Buying Condoms

[mustynutz]

You stand there, eyes fixed on all the different varieties. So many choices. Your mind is screaming to make a decision.

"Should I get the Lubricated ones? Or should I go for the ribbed ones, for her pleasure? Trojan or Durex? Ultra Thin? Large? Nah, that might look like a pool cover over a walnut. Magnum? She might be impressed. But what if I don't fit? Shit, I'd better go for the regulars. Box of three or six? Please God, let me pick the right ones."

That's when you notice the little old lady staring at you. How long was she standing there? She must have been watching you the whole time. You little pervert. You shouldn't be here. Everybody is staring at you, waiting for you to pick it up. That's right, just pick it up so they can all watch you and judge you and laugh at you.

Oooo, they have strawberry flavored ones too.

You quickly grab it and jam it in your pockets. Everybody is disgusted. You're just a dirty boy. You probably don't even know what you're about to do, do you? You're just going to mess it up, and then everybody will laugh at you. Even your girlfriend is going to laugh in your face as you sit there with your pecker hanging out, unsure of how to put it on.

Do these things have directions? Maybe a diagram? You walk to an empty aisle and look for one.

Oh shit, now you've done it. You went and looked for a diagram. That means that you were looking for a picture of a cock. Does that make you gay? You quickly look around and jam it back into your pockets.

She's probably had bigger before, too. Why'd you go with the regulars, you dumb fuck? Should you go back?

You peek around the corner, and there's too many people around. They're all watching you. Waiting, and judging, and laughing, and pointing.... you break out into a cold sweat. You look at the box again.

It's a pack of six.

What the hell is she going to say? Will she think that you were expecting to go for six times? Will she think that there are other girls on the menu? Oh, she's gonna be pissed. Then she won't have sex with you. Then everybody's gonna hear about the pervert who bought the wrong condoms, and didn't get laid.

Oh God, look at you. You're having second thoughts, aren't you? You little pansy. Your little faggot balls haven't dropped yet, have they? You don't have what it takes to waltz up to the cashier and slam down that pack of rubbers, do you? That's right, you little homo.

Look at yourself. Standing there holding that ridiculous box and thinking about cocks. You just finished growing your last pube, and you can't even-

Oh shit, did you shave? Nope. You got the 70's fro going on. What will she think? She'll probably freak out when she sees it. She'll never blow you if you look like you've got Don King's head in your pants. Dammit. And what about the condoms? Those're gonna catch on your pubes and rip em off while you're failing in thrusting the right way.

Put them back! Just go commando and fuck her raw, you pansy!
No! You'll get her pregnant, and then you'll have retarded babies!

You shake your head, breathe deep and take a step forward. She's waiting. You have to do it. That's right, just make it up to the register. Almost there. You can do it.

"Uhm.... are you purchasing anything, sir?"

Damn, she's ugly. Why do all the fat goth chicks work at these places? Dammit, now she's gonna see what you're buying. Oh shit, what if the bar code doesn't run through!? What's gonna happen then!? 'Price check on Six-Pack Regular Sized Trojans! I repeat...'

"Oh.... uh, sorry. Here you go."

You pull out the box. That filthy little box, with your filthy little hands. She knows what you're planning. You pervert. And you bet she wants some of the action, too. She's probably gonna wrap her ham-sized hands around your head and push you to the ground. Then she's gonna have her way with you, and then everybody will hear about how you boned a fat goth chick. And you probably thought about men too. Faggot.

"Is this all?"

Did she just lick her lips? Oh, she is so ready to rape you. She's even dirtier than you are. She probably didn't wash her hands after taking a dump either. Look at her. What a filthy creature. Just standing there, covered in germs. All day, she was just pooping and wiping and pooping and wiping and pooping and wiping and pooping and wiping and pooping and wiping and pooping and wiping......

"Yea." You squeak. "That's it."

Pathetic bastard. Hurry up. Everybody's looking at you and your filth. Pay the fat bitch, and get the hell out of there!

"That'll be five-ninety-five please."

You hand her a few crumpled bills, and grab your dirty little prize. Should you run back and change your selection real quick? No, you've been here far too long. You need to get out. Everything is just covered in your dirty dirty filth!

"Keep the change!" You mutter.
"Thank you. Have a good night." She responds.

What does she mean by that? You shudder, and bolt for the door, hiding those horrible things in your pocket. She didn't even ask if you wanted a bag, the dumb bitch. God, she was hideous. And she wanted you in the worst way, too. Too bad you're gay though. Homo.

You finally get inside your car. Your girlfriend seems angry.

"What took you so long?"
"Uhm.... there was a long line."
"At ten-thirty at night!?"
"Yea. Crazy time, you know."
"Look, I'm not really in the mood anymore. Maybe we should save this for another time."
"What!? But-but-"
"Oh God, you're such a typical guy. Fucking asshole."
"Dumb bitch."


Wonder what that goth chick is doing after work?

 

[mustynutz]

The Friday before last, after 5 long years of faithful service I was finally let go by my employer. It didn't come as much of a surprise, as I'd known this was coming for months, but the reality of the situation didn't actually hit me until I was in the moment. It was a strange feeling after getting up and driving to the same place every weekday for the last five years to know that I'd be pulling out of the parking lot for the last time. Even stranger was the feeling I had driving down the freeway knowing that for the first time in a long time, the future was uncertain, and could be anything I wanted it to be.

I went in, signed my severance paperwork and was free to go around 10:00am. I decided to stop off at my friend's house and wake his ass up. I was sufficiently hammered by 1:30 in the afternoon. Since that time I have done a whole lot of nothing. I did nothing and it was everything I thought it could be. No, wait, that was somebody else, doing nothing sucks! I hate sitting around, which means I've had plenty of time to try and amuse myself.

I spent the first couple days trying to get drunk. Not just a little drunk, but horribly shit faced falling into the walls drunk. Normally this wouldn't be such a challenge, but given my lack of a job I figured it best to work with what I had and try and empty out my liquor cabinet. As I don't drink much liquor these days, all I had was stuff I keep around in case chicks drop by, so it was slim pickings. The first day I polished off a bottle of Midori, and barely managed to catch a buzz. It may be green, but the green fairy it is not. The next day I polished off yet another bottle of Midori, and finished off the last of the Kahlua. Still no luck. That's ok however, time was on my side.

The following day (or evening to be more accurate, I slept through the majority of the day) I drank a 6 pack and half a bottle of Zinfandel. The Zinfandel, a '98 true Zinfandel, was tasty to say the least, but again, barely a buzz. The weekend was coming and I saw it had been enough of this Tom foolery, it was time to do this right.

The next day I made my journey to the liquor store. Surely some good ol' Smirnoff would do the trick. On the way to the store I had to stop off and get a flea collar for my poor cat which was getting eaten alive. I had a bomb but couldn't set it off just yet, and needed something in the meantime. As I arrived at the counter the clerk noticed my selection at which point she responded "I got me some of that fancy gel stuff for mah cat an all his hair fell out. He was just as bald as could be, looked like a darn skunk!"

Hmmmmm I thought to myself. Bald, huh? You haven't seen many skunks, have you? Maybe she was referring to the way a skunk looked after she skinned it and prepped it for dinner? She definitely seemed the type to dine on some fine rodent cuisine. No matter, I nodded and smiled and proceed on my merry way.

I arrived at the liquor store, made my selection and walked to the counter just in time to watch the expression on the elderly clerk's face as a gold toothed African American gentleman enthusiastically exclaimed to him "In Ohio they gots drive through liquor stores! You ain't even got to get out man, they give you your liquor RIGHT THERE in the car!" I'd never seen anyone so incredibly happy about something that was seemingly trivial. The look on the white haired clerk's face, as if he didn't know whether to be confused or terrified, was priceless.

I got a nice sized bottle and headed back to the house. We managed to polish off the majority of it in a matter of hours, went to go see AVP, then made a trip back to the liquor store for another. I stopped off at the drug store and grabbed some Tylenol PM as I knew I'd be wanting some for later. I couldn't help but notice the giant warning label on the side "Acetaminophen may cause liver damage." My poor unsuspecting liver, as if it wasn't under enough of a vicious assault already.

Liver: Hey, cut it out!

ME: Haha! Take that fucker!

Liver: I thought we were friends?

ME: Friends don't let friends drive drunk, and I'm wasted. Maybe you should drive.

Liver: I can't drive, I don't even have arms to steer.

ME: Wah wah wah, that's all I ever hear from you. "I can't do this, I can't do that, I can't handle another shot of 151, stop, you're killing me!" Boo fuckity hoo.

And so the night went on, drinking and drinking until I was officially shit faced as I had intended. Of course we blazed a plenty along the way, and when under the influence of alcohol and marijuana simultaneously your mind tends to think some unusual thoughts...

"I wonder if I could drink more if I had three livers?"

"I'm not sure that would help."

"Sure, three livers have got to be better than one!"

"But do you really think that's fair? Some people are on donor waiting lists because they don't even have one functional livers and you want to have three?"

"Yeah, and some Ethiopian kid is starving while Sally Struthers wolfs down another Big Mac. Life isn't fair, deal with it."

"Still, that just doesn't seem right."

"I don't see why I can't have three livers, especially when they're so readily available."

"Readily available? Uh, why are you looking at me like that?"

- WE ARE CURRENTLY EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES, PLEASE STAND BY -

"Like I said, three livers have to be much better than two."

Hey, it made perfect sense at the time. It's strange how the mind works. Back to reality however, I need to find a job. Sure, getting up at noon every day and getting hammered every night is entertaining, but it hardly pays the bills. Sooner or later my severance will run out and Mr. And Mrs. Bill collector will still be there waiting for me. I don't think introducing my friend and colleague Mr. Jim Beam attorney at law is going to help. I suppose however a few more weeks of partying couldn't hurt.

 

[mustynutz]

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was coming home from a friend's 21st birthday party the other night. A little tipsy, I had ducked out early because I needed to wake up by 7 the next day, and seeing how the subways only ran until 1:30, I didn't want to miss my ride home.

I got into the completely empty subway car and collapsed into one of the seats, still relishing the great time I had at the party that evening. My head kind of hurt, and though I wasn't drunk in all senses of the word, I was hoping I wouldn't have a hangover in the morning because I needed to help my friend move the next day.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep but it was of no use. I tossed and turned for a bit in the seat but the sandman just wouldn't visit so I straightened up, opened my eyes......



........and saw the most gorgeous pair of breasts I had ever seen.



All these alarms started going off in my brain. My senses were aflame. I stared in glorious
wonder.


They were a thing of beauty, I tell you. Double D's pouring out of a spaghetti string top with just the right amount of freckles peppered over the top of the cleavage. It reminded me of some metaphor I can't think of right now. I nearly creamed my pants right then and there.


Now, like many of you bumbling idiots out there, I didn't realize I was staring so hard and so long until the drool started dripping from my open mouth onto my shirt. I shook out of my mini trance and shot a quick glance at her face, hoping she hadn't seen me lusting over her hooters. Miraculously she hadn't.



Unfortunately, her boyfriend had.


"Hey, what the fuck you looking at?"


Thus is the danger of boobies my friend. You become so transfixed on one solitary point that you completely block off anything that's happening around you; this unfortunately included large Italian men.


I looked at him for the first time. Eeep. He was a fairly large man. He had one of those collar shirts with eight buttons open so he could reveal his thick black chest hair and gold chain. He was once hairy mother fucker. In fact, his facial hair didn't even stop at his Adam's apple. It just connected all the way down to the hair on his chest, like some hairy....path or something. I'm lacking on the metaphors.



"What?" I said as I wiped the remaining drool off my face with the sleeve of my shirt.

"I said what the FUCK you looking at my girlfriend for?"

"I was uh....just...you know...reading her shirt."

I squinted and pretend to read what it said. I was beginning to feel really drunk at this point.

"Ggggeeese? No wait....Guess. Right. Guess. See? I was just reading."

Something tells me he wasn't convinced seeing how he got up, grabbed me by the shirt, and pushed me up against the subway pole.

"Hey, watch it buddy this is a new shirt!" I said. I tried to say it all manly like, but it sounded more like a mouse squealing in terror.

"How about I fuck up your face and your shirt? Would you like that?"

He was "all up in my grill" as the kids say. His breath stunk.

"Well no...oh it was a rhetorical question," I said.

I thought about what to do. This man wanted to punch me in the face. Was I going to back down? No. Because I was a man damnit! I had too much pride for that. It was time to man-up.


So, I did what any self-respecting man would do if faced with a similar situation:





I faked a seizure.




In a matter of seconds, I become a mess of flailing limbs, bucking torsos, and rolling eyes. I felt the guy let go of me and so I continued to seize into my seat, gyrating like my life depended on it.


"Oh my GOD Bruno what did you do to him?!" I heard the girl say.

"Nothing!! I...I was just trying to scare him!"

I seized for a good ten seconds more before I finally stopped, ending my mini production sprawled across the seat. "What a great idea," I thought to myself. "Thanks alcohol."


"Thank God he stopped! Go see if he's okay Bruno," she said angrily.


I waited two seconds and felt Bruno's stinky breath as he leaned over me.


"Dude....you all right?"



Die Bruno.



KA-BLAP.


Spastic arm to the face.



"OWW MY NOSE!" I heard him scream.


I decided then to wake up, frantically looking around like a small child who lost his mother.


"Wha...wha happened?" I said, pretending I had no idea what happened.


The girl came and sat beside me. I could see the worry in her eyes. It was quite obvious she wanted me.


"You started convulsing or something. We didn't know what to do."

"Really? That's never happened before."

I pointed to Bruno who was holding his nose with some tissue. "What happened to him?"

"You punched him in the face by accident," she said.

"Yes....accident.....anyways, this is my stop! Sorry about the nose!"

I stumbled out of the subway and stood there as the doors closed. I could see Bruno staring at me, holding the tissue to his bleeding nose. The train started moving, and I began run along side, shaking uncontrollably like I was some retard trying to dance and laughing and pointing like a hyena.


Bruno=instant angry face.


So remember gentleman: if you are ever in a situation where the boyfriend of a girl whose luscious hooters you were staring at wants to sew your ass to your face, just do what I did:

1)stop
2)drop
3)and seize



I should also mention that as I walked home from the subway station, I tripped and fell in some mud, ruining my new shirt. What a bitch that karma is.

 

[CALiLiFE82]

POST UP SOME MORE STORIES HOMIE ....... I NEED SOMETING TO DO UNTIL WORKS OVER ......

 

[mustynutz]

fa sho here they come

 

[mustynutz]

I have four cats. 3 females and one male. At one point or another my family had six cats, but two got eaten by coyotes in Las Cruces, NM (where we used to live). We literally only found their heads lying on our front steps the next morning, as if the coyotes were taunting us. Whatever, those cats sucked.

Then my favorite cat ever died of cancer a couple years ago, creating a void in my heart that has never been filled. Well, yes it has, but that was still one good goddamn cat. She wouldn't in innapropriate places, she wouldn't pee on you to get you to pet her, and she wouldn't bug you. She was light, and would sneak up on your lap while you were typing or whatnot and suddenly you'd realise you had a happy, content, purring animal on your lap. Cat's like her, Calico (and yes, she was a calico cat) make you really love cats.

And then on to the remaining three (and the recent forth addition that was actually my doing.)

A) A few years back, we found this BLACK cat on Martin Luther King day. We called him "darkie" for a while besides settling on "Martin". He's the only good cat we got left. He's fat, but he's a stone cold playa.

B) Scotch. She is the color of butterscotch, and this is one fucked up cat. Her favorite pasttime is peeing on our electric Bunson burners. Have you ever smelled burning cat pee? Try not to, ever, if you value your nasal abilities.

C) Leslie...fatass..shits everywhere...farts...I hate this fucking cat.

But the cat I really want to talk about is the one I have affectionatly named "Retard". Because this cat is literally retarded. I found it a couple of weeks ago while I was running. I found this cat laying, unmoving in the sidewalk. It didn't move when I approached her, and upon closer inspection I realized this motherfucker was dying. So I carefully picked her up and carried her home, to begin the nursing back progress. She is doing better. However, she is the most pathetic piece of shit cat you could ever hope to see.

-It likes to cuddle when you masturbate and doesn't respond well to pushing off with furious hisses of "go the fuck away, Retard"
-I saw it try to jump up on a counter. It couldn't, fell off, and then couldn't get back up. Becaue she's retarded.
-It is constantly freaking out and grooming itself. It has cysts and weird things all over it's body.
-She smells like ass
-She has the raunchiest shits I have ever had the misfortune to smell. And she'll do them anywhere, at any time, with little to no warning. For instance, I was brushing my teeth. She (for some reason) has taken to sleeping on top of the toilet. Out of the corner of my eye I see her get down and sorta settle on top of bathroom rug. Then she lets one go. About 30 seconds later, the stench hits and my eyes literally water. I could not get near that thing. I made my little brother do it.

The coup de grace is what I caught her doing a few days ago. I go into the bathroom to discover her drinking out of the toilet. Big deal. Closer, I realize that this toilet is full of golden yellow urine and this cat is happily lapping it up. I groan and try to pull the cat out. She actuallly struggles against me to try to get back to the piss. I flush the toilet with a moan of disgust and let her go back it it. I go into another bathroom and see Leslie, the fatass, doing the same thing!

What the fuck is going on! When did animals start drinking human waste? And most importantly, why doesn't anyone in my house know how to flush?

 

[mustynutz]

I have four cats. 3 females and one male. At one point or another my family had six cats, but two got eaten by coyotes in Las Cruces, NM (where we used to live). We literally only found their heads lying on our front steps the next morning, as if the coyotes were taunting us. Whatever, those cats sucked.

Then my favorite cat ever died of cancer a couple years ago, creating a void in my heart that has never been filled. Well, yes it has, but that was still one good goddamn cat. She wouldn't in innapropriate places, she wouldn't pee on you to get you to pet her, and she wouldn't bug you. She was light, and would sneak up on your lap while you were typing or whatnot and suddenly you'd realise you had a happy, content, purring animal on your lap. Cat's like her, Calico (and yes, she was a calico cat) make you really love cats.

And then on to the remaining three (and the recent forth addition that was actually my doing.)

A) A few years back, we found this BLACK cat on Martin Luther King day. We called him "darkie" for a while besides settling on "Martin". He's the only good cat we got left. He's fat, but he's a stone cold playa.

B) Scotch. She is the color of butterscotch, and this is one fucked up cat. Her favorite pasttime is peeing on our electric Bunson burners. Have you ever smelled burning cat pee? Try not to, ever, if you value your nasal abilities.

C) Leslie...fatass..shits everywhere...farts...I hate this fucking cat.

But the cat I really want to talk about is the one I have affectionatly named "Retard". Because this cat is literally retarded. I found it a couple of weeks ago while I was running. I found this cat laying, unmoving in the sidewalk. It didn't move when I approached her, and upon closer inspection I realized this motherfucker was dying. So I carefully picked her up and carried her home, to begin the nursing back progress. She is doing better. However, she is the most pathetic piece of shit cat you could ever hope to see.

-It likes to cuddle when you masturbate and doesn't respond well to pushing off with furious hisses of "go the fuck away, Retard"
-I saw it try to jump up on a counter. It couldn't, fell off, and then couldn't get back up. Becaue she's retarded.
-It is constantly freaking out and grooming itself. It has cysts and weird things all over it's body.
-She smells like ass
-She has the raunchiest shits I have ever had the misfortune to smell. And she'll do them anywhere, at any time, with little to no warning. For instance, I was brushing my teeth. She (for some reason) has taken to sleeping on top of the toilet. Out of the corner of my eye I see her get down and sorta settle on top of bathroom rug. Then she lets one go. About 30 seconds later, the stench hits and my eyes literally water. I could not get near that thing. I made my little brother do it.

The coup de grace is what I caught her doing a few days ago. I go into the bathroom to discover her drinking out of the toilet. Big deal. Closer, I realize that this toilet is full of golden yellow urine and this cat is happily lapping it up. I groan and try to pull the cat out. She actuallly struggles against me to try to get back to the piss. I flush the toilet with a moan of disgust and let her go back it it. I go into another bathroom and see Leslie, the fatass, doing the same thing!

What the fuck is going on! When did animals start drinking human waste? And most importantly, why doesn't anyone in my house know how to flush?

 

[mustynutz]

Rachel's head turned, rubbing softly against her thick white pillow. Her eyes blearily focused on the digital alarm clock. It read ten after four in the morning.

Lying on her back, she stretched her arms above her head and yawned. She looked outside and watched the ebbing rain, illuminated by the orange streetlights.

She sat up in bed, stretched again, stood, and donned her light pink nightgown over her pajamas. Running her hands through her light, chocolate-brown hair three times, she exited her room and walked downstairs through the faintly lit house.

Rachel closed and locked her front door behind her, then slipped the keys into her nightgown pocket. A wooden railing with ceramic flowerpots sitting on its flat top lined her front porch. She stared through her affluent neighborhood at the mist, tinged pale blue to herald the dawn.

Lightly stepping down her front steps, the occasional cries of a thrush or chickadee pierced the otherwise complete silence. She stopped walking, listened to the avian conversations, and she smiled.

Her slippers scraped lightly on the sidewalk as she walked while humming away at her favorite show tunes. She remembered a place, halfway up the block, where the sidewalk ended, and decided to walk there.

As she came within sight of her destination, she stopped dead. There, ahead of her, standing on the very last concrete block of the sidewalk, was a tall man in brown. He stood facing her, as if expecting her arrival. She couldn't see his face clearly, but imagined him smiling.

Like a shower of bullets, horrific images shot through her mind. She felt dizzy, sick, and terrified. The man took a step forward and she, panic-drenched, turned on her heels, her slippers flapping madly on the sidewalk.

Rachel didn't look back, but knew that he followed. Her mind split into several channels of adrenaline-soaked thought. Who was he? Why was he doing this? What was her escape route? Maybe she could fight him? Was this a dream?

Her heart slamming through her chest, Rachel bounded up the steps to her house. She shoved her hand into her pocket and yanked out the keys. It sounded like steps were approaching from behind, on the sidewalk.

"Come on, come on!" she screamed as she slid the wrong key into the lock. She looked behind herself and saw a tall brown shape at the bottom of her front steps.

Her stomach turned sour and she choked down her vomit. As she slid the wrong key out of the lock, the man arrived right behind her.

"Hello there," he said.

In one motion, she brought the sharp edge of the key across his face.

"Aaagh!" he cried and stumbled backward. She turned back to open her door, but her terror had matured and grown into rage.

She picked up a flowerpot and threw it at the man's chest. It hit with a dull thud, knocking him backward. She advanced, curling her fingers around the edge of another flowerpot. She threw it down, over his head, where it shattered---the dirt poured loosely over his head and shoulders.

He looked up, weakly raising his right hand in capitulation, the blood pouring from his torn face. "Please," he murmured weakly, "Stop. That's enough."

"It's not enough!" Rachel screamed, "It's not enough!" She stood over him, reached, and picked up another flowerpot, bringing it down as hard as she could, onto his head---then another, and another, and another.

"It's not enough! It's not enough! It's not enough!" she yelled until she ran out of nearby flowerpots. She looked down at her victim triumphantly and spat at his limp form. She then brushed dirt off of her nightgown, turned back to the front door, unlocked it, and went inside.

Returning a few minutes later with a shovel, she laboriously dragged the man's body around to the back of her house, dug a shallow pit, and threw him inside.

She had begun to bury him when she wondered if he would wake and, upon recovering his strength, be able to pull himself free from the ground.

"Damn it," she muttered, "I'll have to kill him."

Rachel's adrenaline had started wearing off, and the thrill of the situation had begun to descend back into a slow, dripping terror. She had never killed before and for all she knew, he might or might not have been dead as he lay there, at the bottom of the grave prepared for him.

Realizing that she couldn't risk him coming after her again, she dropped her shovel, went inside, and returned with a long butcher's knife. She gripped it tightly in her shaking hand and stood over his body.

"Okay," she steeled herself, "Okay."

She rolled him onto his back and touched the point of the knife lightly onto his abdomen. Was he breathing? Maybe it was a trick of the light. A thrush called in the distance, and she turned her head. Were those footsteps?

A ringing silence soon filled her ears, and she warily looked back at her prey. She slowly pushed the weapon into his flesh, its streamlined steel sliding easily into his body. She cringed as a puddle of blood rose slowly from the area around her incision.

The knife was a quarter of the way in. She stopped and sat back, at once horrified and relieved. At once, an image from an old horror movie played in her head, and she imagined him screaming and sitting up suddenly from his position. She had to finish the job.

Wrapping her fingers around the knife's handle, she hesitated. Thoughts of heaven, hell, the police, and her own conscience echoed through the ivory halls of her mind.

Then, she recalled the events of the past hour. She remembered her terror, her anger, and her victimizer. Rachel gritted her teeth, narrowed her eyes, and, with anger coursing through her body, plunged the knife all the way through until the point had passed through his body and came up against the dirt on the other side.

His eyes opened. She jumped back. Staring up at the sky, his eyes fluttered closed and he sighed for the last time.

Rachel stood unmoving for several minutes, unsure of what to do, say, or think. Hoping that the whole thing was a dream, she buried the man, returned inside, and climbed back into bed.

She looked at her clock. It was almost a quarter after five. The birds had stopped singing, and she couldn't fall back asleep.

 

[mustynutz]

Sometimes, people can't understand how I happen to run into the type of people I do. My mother honestly feels that my personality is a magnet ... a magnet which attracts mentally ill people.

Not like mentally ill in the sense of, "Haha, you chugged that beer right down, that was insane!!1"

No, but insane as in "Ken, I think the government is tracking me .. through a small chip in my driver's license. How else could you explain I've seen -two- police cars in the last half hour? Hold on, I think this pay phone might be bugged ... let me run across the street to another one. Call you right back."

Yes, this was an actual conversation I had with one of my best friends. So far, in my life, I can count as important mentally ill people in my life, my best friend, the girl I was in love with, and worst of all, my neighbor.

My downstairs neighbor might be considered normal .... on Urk'Zat, planet of the insect people. At 6'4" and 110 pounds, you might consider her thin. Actually, if her face didn't look like a cross between Steven Tyler and an old, beat up shoe she could have had a shot at the runway. Hahahaha.

Seriously, this woman is fucking crazy. I can't stress in writing how crazy she is. Let me delve into a little story:

I was coming home from a long, hard day of repairing some wood rot underneath someone's house one day, when I pull into my driveway. Standing by the street is my neighbor, let's call her crazy psycho bitch. Well, she's just standing there by the street, so as I get out of my car, incredibly tired, covered in dirt and filth and grime, out of sheer politeness and stupidity on my part, I say this profound statement:

"Hey, how's everything?"

Now I said it in such a way that I was already walking towards my steps, so as not to be able to engage in any real conversation. I've made the mistake of asking her how things were before, and literally an hour of my time was stolen as she struggled to make conversation about such things as:

- The pain in her back and why she can not do any work at all
- How she treats the horrible pain in her back, and
- Her 15 cats


No shit, this woman is the crazy cat lady that all single women are destined to eventually become. She's probably only in her early forties, but she has more cats than anyone I know. Another reason I hate her is she lets her cats run around unspayed, and unneutered, fucking and shitting everywhere. Now I love animals, and I don't mind cats hanging out on my front steps when I get home, but it's pretty god damned irresponsible. Anyhow, back to this conversation I was sorry I initiated:

Crazy Psycho Bitch: "Ken ... (voice is shaking with anger) did you STEAL MY KITTENS?"

Me: "Hi ... Uh ... what?"

CPB: "Did you steal my cat's kittens? They were under the house last night, and when I came out today they were gone. Gone! Kittens do not just disappear and I think you took them."

Me: "Why ... why would I do that?"

Back up. One time, once, she let me borrow one of her kittens so I could take it over to that girl I was in love with. At the time, the girl was feeling bad because her grandmother was dying, so I thought it was would make her feel better. Not only did I ask crazy psycho bitch if I could take the kitten, she furnished me with a carrying case. I brought the kitten back in an hour, and the kitten was fine. OK, back to the story:

CPB: "You took that one kitten without asking me that one time!"

Me: "Whoa, earth to you. I completely asked you ... you even gave me a carrying case. How are you not remembering this?"

CPB: "You're just so wild .... and irresponsible .... you're always coming and going, working these crazy jobs ..."

Me: "I've worked at the same job for a year and a half."

CPB: "Well everyone in the neighborhood is weary of you ... no one ever knows what you're going to do ..."

Me: "I've lived in this house for four years. Four years. You haven't even lived here a year, yet. Are you insane?"

CPB: "You're always drinking, all the time ..."

Me: "I have you as my downstairs neighbor, can you blame me?"

After another thirty seconds of her saying some inane bullshit I pretty much completely ignored, I got my flashlight and decided to go look for these kittens. I crawled under the house with the flashlight, after having done it all day at work, only to not find any kittens. As I emerge, a police cruiser as appeared in my driveway, lights on.

She called the police on me ... for stealing her kittens.

As I sat on my steps, contemplating putting a gun in my mouth, the officer finally walks up, and greets with in a very serious tone.

"Sir, do you know what this is about?"

I explain my side of the story to him, much as I have explained it here. I wait for the hearty chuckle, and the "Oh, she's obviously a fucking lunatic" grin that never comes. "Sir, would it be OK if I look around your apartment for the kittens?"

I try and think about anything illegal I might have in plain sight. Nothing comes to mind. As I'm thinking, he says, "Sir, I'm just going to be looking for the kittens. Not for anything else."

I relent. "Fine, Officer, put if you happen to stumble on any dead babies stuffed with heroin, you're going to need to leave." He doesn't laugh at all.

After a thorough search of my house, which doesn't turn up any bloodied bags full of kittens, he asks me in a very serious tone, "She thinks you may be hiding the kittens at your girlfriends house. I'm going to need to go over there and search, as well."

At this point in time, I literally laughed in in his face and said, "If she told you she thought I was stashing the kittens at the governor's mansion, would you go do a thorough search of that? Get real. I'm not going to go let you continue this ludacris charade of searching for stolen kittens that I didn't take because my asylum patient neighbor got it in her head someone took her kittens when the mother probably just moved them for their own safety. If I was the mother of those kittens and that lady was my owner, I'd get them as far away from her as I could, too."

"I'll be in touch, Mr. West."

So after deputy dipshit finally leaves, I go down and see her making little wreathes for each of the kittens I supposedly stole, and am planning to sell on the blackmarket. Diamonds or black tar heroin are nothing compared to the price baby kittens can fetch. I wish I had stolen the kittens, just so I could have had the satisfaction of thwarting both her and the law, but alas, I didn't.


So then a day later I called animal control, and put the fear of god in her irrational ass. At least I'll spare you the obligatory cute kitten picture.

 

[mustynutz]

I love breasts.

No I'm not talking about chicken (I'm a leg man on that issue) but about human female breasts. I love em, can't get enough of em. However the problem comes when I try to figure out why I harbor these feelings.

Let's think about it for a second, what are breasts really? Glands and milk ducts surrounded by fatty tissue and topped off with an areole and nipple. Does that really sound like something so lovely? Not really. Hell, I don't even like milk. And as for fatty tissue, I cut that shit off my steak every time.

So why the torrent love affair? Why do I loose all my mental facilities when I see a nice pair? Why have I in the past overlooked otherwise very negative physical features because of the greatness that lies somewhere between the naval and the neck? Why why why!?

Could it be that I was breast fed as a child? That some sort of mental condition was laid down on me when I was just trying to get my snack on? I doubt it. Many of my others friends were breast fed as babies (don't ask how I know this) and they lack the similar driving force to touch/taste/molest every nice pair that comes down the road.

Maybe I'm genetically predisposed to liking them. I will probably never know the answer to that as both my grandfathers are dead, and asking my grandmother if her husband liked her boobies as opposed to other features is not on my list of things to do.

In the end it doesn't matter how. How is only an afterthought. Crack addicts don't worry about the how, they worry about the when. When am I going to stop?!

For me I don't know if there will ever be a when. I don't know if I have the strength, courage, or drive to give them up. I have heard of other people trying to focus on the ass or legs, but I really don't want to trade one addiction for another. I guess ill just have to live with my problem, and hope it doesn't destroy me.

I hope I can make it.

 

[mustynutz]

10:48 p.m.

Sam, Backer and I are ready. The hunt has begun, and I will not return empty-handed. Determination sits on my shoulder with a shotgun pressed to my temple. I will succeed or I will die. There are no other options. I walk into the party with my life on the line.

11:39 p.m.

It's the third time she has looked at me, and it's go time. I make my way across the room, towards this brunette bombshell. I can smell her scent from here, and it only makes me want her more. I can hear Determination cock the gun...I'm past the point of no return. I stand right next to her and stare into her gorgeous green eyes; she looks up and smiles at me...

12:58 a.m.

It feels good to be back in my own bed, and even better to be in it with her. She was a little cold at first, but I warmed her up quick enough. We've been making out for twenty minutes now; I'm making my move. I reach down and unzip my pants. Her eyes open wide for a moment, but she quickly recovers. Her lips are bright red, and she is slightly moaning. I give her a little nudge on the head to let her know what direction she should be going in. This innocent little princess is about to be taken for the ride of her life. She doesn't know what she's gotten herself into.

1:03 a.m.

What the hell have I gotten myself into!? This innocent little princess is insane!! Things started out well enough. But the head, dear lord the head! Does this girl realize that I'm not made out of titanium? She may already have sheered off the top layer of my skin down there. I need to get the hell out of there, but I can't. If I make a sudden movement, I might lose my only reason for living. I'll just have to ride it out and then make a break for it.

1:22 a.m.

OH MY GOD. The brunette has just been upgraded from cute to weird to mentally defective. I just "finished" in her "facial orifice", and she didn't swallow right away. She didn't swallow at all. She gargled it. SHE FUCKING GARGLED IT! She looked at me, winked, wiped off her lips, and then bent her head back and gargled it. That was too much for me. I feel bad for throwing her out of the room like that, but damn, she gargled. There will be no gargling on the premises, sweet pea. Damn, I'm shaking. That shit just freaked me to the core.

1:26 a.m.

"You gargled me!! Don't you realize how weird that is!?"

"Sorry, it was my first time, I didn't know!"

"WHAT THE FUCK? Do I look like mouthwash? Do I taste like Wint-O-Green? You need to let me know, because if I do I need to go to the doctor immediately!"

"Come on, just let me back in. Unlock the door. It's cold in the hallway."

"Hell no, baby. You've been banished from here forever. You crossed the line with that little move. 'It's my first time'...don't give me that shit! You know damn well you're crazy, so just get the hell out of here. I swear, I'm gonna call the cops!"

"Yeah right, you psycho. Go ahead and call the cops, because I'm not leaving!"

1:49 a.m.

"So that's when she started gargling me, Officer."

2:12 a.m.

It sure is cold in this cell. That cop is lucky she was cute, or I wouldn't have gone quietly. She's lucky I didn't have to show her who was boss. When the hell do I get my phone call? Wait till the boys hear about this.

 

[mustynutz]

recently joined a volunteer agency. A lot of people told me that besides work experience, having some volunteer work on your resume makes you look well-rounded and can give you an edge in the job market upon graduation. I figured if I helped at a couple of events, I could get some good reference letters and bullshit the rest.


Now, as you may or may not have deduced from my previous stories, when it comes to luck, I'm not exactly the guy who wins the lottery money. I'm the kind of guy who wins the lottery, and then gets hit by a car on his way to claim the prize money.


Consequently, when Mrs. Godfrey the coordinator gave me my first assignment, it happened to be in rough ass area on the east side of Toronto. It was a community event for at risk youth sponsored by the African Spirituality, Soul and Hope Association of Toronto. I laughed at this because the acronym was ASSHAT.


"You'll be in the kids section helping with the sack racing, water balloon tossing, and face painting. Remember to take some pictures of you and the kids," she said. "We can display them in our office."


I wasn't really sure what to expect seeing how this was my first African/Jamaican spirituality event, but I figured I could go there, snap a few pictures of some kids, set up a few chairs, and get out of there in time to truly enjoy the beautiful Saturday afternoon.


I got to the park around 10 am. I hadn't even stepped out my car when I was hit with the smell of marijuana smoke. I looked left and saw a kid who couldn't have been more than 12 years old blazing a joint like he did it everyday.


"That's nice," I thought.


It was a true testament to how run down this area really was. "Thanks Mrs. Godfrey you stupid bitch," I mumbled to myself.


I met up with the organizers and spent the next few hours snapping pictures and trying to get kids to pay attention and participate in the games. Unfortunately, most of the kids were 10 year old gangsters that thought they were "too cool" for sack racing and were just there because they were forced to by their parents.


All in all,the whole thing was pretty uneventful and no one shot at me. I left around three, tired, and spent. The kids were certainly a handful.


Was it worth it? Well, let me ask you this. You know that feeling you get in your heart when you realize that you have accomplished something meaningful?


I didn't get that.


Anyways, I was walking back to my car, not really feeling any sort of satisfaction or fulfillment, and attempting to plan the rest of my afternoon when I realized something.


I didn't have my camera. Where the fuck was my camera?


I ran like hell back to the play area and frantically looked around. I told the organizers to make announcements. I asked every single person in the area. I retraced every one of my steps from the play area to the car but it was nowhere in sight.

After an hour of searching, one of the coordinators came running up to me. She pointed the one of the kids.

"See that boy in the bandana and baggy jeans?"

"Which one, they all look like that," I said.

"That one over there. I think that boy knows something but he's not telling me."


I exhaled loudly and tried to look at non-threatening as possible. I approached the kid.


"Do you something about a camera little boy?"

"I don't know"

"I really need to know. That's an expensive camera."

"I think I saw some guy like take it or sumthin."

"What do you mean or sumthin? Did you see him take it or not?"

"yo man, why you jackin me? I don't know nothin"

"I'm not 'jacking you.' Did you see some guy take my camera?"

"I don't know no more. I'm gonna go play now!"

He turned to leave. I grabbed him.

Me: Listen! That's a 400 fucking dollar camera. Who took it?

Boy: yo get off me. I don't care about yo camera! Maybe you should take better care of yo shit ya know? Learn how ta handle yo bidness.

Me: What the fuck are you talking about punk?

He took offence to this.

Boy: yo mama.

Me: what?

Boy: Yo mama so fat the last time she saw 90210 it wuz on a scale"

I was really starting to lose my cool but I wasn't about to give some ten year old kid the satisfaction.

Me: Listen, thanks for you help or whatever. I'm leaving.

Boy: My bad man. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Let's get off moms....cuz I just got of yours last night!

Me: Come you here you little shit!!

I started tearing after him across the park. The little shit could move. I was chasing him for a full three minutes before he ran to his father who happened to be a large Rastafarian man.

The man looked at me.

"what you doin chasin my boy?"

I wanted to kill that little fucker. He stuck his tongue out at me from behind his father's leg.

"I think your son knows who stole my camera," I said.

"He don't know nuttin."

"You didn't even ask him."

"I dun need to axe him. I see it the boy's eyes. Ya need ta free yo soul of evil and material goods. The camera is a tangible made by man, mon. Only when yo spirit is cleansed of material attachment will yo mind be free."

"You know what wasn't free? MY FUCKING CAMERA!"

"Anger only causes harm to da soul. You not seein da forest for da trees."


I came to an inevitable realization; My camera was stolen by some punk kid who was probably selling it right now for an xbox or something. I wasn't getting it back.




Fuckin kids. I am never volunteering again.



They say the children are the future. My ass they are. The children aren't the future.



You know why?



Because I'm gonna kill em all.






I smoked a joint with the Rasta guy afterwards. Apparently my soul wasn't clean enough.

 

[mustynutz]

If you are a guy, you have probably had at least on super humiliating case of swamp ass. Its one of lifes little inevitabilities that get you at the worst times

We've all been there. Its warm outside, you've been walking, and you are wearing khaki colored pants. Before you know it, you're sporting a sweat stain that rivals the offensive line of the '94 Cowboys.

You always can tell you have the wet spot, but you can't always determine the size. Its hard to look at your own ass, and even harder to ask somebody to tell you how much butt sweat has soaked through to your pants.

The worst part is that there is abso-fucking-lutly nothing you can do to combat this unfortunate hygiene display once the glands get rolling. Plus you know what everyone is thinking. "Sweet grandma's spatula! That just made me puke in my mouth a little! Oh well, best not to tell him and just point and laugh from afar."

The best thing you can do to help prevent swamp ass is to wear cotton underwear. It absorbs a lot of the sweat before it hits your pants. Powdering your ass comes in a close second. Not a ton, because once you start sweating, you don't want it to turn into cake batter and have to spend the rest of your night picking dingleberrys out of your ass hair.

The unfortunate side effect of swamp ass is magnet balls. (sticky balls, sweaty balls) If you wear boxers, you could end up with this uncomfortable condition. This is where your munchkins stick to your leg like super glue. No matter how much you peel and shift awkwardly in front of your boss, girlfriend or priest, the attraction of balls to leg is too strong.

Going commando is the only effective way to set this problem straight. It provides easy access to the boys so if they get to swinging one way or the other, its an easy, unobstructed path. No underwear to bunch up and chafe, so you have to adjust it before you adjust yourself.

But going commando is more apt to get you that gnarly case of swamp ass. Wearing jeans helps, as they are darker and the sweat won't show up as much. Again, a light powder on your baby batter makers lessens the chances of magnet ball. Too much powder, though, and its dick cheese central for you, buddy.

Nothing sucks more than scraping excess powder that turned into sludge from that spot between the side of your leg and the side of your balls.

I'm sorry if the women of Uber feel left out. But remember, if you have a rack, under-tit sweat is like swamp ass for guys. Just so you have something to compare it with.

My name is Mustynutz, and I suffer from swamp ass.

 

[mustynutz]

People often ask me: Max, where does your hate for soccer moms and their fat ass kids stem from? Why do you hate them so? I always reply with this very same tale.




I've got a pretty large extended family. My parents are of Indian descent, and those crazy Indians love to procreate. Most of my cousins are a lot younger than me and often I am stuck babysitting them. I really don't mind though; I'm usually fond of playing the big brother role.

One of my little cousins, Mike, is super awesome at soccer. He's only eight, but he plays on an eleven year old team and he kicks like a motherfucker. He often asked me to come watch his games but I could never seem to find the time; fortunately, I happened to free this particular Saturday afternoon so of course I agreed. I was eager to see him kick ass.

I walked that day to the soccer field, through the parking lot, across the field, past the ice cream truck. I notice a lot of SUV's. I see that Mike is already there, warming up with the rest of the team. I make my way to the benches and sit down.

I slowly convey my surroundings and realize I am drowned in a sea of knotted sweaters, knee length skirts, and shoulder length blond hair. Nearly three quarters of the stands were middle-aged females.

I didn't mind though. I always like to make the best of any situation, and I was here to watch my cousin play some soccer.

I turn to one mom.

Me: So do you think our team has a chance today?
She looked at me like I was something that she dug out of her ear.
SM: A chance at what?
Me: Uh, you know, winning.
SM: Well its not really about winning now is it? As long as the kids have fun everybody goes home happy.
Me: Well, I guess. Bt somebody has to win; that's the whole point of sports.
SM: All the children are winners. Every one of them goes home a winner.

I looked around at what I interpreted as some really crappy kids.

Me: Well what about that kid? He's fat and can barely run. Surely he's not a winner?
SM: that's my son.
Me: Oh.

TWEET.

Saved by the whistle. The game started.

Naturally, my cousin was kicking ass, weaving his way through the opposing team's defense like it was Swiss cheese. Three goals in the first 15 minutes.

Now, something you have to understand here is that this was house league soccer, meaning that players of all skill levels were eligible to play. With this mind, naturally, there were a few players who couldn't kick a soccer ball if their life depended on it. This soccer mom's fat kid was one of them.

Because the bench was short that day, there was no one to substitute for this monstrosity of a child who possessed no athletic ability whatsoever. On top of this, he was the goalie, and the only kid willing to play the position at that.

Goalie? He had the flexibility of a sloth. He just stood there, stubby arms outstretched, desperately diving for a ball three seconds after it had already hit the back of the net.

The worst part by far was that his soccer mom was cheering the whole time in her high pitched nasally voice, clapping and yelling at the top of her lungs. Her shrill voice felt like a rat slowly gnawing away at my brain as I got stupider every time she spoke.

SM: Oh nice try honey! Good job! Oh, that was a close one! You almost had that! Keep your eye on the ball! No, don't look at me! Stop eating the grass honey! You can do it!

I was going crazy. Fatty here was going to lose the game and I could see that my cousin was getting pissed off too. He was working his ass off scoring goals while fat boy over there was letting in almost every fucking shot.

After roughly 59 minutes of play (two 30 minute halves) it was 8-8 with only a couple of minutes remaining, my cousin having scored 7 of those 8 goals.

A breakaway ensued for the opposing team. Their player controlled the ball with absolutely no expertise whatsoever, yet miraculously, it still remained in front of him. His eye on the goal, he reared back and kicked, totally miss-hitting the ball. Instead, he managed to flip himself backward and land hard on his back. The ball, as if guided by some magnetic force slowly rolled its way towards our fat ass goalie, our last line of defense.

Everyone watched with baited breath; everything seemed to be going in slow motion; this also included our goalie.

He looked at the ball, hands ready, reached down to grab it, and watched as it ROLLED BETWEEN HIS LEGS AND INTO THE NET.

I could not believe what I was seeing. How could someone have a reaction time so slow?? I couldn't even comprehend it. My brain was about to explode as if it could not grasp that a level of agility so low could possibly exist.

I was incredibly pissed off and I could see my cousin was as well. However apparently, a seven-year-old boy has more self-control than his 21-year-old cousin.

After the game, I made my way over the mom, her son close by. She was patting his head and congratulating him on a job well done. The kid stood there, scarfing down an ice cream sandwich, barely giving himself adequate time to breathe between bites.

Me: Um excuse me, but I think your son owes my cousin here an apology
SM: I beg your pardon? For what?
Me: What game were you watching? He scored seven goals while your son single-handedly lost us the game.
SM: He tried his best young man!
Me: Yeah, well your son sucks ass.
SM: Excuse me?!
Me: I SAID YOUR SON SUCKS ASS. AS IN HE CAN'T PLAY. AS IN HE'S AN ASS-SUCKER.
SM: How dare you make fun of my son! He is trying his best!
Me: Lady, a mentally retarded chimpanzee on crack could save more balls than your son could. Do us all a favor and put him in swimming or some other individual based sport. That way the only people that suffer are those who see him in a bathing suit.

Now all the while during my rant, my cousin is tugging at my shirt, looking worried. I look down and smile at him.

Me: Don't worry Mike these are grownups talking.
Mike: No, no, you don't get it, you don't know La...
Me: I said don't worry Mike! Let me finish the conversation with the nice lady!

I was totally undermining his intelligence when in fact I should have heeded his warning.

SM: You son of a bitch! Get him Larry!

Larry? What the fuck?

All of a sudden I scream in pain and as I look down in sheer horror, I see her fat ass son, on his knees, his teeth firmly planted on the back of my calf. The little bastard bit me and it hurt like manual prostate checkup.

Me: GET OFF ME YOU LITTLE SHIT!!

I kicked at him repeatedly with my free leg but he wouldn't let go. He was firmly clamped on. I saw the coach and a few parents running to my aid, trying to pull off this devil child but too no avail. He had firmly planted his death trap of a jaw on my calf like he was George "the Animal" Steele.

After what seemed like an eternity, they finally pulled him off, and I just stood there, staring at these the teeth marks that had just deeply penetrated my epidermis.

I slowly looked around at everyone staring. I saw the incredulous look on my cousin's face; I saw the soccer mom, her arms folded across her chest, smirking. And finally my gaze fell to Larry, the fat kid, who stood their grinning, all the while being held back by two parents and the coach.

Fat kid: Nobody messes with Larry. Nobody! Let's see you save this crapface!

He spit some skin at me. My skin.



I don't go to Mike's soccer games anymore.

 

[mustynutz]

The first time I was arrested was by a female cop.

A "Copette" if you will.

Now, I kinda have a thing for women in uniform. Secretaries, stewardesses, waitresses, you name it. If they're hot and professional-looking, I'm all over them like a..... like a guy...... ah shit, you know what I'm talking about.


Anyways, I know what most of you are thinking right now. "Matt, you're an idiot. I've seen copettes, and every one of them were ugly, dumpy-looking creatures." Well, ladies and gentleman, I have run into a rare kind of copette.

I've found a hot copette.


She was everything I dreamed of. Young, hot, and wearing a uniform. Her short brown hair was held neatly in place behind her head by her cute little cop hat. She looked petite, but I could tell that she was in great shape. When she walked up to my window, I nearly creamed myself.

"Any idea how fast you were going?" She asked me.
"Not nearly as fast as I can, baby" My brain said.
"Not nearly as fast as I can, baby" My mouth said.

Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. Did I seriously just say that? She looked at me with the devil's fire in her eyes.

"Step out of the car" She ordered.

Unfortunately for me, I have a bad habit of weirding out when confronted with unbelievable hotness. I kept trying to redeem myself, but I found that I just kept digging myself a deeper and deeper hole.

I don't remember exactly what was said that set her off. I think it was something along the lines of, "Babes, if you're looking for some action, how 'bout we take it in the back of your cruiser over there?"

I guess it could be taken as a threat or something, because the next thing I knew I found myself face down on the pavement with her knee in my back, and feeling those cuffs snap shut on my wrists. It had all happened so fast.

Damn, she was limber.

Either way, I was led to her cruiser with one head low, and the other held high. I'll leave it up to you to figure that one out.


If you're wondering how I felt in jail, it wasn't that bad. The guys were pretty cool, and we all ended up playing a really fun game of "Hide The Hotdog".

I was let out on bail, and my court appearance is next month. I saw her one last time, and decided that one last shot wouldn't hurt.

"This court date..... it IS a date, right?"


To which she extended her middle finger and turned her back, ignoring me completely.




She so wants me.

 

[mustynutz]

Quick, the clowns are coming" I yelled to my sidekick Stumpy. I grabbed my light saber and began stroking it furiously.

ME: Ow shit, my hand!

Stumpy: What the hell are you doing?

ME: I don't know. When I want my blue balls to go away, I stroke my rod, so I just thought if I wanted the clowns to go away...

Stumpy: First of all, it's not your "rod," it's a light saber. And second of all, you're not supposed to stroke it, you're supposed to swing it at your enemies like a sword!

ME: Well how the hell am I supposed to know? This thing didn't come with any instructions.

Stumpy: Haven't you ever seen Star Wars?

ME: Star what?

Stumpy: Star Wars. You know, Darth Vader?

– Silence –

Stumpy: Hahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Perrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr ?

-Silence-

Stumpy: "Luke, I am your father?"

-Silence-

Stumpy: C-3PO ?

ME: Is he related to I-CUP?

Stumpy: Enough with the jokes man, there's no time!

And with that Stumpy was off. He wasn't the most agile of sidekicks, but he was definitely the brains of this operation. A freak carnival accident had cost him his limbs (And they say the teacups are safe for children of all ages? < scoff >) and he had only his third leg left to stand on. While obviously not the luckiest of men, Stumpy certainly was "gifted." He would hop on that thing like a pogo stick. He even had a special little shoe made for it to make it more bearable. (And to keep all the debris out of his wee-wee hole. If you've ever had anything lodged in your wee-wee hole, you'll know it's not a pleasant experience.) He could extend and retract that thing like a periscope, often propping himself up to give us a bird's eye view of the enemy. Despite the head start (ha, "head" start, get it?) within a few seconds I reached Stumpy and passed him. I yelled back in taunting fashion.

ME: Stumpy, one of these days I know you're going get us caught. You're dead weight Stumpy. You're like an anchor, man.

Stumpy: An anchorman?

ME: No, an anchor, man.

Stumpy: Yes, that's what I said, an anchorman. Wow, I never thought of myself like that before.

ME: No dammit, an anchor, man. If anyone is going to be an anchorman here it's going to be me! After all, I'm the one with the devilish good looks and the charm. You can be the weatherman.

Stumpy: Which one of my nubs would you like me to hold the pointer with asshole?

ME: Oh, yeah, sorry, I forgot. Well they don't really use pointers these days anyway. Can't you just point with your manhood? (Or should I say stumphood?)

Stumpy: If I lift it up to point I'll fall over.

– Weebles wobble but they won't fall down. Stumpy's on the other hand...well, just remember that while it may be amusing to push them over it loses it's luster after the fifth or sixth thousandth time. -

ME: I see your point.

ME: (To myself) Maybe I should just call you kickstand from now on.

Stumpy: No matter, we've got bigger issues at hand.

ME: (To myself) Well I do, I don't know about you, you handless freak. <smirk>

ME: Right Stumpy, what was I thinking?

We ran, ran like the wind! Well I ran at least, Stumpy hopped. I had never been partial to clowns, but these were no ordinary clowns. They'd been slowly taking over the earth, attacking only the men. They had giant vacuum cleaner-like hoses that came out of their mouths and were directly connected to their stomachs. They'd get you from behind and shove that hose right up your colon, sucking shit out along the way. That's how they survived, off our feces.

ME: Where the fuck did these clowns come from?

Stumpy: They came from Uranus.

ME: What the hell were they doing in my anus in the first place? It's like the chicken and the egg, man.

Stumpy: The eggman?

ME: Goo goo g'joob

Stumpy: What?

Stumpy: Stop trying to confuse me, we need to stay focused. Now what was I saying?

ME: You were talking about my anus.

Stumpy: No, Uranus.

ME: That's what I said, my anus.

Stumpy: The planet you dipshit. God, I literally have to spell everything out for you, don't I? U-R-A...

ME: Ok, that makes a lot more sense.

ME: Wait, no it doesn't. The climate and atmosphere of Uranus aren't capable of sustaining life.

Stumpy: We're talking about creatures that live off of shit, which has no nutritional value. Does it really have to make sense?

ME: No, I suppose not.

On we walked into the blackness of the void that was the cavern. As we walked I couldn't help but wonder, what was it about aliens that so fascinated them with the human rectum? It's seems like they're always probing something. Perhaps they're all gay? (Note to self: Study episodes of Dawson's Creek to try and get a better understanding of these creatures.) We traveled onward, the clowns inching closer every step of the way. More than any other time in my recollection, the path before me seemed uncertain. Soon enough however our fate would be revealed.

To be continued...


Will our heroes escape the clutches of evil? Will they be ass-raped by killer clowns? (Kind of like the opposite of Vulgar, if you've ever seen that lovely Kevin Smith flick.) Tune in for the next episode of...

The Deranged Shit Eating Clowns of Uranus!

 

[mustynutz]

As Stumpy and I descended into the cavern I could hear the screeching howls of the clowns getting closer. The sounds were decidedly inhuman, and terrified me to the depths of my very soul. We needed a plan, and fast.

ME: It smells like shit in here.

Stumpy: Really, you think so? I love it. Smells like mom's home cooking.

ME: That's what I said, it smells like shit.

Stumpy: You take that back!

ME: Stumpy, until you were nine you thought possum was a delicacy. Your mom handles more road kill than highway services. Let's be real about this.

Stumpy: Well at least my mom doesn't have a five o'clock shadow. I've seen Yaks that have less facial hair than your mom.

ME: Why you little...Stumpy, look out!

One of the clowns' mouth organ tentacles came within inches of Stumpy's manhood, but he retracted it at the last second. They were still a good fifty feet behind us! I had no idea they could reach that far. We turned and fled as fast as our limbs could take us. Well it wouldn't be quite fair to call Stumpy's package a limb, more like a tree trunk. God damn that thing was huge. I mean, I'm not gay or anything, but GOD DAMN! Horses are jealous of that fucker. I heard he once killed a chick when he shoved that thing all the way up in her stomach, but that's a story for another time.

ME: Way to work that thing Stumpy! Go go gadget dick!

Stumpy: Thanks! It's about time all those curls paid off!

ME: Hey, you're the only guy I know that can feed himself peanuts with his trunk like an elephant! Now that's skill.

Stumpy: Yeah, but for some reason they didn't seem to like it when I put it on my resume.

ME: Monks don't look highly on that sort of thing Stumpy. But enough about that, we better get going.


I ran but poor little Stumpy just couldn't hop fast enough. I sprinted ahead and was temporarily out of view of the clowns. I dove for cover behind a rock. Yes, this would be a good place to hide for now. I peered over the rock just in time to see poor Stumpy, who had fallen, gang probed by the Clowns. The first clown, the most dominant clown probably the leader, shoved that hose up there like he was bobbing for apples. (Or should I say cherries?) He was my sidekick, my apprentice, and I'd let him get the prison treatment from a bunch of rabid mutant Ronald McDonald's! How could I have let this happened? I hung my head in shame.

I watched helplessly as the clowns ran a train on my favorite little amputee. I could hear him screaming in pain. Screaming like...

ME: Wait a minute. That last scream didn't sound like pain.

– Leaning in closer -

ME: What the...

ME: By George, Stumpy likes it!

The clowns soon got their fill and walked off with their shit eating grins. Stumpy lay there unconscious, sleeping like a baby. Perhaps he was just delirious. After all, an experience like that could be quite traumatic. You know the old saying; sometimes you force a smile to keep from crying. That's probably it. No way he could have actually enjoyed that. I had to act fast, as it wouldn't be long until the clowns would feed again.

ME: (Shaking Stumpy) Stumpy! Are you all right? Wake up.

Stumpy: Hellooooooooo

ME: Are you all right? The clowns, they just...

Stumpy: (With a bit of a lisp) I'm super.

ME: What? But those clowns they...

Stumpy: Never been better. Everything is fabulous. Let's go shopping. I saw the cutest little outfit the other day...

I grabbed the nearest rock, hit Stumpy over the head and knocked him out cold. There's no way I was listening to that shit all the way back to the lair. When Stumpy wakes up I'll just tell him it was all a bad dream, like the Wizard of Oz. That'll work. Stumpy loves the Wizard of Oz. Something to do with all those munchkins. As for me, I cannot unsee what I have seen. I'm scarred for life. Anal clown porn will never be the same.

 

[mustynutz]

ups

 

[DeWalt]

This guy never stops

 

[ladyyella83]

WHERE DID YOU GET THESE STORIES FROM, THEY ARE FUNNY ASS HELL, AND IT GIVES ME SOMETHING TO READ AT WORK, GOOD LOOKING, ON THE COMPANY................