, what you're saying is, you wouldn't "get wit dat" unless she was wearing a paper bag over her head. You are a shallow person, and Ally doesn't need a guy like that. You won't be happy. She won't be happy. It'd just be a bad combination, Trevor.

So that leaves Amber. I say go with Amber. She doesn't have herpes, she won't be illegal (I hope), and you won't be a shallow douche to her (at first). I know you like Becca, Trevor. I know you want ONNN DAT! But listen up Trevor. She's not even 16. Run away, just run away from that.

BECAUSE:
What happens when you go after little girls? Chris Hansen happens, Trevor. I don't want to see Trevor on "To Catch a Predator". Stick with Amber. Bam! Did you see how we accomplished that, Trevor? You give me the facts, and I throw them down, and we solve the problem. It's called teamwork, Trevor. I couldn't have done it without you. And you couldn't have done it without me.

Goodbye Trevor,
Until next time...

3 Things to do if you encounter a bear

1. Pull out your cell phone:
"Excuse me, I gotta take this."
This will quickly make the bear feel less significant. The bear will also
think ripping your face apart to be rather inconsiderate, especially
if you are trying to have a meaningful conversation.

2. Put your clothes on backwards:
Bears will have a very hard time attacking you if they can't tell which
direction you are actually facing. The bear will eventually leave the
area and ponder what just happened. In extreme cases, the bear
will even die of confusion.

3. Whip out a survey:
"Would you be interested in filling out this brief
survey? It's for a good cause"
No one on this planet wants to fill out a survey. Bears will quickly
try to leave the area to avoid further confrontation. Tell them it's
for a good cause and they'll even feel bad doing so. They will also
be quickly embarrassed when they realize they don't know how to
use a pen.

Industrial Bathroom

Funniest darn thing that has ever happened to me. A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night, which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards. It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.

We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you - in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated… perhaps a bit too much, however.

I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first I thought it was only gas, which could have been passed in batches right at the table without too much concern.

Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress... I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good shit. But in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire-cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shit.



I went to the normal stall. In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical portions. I began "The Move."

For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that cannot be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of shit at the exact same second that one’s ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.

I was about halfway into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards attending kids night. It was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, such a thing would not have bothered me, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch.

What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events is a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can. In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crouched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus.



Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over shit no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since shitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted. At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of shit the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass.

But remember, I was only halfway down on the toilet at that moment. The shit wave was of such force, and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat, that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall - at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down. Recall that when that event occurred, I was already halfway to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the shit wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls - unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of shit remaining on about one-third of the seat rim, which I had now just collapsed upon.

Now, back to the vomit...

While all the shitting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist… and directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweatpants with elastic on the ankles. In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet. In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended. Yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in shit that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid shit. All while thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.

And there was no friggin toilet paper. What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.



About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to bring the car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. She left.

The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage or just slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose. Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels.

Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed, in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.

When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door.

The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.

Fresh Prince of 1890

Now, this is a tale of how the way in which I live my life was utterly turned upon it's ear, so I would fain request a moment of your time, please stay put in your seat and I will recount the tale of how I was elected as the Prince of Bel Aire. In the settlement of Philadelphia, I was born. Playing hoop and stick is how I would pass the time as a child. I was relaxing peacefully, presenting myself as an upright gentleman, when quite to my dismay a band of ruffians began to wreak havoc upon my humble neighborhood. I was engage in one small dual with these chaps and my mother was filled with fear, and henceforth decreed that I was to take new residence with my Aunt and Uncle in settlement of Bell Aire. I arranged for a carriage and as it arrived I noted the horses were branded with the word "FRESH" and a pair of playing dice were strung up over the mirror. If I could make any further comments, I would remark that the carriage had a foul stench. However, I chose to ignore and exclaimed "Sully forth to Bell Aire!". I arrived at the home of my relatives between the hours of seven and eight o'clock and said to the carriage driver "I shall smell your stench at a later date, my good man." I surveyed my glorious kingdom, for I had finally arrived, to sit on my throne as the Prince of Bell Aire.

Three Wolf Shirt

I have heard the legend of the mighty 3 wolves shirt and much desired one for myself, but alas, the funds have not been available, having been heavily invested in huffable products. Yet I continued to dream of one day proudly sporting a 3 wolves shirt, slashed and beaded in the way of my people, with a pair of zebra stripe leggings,and dirty white fringed boots, standing majestically astride an icy mountain stream in the moonlight.

Then came the greatest day of my life. My friend, who is now my best friend, gave me this shirt as a birthday gift. This item has wolves on it which makes it intrinsically sweet and worth 5 stars by itself, but once I tried it on, that's when the magic happened. After checking to ensure that the shirt would properly cover my girth, I walked from my house to Wal-mart with the shirt on and was immediately approached by women. The women knew from the wolves on my shirt that I, like a wolf, am a mysterious loner who knows how to 'howl at the moon' from time to time (if you catch my drift!). The women that approached me wanted to know if I would be their boyfriend and/or give them money for something they called meth. I told them no, because they didn't have enough teeth, and frankly a man with a wolf-shirt shouldn't settle for the first thing that comes to him.

I arrived at Wal-mart, mounted my courtesy-scooter (walking is such a drag!) sitting side saddle so that my wolves would show. While I was browsing tube socks, I could hear aroused asthmatic breathing behind me. I turned around to see a slightly sweaty dream in sweatpants and flip-flops standing there. She told me she liked the wolves on my shirt, I told her I wanted to howl at her moon. She offered me a swig from her mountain dew, and I drove my scooter, with her shuffling along side out the door and into the rest of our lives. Thank you wolf shirt.

Reality TV

Seriously? WTF?! I have never watched reality TV for a number of reasons. First off it isn't reality. Not to mention that most morons that agree to go onto a reality show have the same IQ of your average houseplant! I tried to give it a shot but found it damn near unbearable to watch. That all being said, I have made a list of things I would rather be doing than watching reality TV.

1) Have someone with Parkinson’s disease shave my balls.

2) Go fishing with Scott Peterson.

3) Have sex with a woman who has a yeast infection. Not a regular yeast infection either, I’m talking about a vagina so yeasty you could ferment beer in it.

4) Watch 2 Girls 1 Cup: The Movie.

5) Star in 2 Girls 1 Cup: The Movie.

6) Go to a black cultural center with Michael Richards, Dog the Bounty Hunter, and Don Imus.

7) Go hunting with Dick Cheney.

8) Amy Winehouse.

9) Walk my dog with Michael Vick… after he’s out of prison… and after I get a dog…

10) Shit a pineapple.

11) Go to a Holocaust museum with Mel Gibson and his dad.

Full Proof Plan

I have come up with the full proof plan on how to win back that girl that dumped you last week.

Okay, this is how it goes. You get an orangutan. I'm not talking a little monkey or some dancing chimp bullhit. I mean a fucking orangutan. Don't aske me how you're gonna get a fucking orangutan, because that's not my problem. So the orangutan's name is Clyde. This is non-negotiable; all orangutans are named Clyde. I don't know why that is, it's just how the world works. So you and Clyde become man (and ape) about town. You're seen everywhere together, you make the scene. You and friends go out in big groups. You talk loud, you laugh louder. Every time you say something witty, you high-five the orangutan. The town begins you buzz. It gets back to her. "Did you know the guy with the orangutan?", "You used to date the guy with the orangutan?", "Why would you break up with a guy with an orangutan?". Next thing you know she's calling.

"I'm hoping we can still be friends. Wanna hang out sometime?".
"Geez, I dunno; me and Clyde were going to go to a monster truck race tonight (Orangutans love monster trucks). In fact, the whole social calendar seems kinda full. I tell you what, I'll make a little note (what was your name again?) and maybe i can squeeze you in. Oh, well, you know my number so don't be a stra-- Hey, look at the time! I gotta skate, Clyde's making Mojitos."

At this point the upper hand is yours. You can let her twist in the wind, you can draw her back into your life at the pace you decide. Whatever, it's your life. But if you're a smart man, you slowly phase her back in. You're IM-ing . You're talking on Live. You get invited to family functions. You bring Clyde, he becomes like one of the family. You're one big Brady Bunch.

Things that make me go GRRR

Hey guys. Been a while since i wrote something on here, so I thought that I would come up with something. This may seem a little long...just a heads up. I couldn't really think of anything particularly productive to write, so I decided to create a list of some things I hate (not that you should care). It continues to grow, in no particular order.

♦Martin Lawrence. Yeah, we get it: white people can't dance and they all talk like a 1940's gangster. Fat-suits and hacky "black comedy" are funny for about 10 minutes. How can a man be a millionaire and still continue to say "axe" when he means to use the word "ask?" You, sir, have overstayed your welcome. Go away and take your low-rent, "straight to DVD" movies with you. Douche.

♦Geddy Lee's voice. Nails on a chalkboard.

♦Sammy Hagar. Bleh. If music were a shopping center, he would be K-Mart. I wanted to put VanHalen up here too, but it seemed like overkill. Hate that band.

♦People who set their MySpace profiles to private. Are you really that important? Are there really thousands of people who must be fended off as they attempt to interrupt your dumb life through MySpace? Eat a bullet (dot com).

♦If you want to complain about religion and its need for your money, you'd better start here. Whimsically created by a second-rate, piece of shit science fiction writer (and alleged child molester) named L. Ron Hubbard, Scientology is the biggest turd in a punch bowl ever encountered by man. Take every religion you know, isolate their flaws, multiply that by 100, and you'll understand Scientology.

♦People who refuse to use their cruise control on freeways. Their constantly fluctuating speed makes me want to bite something.

♦Mullets. Business in the front, party in the back. If syphilis were a hair style...

♦Stupid, outdated, irrelevant, obsolete search engines that continue to exist for no good reason whatsoever. Included in this category are Lycos.com and Ask.com along with several others I can't even begin to remember.

♦People who walk around incessantly talking about how they practice Wicca. I'm sorry you didn't get a puppy when you were 6 and so now you're pissed off at God but are too afraid to commit to atheism. However, I must ask that you please choke on your "magic" medallions, chalices and charm beads. Your religion is fake and so is the idiotic dye in your hair. You completely blow mule shaft unlike any other.

♦Morbidly obese women who drive a Geo Metro or similarly sized vehicle. Those things have 4 point shocks just to support them and can handle more weight than most flatbeds.

♦Guys who wear cowboy hats on a regular basis in the year 2008.

♦Damp socks.

♦The smell of any aquatic life form.

♦"Hip" guys who do that fake cow-lick thing to the front of their hair using gel. Lamer.

♦When people have a wispy, air-leak sound that flows through their poorly-fitted false teeth as they speak. The clicking sound really bothers me too, when it's present.

♦People who ask you if you can combine all their old computers into one "Mega-Super-Computer"... to save money. This isn't a lego kit, and that isn't how it works Douche nozzle.

♦Mustache wearers. They often are hiding something.

♦People who use the phrase "Our Home on the Web" as a cute way to say "website." If you are one of these un-inventive butt-spelunkers, please develop a facial cancer before you have a chance to reproduce... and don't wear your seat belt.

♦Dr. Phil

♦Dr. Phil's Show

♦Those who are interested in Dr. Phil's views.

♦Poodles of ANY size. What a dumb, useless, soulless dog. Buy a brick. It's cheaper, and smarter.

♦People who mention the fact that Hitler was involved in bringing the Volkswagen Bug to fruition... as if it makes up for the ovens.

♦People who throw their used toilet paper in a trash can rather than flushing it. Savages.

That's all I could come up with right now, but I'm sure the list will grow.

Best pen ever

I finally got my order in from Amazon the other day. I ordered a Bic Crystal ballpoint pen as shown above. Since taking delivery of my pen I have been very happy with the quality of ink deposition on the various types of paper that I have used. On the first day when I excitedly unwrapped my pen (thanks for the high quality packaging Amazon!) I just couldn't contain my excitement and went around finding things to write on, like the shopping list on the notice board in our kitchen, the Post-it notes next to the phone, and on my favourite lined A4 pad at the side of my desk. My pen is the transparent type with a black lid. I selected this one in preference to the orange type because I like to be able to see how much ink I have left so that I can put in another order before I finally run out. When the initial excitement of taking delivery of my new pen started to wear off I realised that I shouldn't just write for the fun of it, this should be a serious enterprise, so by the second day of ownership I started to take a little more care of what I wrote. I used it to sign three letters, and in each case was perfectly happy with the neatness of handwriting that I was able to achieve. I have a helpful tip for you that you might not know about - if you let the ink dry for a few seconds you can avoid the smudging that sometimes happens if you rub the ink immediately after writing. Fortunately the ink used in this particular Bic pen seems to dry very quickly. On the third day of ownership I went on a trip and took my pen carefully packed away, but I needn't have worried, this isn't some temperamental ink pen that leaks when you store it at the wrong angle. I sat at a meeting and confidently removed the cap from my pen and it wrote flawlessly, almost immediately. I notice that the barrel of the pen has been crafted very carefully to fit in the pen holder down the edge of my personal organizer. It's not so grippy so that it is hard to remove when I want to make a quick note, and yet not so loose that it falls out too easily when I open my organizer in a hurry. Maybe the choice of surface texture on the pen has some part to play here, because it seems that the inside of the leather grip on the pen holder in my organizer has just the right level of adhesion that I can be confident when I need to reach in and get my pen it's going to be just where I left it! Today is the fourth day of ownership of my pen, and I have to say I'm starting to treat it like an old friend. I walk around work with it clipped in to my shirt pocket and someone actually asked to borrow it while we were both standing at the coffee machine. Would you believe it, they actually tried to walk away with my pen! They were very embarrassed when I called after them as they walked down the hall and asked for it back. You will be happy to know that it is now back, safe and sound in my top pocket, ready and waiting to start writing again. In summary, I would happily recommend this pen to anyone who is planning on writing on paper. If you are considering a writing implement for some other surface such as writing on a CD, or other non-porous substances then another pen might be better suited, but if it's just plain old paper then I think you will probably be well served by this particular model.

How the hell?!

Does paper beat rock? I understand how scissors can beat paper, and I get how a rock can beat scissors, but there's no fucking way paper can beat rock. Is paper supposed to magically wrap around rock and leave it immobile? Why the hell can't paper do this to scissors? Screw scissors, why can't paper do this to people? Why aren't sheets of college ruled notebook paper constantly suffocating students as they take notes in class? I'll tell you why, because paper can't beat anybody. A rock would tear that shit up in 2 second. When i play rock paper scissors, I always choose rock. Then when somebody claims to have beaten me with paper, I can punch them in the face with my already clencehed fist and say, "Oh shit! I'm sorry. I thought paper would protect you, you asshole."

An interesting weekend

 had a very interesting weekend. Let me tell you all about it.

The pet store was selling them for five cents a piece.  I thought that
odd since they were normally a couple thousand each.  I decided not to
look a gift horse in the mouth.  I bought 200.  I like monkeys.

I took my 200 monkeys home.  I have a big car.  I let one drive.  His
name was Sigmund.  He was retarded.  In fact, none of them were really
bright.  They kept punching themselves in their genitals.  I laughed.
Then they punched my genitals.  I stopped laughing.

I herded them into my room.  They didn't adapt very well to their new
environment.  They would screech, hurl themselves off of the couch at
high speeds and slam into the wall.  Although humorous at first, the
spectacle lost its novelty halfway into its third hour.

Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive:
they all died.  No apparent reason.  They all just sorta' dropped dead.
Kinda' like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later.  Damn
cheap monkeys.

I didn't know what to do.  There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my
room, on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase. It looked
like I had 200 throw rugs.

I tried to flush one down the toilet.  It didn't work.  It got stuck.
Then I had one dead, wet monkey and 199 dead, dry monkeys.

I tried pretending that they were just stuffed animals.  That worked for
a while, that is until they began to decompose.  It started to smell real
bad.

I had to pee but there was a dead monkey in the toilet and I didn't want
to call the plumber.  I was embarrassed.

I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them.  Unfortunately
there was only enough room for two monkeys at a time so I had to change
them every 30 seconds.  I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so
it didn't all go bad.

I tried burning them.  Little did I know my bed was flammable.  I had to
extinguish the fire.

Then I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two dead, frozen monkeys in
my freezer, and 197 dead, charred monkeys in a pile on my bed.  The odor
wasn't improving.

I became agitated at my inability to dispose of my monkeys and to use the
bathroom.  I severely beat one of my monkeys.  I felt better.

I tried throwing them away but the garbage man said that the city wasn't
allowed to dispose of charred primates.  I told him that I had a wet
one.  He couldn't take that one either.  I didn't bother asking about the
frozen ones.

I finally arrived at a solution.  I gave them out as Christmas gifts.  My
friends didn't know quite what to say.  They pretended that they like
them but I could tell they were lying.  Ingrates.  So I punched them in
the genitals.

I like monkeys

A little about myself

Let's see, it's just a little after midnight, and I am bored with nothing to do. So, I thought that I should tell you a little about myself.

I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and crushing ice. I
have been known to remodel train stations on my lunch breaks, making
them more efficient in the area of heat retention. I translate ethnic
slurs for Cuban refugees, I write award-winning operas, I manage time
efficiently. Occasionally, I tread water for three days in a row.

I woo women with my sensuous and godlike trombone playing, I can pilot
bicycles up severe inclines with unflagging speed, and I cook
Thirty-Minute Brownies in twenty minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a
veteran in love, and an outlaw in Peru.

Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly
defended a small village in the Amazon Basin from a horde of ferocious
army ants. I play bluegrass cello, I was scouted by the Mets, I am the
subject of numerous documentaries. When I'm bored, I build large
suspension bridges in my yard. I enjoy urban hang gliding. On
Wednesdays, after school, I repair electrical appliances free of
charge.

I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie.
Critics worldwide swoon over my original line of corduroy evening wear.
I don't perspire. I am a private citizen, yet I receive fan mail. I
have been caller number nine and have won the weekend passes. Last
summer I toured New Jersey with a traveling centrifugal-force
demonstration. I bat .400. My deft floral arrangements have earned me
fame in international botany circles. Children trust me.

I can hurl tennis rackets at small moving objects with deadly accuracy.
I once read Paradise Lost, Moby Dick, and David Copperfield in one day
and still had time to refurbish an entire dining room that evening. I
know the exact location of every food item in the supermarket. I have
performed several covert operations for the CIA. I sleep once a week;
when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair. While on vacation in Canada, I
successfully negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a
small bakery. The laws of physics do not apply to me.

I balance, I weave, I dodge, I frolic, and my bills are all paid. On
weekends, to let off steam, I participate in full-contact origami.
Years ago I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to write it down.
I have made extraordinary four course meals using only a mouli and a
toaster oven. I breed prizewinning clams. I have won bullfights in San
Juan, cliff-diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the
Kremlin. I have played Hamlet, I have performed open-heart surgery, and
I have spoken with Elvis.

Now that you know me a little better, what about you?

M&M duels

Whenever I get a package of plain M&Ms, I make it my duty to continue the strength and robustness of the candy as a species. To this end, I hold M&M duels.

Taking two candies between my thumb and forefinger, I apply pressure, squeezing them together until one of them cracks and splinters. That is the "loser," and I eat the inferior one immediately. The winner gets to go another round.

I have found that, in general, the brown and red M&Ms are tougher, and the newer blue ones are genetically inferior. I have hypothesized that the blue M&Ms as a race cannot survive long in the intense theatre of competition that is the modern candy and snack-food world.

Occasionally I will get a mutation, a candy that is misshapen, or pointier, or flatter than the rest. Almost invariably this proves to be a weakness, but on very rare occasions it gives the candy extra strength. In this way, the species continues to adapt to its environment.

When I reach the end of the pack, I am left with one M&M, the strongest of the herd. Since it would make no sense to eat this one as well, I pack it neatly in an envelope and send it to M&M Mars, A Division of Mars, Inc., Hackettstown, NJ 17840-1503 U.S.A., along with a 3x5 card reading, "Please use this M&M for breeding purposes."

This week they wrote back to thank me, and sent me a coupon for a free 1/2 pound bag of plain M&Ms. I consider this "grant money." I have set aside the weekend for a grand tournament. From a field of hundreds, we will discover the True Champion.

There can be only one!