lol...

[mustynutz]

guess I could take solace in that upon this occasion it wasn't any blood relations that suffered this Kringly Curse that affects me. Not like that time I was joking with one of my seven year old cousins about how they were adopted... and when they asked their mother, it turned out they actually were. Or when I was eight and stuck my boots in the oven to warm them and melt the snow... my rubber boots.

No, this time I didn't know anyone, well... except my friend who was with me but she's known me forever... and actually it was for her benefit, her enlightening, that this occurred. Maybe I can say it's her fault.

While I don't know whose fault it is (HERS), I do think I'm forever banned from the Toys R Us. No, not think. I am. I was told as I was escorted out of the store, two-dozen metaphorical daggers protruding from my back, the floor slick with the tears signifying a tragic loss of innocence. Come on though, they have to grow up eventually.

Needless to say we kept walking, with the brilliant idea of sneaking in the store at Union Square.

Arriving, and making our way past a not as ostensibly ferocious line we located the tiny metal cars and racing sets, and placed ourselves at the end of the line which had somehow spawned a meandering replica.

The following conversation takes place after trudging through the city, two nights of drinking, and not having touched food in almost thirty-six hours... I might have been a little smarmy.

'This sucks.' I state eloquently, my feet arching as I stood on my toes to try and see the cashiers, who I was utterly certain were sitting and dallying about, maybe engaging in idle conversation with their friends.

'What do you expect? It's Christmas time.' My friend replied, starring longingly at the door.

'I expect that when I have kids I'm ordering off amazon.com. Don't these people have computers?'

'Apparently...'

'Why are we the only white people in this store? I filling like I'm in Bizzaro-land-Boston.'

'What?'

'Boston's... mostly... white- BIZZARO, BIZZARRO!'

'You're odd.'

'I'm on twenty cups of coffee and not much else

'Hush, listen... Parents are goaded by television and saturated by ads into thinking that their children will be less cool without the newest fuck-me-up-the-ass-Elmo. Ad agencies thrive on this pseudo-social-perceiveability of status through materiality. Perhaps you can't afford the diamond-plated gold Xbox, but if you wait on line in the cold for two weeks you can get that Divorcee-Barbie, complete with suitcase full of alimony.'

'Huh?'

'Ken and Barbie got a divorce, didn't you hear? The tramp is now living with some surfer in California who is probably also her plastic surgeon. Nice morality, no? Not only should little girls have waist sizes that would cause them to snap in half in a strong wind, and busts that equate to a DDD, but... now they should terminate there 25 year marriages and be in the calloused hands of a younger man within... seconds. The announcement was made the same day.'

'Announcement?'

'There was a press release.'

'Why do you know so much about Barbie?'

'...You're missing the point... she's a whore.'

'Barbie.'

'The blonde tramp.'

'Issues much?'

Now people are moving their kids away from us, but I've started in with the verbal diarrhea, and it's projectile, baby. The volume of my voice is starting to increase and I'm getting fidgety as only an Italian can... it's all in the hands.

'Barbie, G.I Joe, Lil Brats... come now really. Santa's little midget slave labor force is holing away in the North Pole creating these stereotype-perpetuating, capitalistic, patriotic propaganda machines? I want to see the elf that came up with the great idea of, "Hey, maybe we should have a whole bunch of toys that glamorize war without showing any of the casualties" ...I bet the boys in Iraq are having trouble hopping out of that tank right before the shoulder launched grenade hits. These are my peers; we were raised playing with these little plastic Sgt. Slaughter-Snake-eyes-the-United-States-is-the-greatest-country-in-the-world-SIR-G-I-JOOOOEEEEEEEEEEE.'

I take a deep breath.

'And the girls nowadays dressing like two dollar Vietnamese whores... I'm sure Barbie's outfits that you can barely fit her gigantic tits into had nothing to do with that. And this stupid ass 'Lil Brat toy phenom? Oh yes, let us encourage inner-city youths to perpetuate their uncouth, crass, disfranchised, unintelligent, slacker image. Heaven forbid we gave them a positive role model rather that a doll whose pants are around her ankles and while her twelve year old nipples are poking through her tight polyester shirt. Yeah, I'm sure that kid isn't going to end up sucking dick for crack on the set of some rappers video.

Behind my friend I see a mother pull a 'Lil Brats toy from her husband, look at it and place it on a stack of discarded toys to the side of the line.
'Toys are toys. They should be designed for the express purpose of entertainment. Back when video games involved hopping a frog across the street and eating pellets while avoiding pink ghosts. Not being a Special Forces Operative and sneaking into a Russian embassy to kill the Prime Minister. Or 'America's Army?' Six MILLION tax dollars pulled from the budgetary discretionary fund to finance a U.S. Army VIDEO GAME where you can be a solider and blow Saddam's head off! They didn't even pretend to disguise it as propaganda... if this was 1940 Germany maybe you could be a guard at Auschwitz, stealing the gold fillings from the Jew's mouths as you pull their bodies from the showers. Bonus points for cramming extra bodies in the ovens? Santa has no part in propaganda!'

'Maybe you should keep your voice down Mike?' People were staring at me with disgust.

'Forget this! Forget them! They are selling their kids some hallmark Santa Claus, who has moved from a Christian Saint putting candy in kids shoes to some obese man with a drinking problem that breaks into people houses, and leaves the latest and greatest presents which remain interesting to our Ritalin addicted children for maybe a week. While the little heathens don't even express gratitude, clutching and tearing at these wrapped gifts like Oprah at a box of donuts, or Whitney at a pile of snow.'

I lick my lips.

'Parents are better off telling their kids that Santa Claus is a hoax designed by some asshole in a board room. These poor parents slave all year and then don't even get credit for the gifts because it's some fat man with a glandular problem and his homosexual elves that cobble together that Playstation 2. Well fuck that. If God is Santa Claus for grownups, Santa Claus will not be God for my kids. I wonder how many children finger their rosaries with Jolly Old St. Nick in mind on Christmas Eve? Forget that. Santa Claus is dead. Like Greed in 'Seven' he was found bloated and decaying, face down in a plate of consumer-driven Christmas cheer-'

I felt a tap on my arm, and turning... a store security guard, flanked by angry parents and desperate children. 'I'm going to have to ask you to leave ...Sir.'

A little girls crying was all that broke the silence.

'Ummm, okay.' Slinking out of the store, I could hear angry hushed whispers aimed in my direction, and seeking to soothe tearing children.

As a final blessing though, under those glaring fluorescent lights.... they totally let me cut the line and make my purchase before escorting me out the doors.

Thank you Toys R Us.

 

[mustynutz]

Little did I know yesterday when I posted about Nick, I'd have another post about him today.

So I live in a relatively small town. Austin doesn't have a lot of people, it's just sprawling, so it feels a lot bigger than it actually is. When you're a fan of the music scene, you're bound to run into the same people over and over again, which is what happened last night.

I went with my slightly obnoxious friend Veronica to see a new band called Ameritrash (friends of ours). I saw them for the first time just before Nick and I broke up, and had shared with him the quality of their work. They're a stange mixture of Blondie-style punk... hard to explain. I love them. How can you not love a band who has its own motto? Especially when their motto is "We're Ameritrash, and we'll punch you in the face." Classic.

So, Veronica and I watch their killer show (They brought the rock. They thought about saving a little rock to snack on later, but then decided, no. The fans deserve all the rock, delivered to them on a sweet bed of kickass, with a side of killer.) The boys on stage know of my weakness for tequila, and my susceptibility to public pressure. They also know that tequila tends to make me a little mean . But that didn't stop them from peer-pressuring me into doing 4 shots with them. For shame.

During the 20-minute long tribute to Dimebag Darrell between 2 Guy Trio and the last band, Podunk, who should walk in the door, but Nick and some giggly, twiggy blonde bitch. A quick lowdown.... I am a punk rock girl. Always have been. I've never gone through another phase in my entire life. I've had a hot pink stripe up the back of my hair since I was 13. I'm 24 now. I've only ever worn Chuck Taylor hightops. I wear spikes as much for their look as for their defense capabilities. I was thus decked out for the night.

Now then.... On to the five things that Nick learned last night.

1. Do not grab my tits or my ass unless you're my boyfriend. They belong to me, not you, and they're not for anybody to feel on but him and me. Nick walked up to hug me, planted one hand on my tit and the other on my ass. In front of his date. What class. My rage began to simmer..

2. Don't tease me about my accent. That got lots of kids beaten up in grade school. Nick turned to his date and said, "You should hear the way she talks. Cracks me up." Funny. It used to make him want to jump my bones. Fucking git. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. My anger has reached a rolling boil, the kind you'd cook spaghetti in.

3. Don't take my drink out of my hand. After making a nuisance of himself for about 15 minutes, arm tossed over the shoulders of the horribly out of place trendy girl he'd brought for a date, I was on my 3rd margarita (mmm.... Limey goodness) which, for some reason, he felt entitled to. He took it out of my hand, drank a bunch THROUGH MY STRAW and then offered it to his tramp. My entire body was beginning to twitch. My foot was tapping, my fists were clenching and unclenching, that little muscle in my jaw was twitching. I was trying really really hard to play nice.

4. Don't call me fat. I'm not fat. After I snatched my drink back, Nick said, "You know, Cookie, you might wanna lay off the booze some. It's making your ass wide." His slore cackled. My ass isn't wide. I've got big hips, and that's about it. Plenty of junk in the trunk, but I'm not exactly dragging my muffler. Plus, it's only been about 3 weeks since he and I saw each other last. I looked decidedly at Veronica. It was time to go. She put her hand on my shoulder. And then, the kicker.

5. Do. Not. Call. My Boyfriend. Names. Definitely don't call him a queer. Absolutely do not tell me that he'll leave me in a week for a sheep because that's all Scottish men are good for. Do NOT insult my boyfriend. The pressure cooker exploded. Steam shot out of my ears and my hair flew back like Drew Barrymore in Firestarter That was it. It was all I could stand. Before I knew it, I had slipped my spikes from my wrist to my right hand and had decked him with a perfect right hook. Followed by an un-spiked left.

I'm 5'4 and petite, he's 5'7 and maybe 130 pounds. He fell down. His cheek had 3 perfectly spaced holes in it. His girl looked scared, but pissed. She wanted to come at me, but she was very obviously the cat-fight type. All slapping, scratching and hair-pulling. It would have been ugly like Trish Stratus getting her shit handed to her by Lita. I stared her down, daring her to step up, but like most girls, she can't take a punch, so she backed off.

I was GOING to do more damage. The tequila told me to kick him in his ribs. The lime told me to grab ahold of one of his pierced nipples and pull. The salt told me to spit on him. The bouncer told me to leave. So after I listened to the salt, I listened to the bouncer and stalked off.

I wonder what he'll tell his friends.

 

[mustynutz]

Since it was Thanksgiving and the firm was closed, I was bored. Dreadfully, dreadfully bored. There was no one around and no one was calling. There was nothing to do...it really was the easiest OT shift I've ever worked.

Well, I was bored...can I mention that again? At my fingertips was a little thing that I like to call "the internet." Time to surf. So after 5 minutes, the time it takes to check all my daily internet sites, I needed something more, something entertaining. The wheel of websites in my brain stopped at Craigslist.

Now, I've never really jumped on the Craigslist bandwagon. I understand the site, but now it was high time that I truly explore it. I clicked on New York and began. The choices were plentiful. The second mine eyes caught a little blurb called "Casual Encounters" I knew my day was about to get more interesting. I browsed.

Well, what do you know, but this section is made for people who want to hook up and have sex with random people...too good to be true. So I search the posts and find that it's:

A. Gay men looking for other gay men to have gay-man-sex with; or
B. Nasty dudes looking for unattainable women.

There's wasn't one single post written by a female looking for a male. Which is understandable, as ladies don't need the web to meet men. If a woman really wanted sex, all she has to do is walk outside and pick any man she chooses. Well, maybe its not that simple...but lets just agree and say its easier for a woman...maybe? I dunno.

That's when the plan hit me. What if a girl was to post a Want-Sex ad for a man? How many horn-ball men would answer? Hell, if a woman posted on Thanksgiving day when I was checking it out, I most likely would've given it a shot. There must be 2,000 men for every woman on Craigslist. The only way to be sure is to run an scientific experiment.

The Experiment:

Step A: Using a fake email address that I created for the sole purpose of this experiment I will write a "Female seeks Male" post and put it up on Craigslist.

Step B: Find a picture of a girl and include picture in said Craigslist ad.

Step C: Sit back and "enjoy" the mass amounts of email I was to receive.


Now, I realized about halfway into this experiment that I might be a little "sick in the head." What kind of man poses as a women on the internet to see what kind of responses from men I'd get?

"A sick man," One would say.

"People in prison, and/or mental institutions." Voices another.

"A closeted gay man," others might say.

But does anyone say a "Social Scientist?" Sadly, no they don't because, like Jack Nicholson says, people "can't handle the truth." I also believed the responses I would get would be hella funny, and an interesting look into the world of the man who wants to have sex with random internet women. Funny is not what I found.

Now, onto the interesting....


Step A: RESULTS: http://cleveland.craigslist.org/cas/50806764.html

I decided that the men of Cleveland would be my first Social Experiment. Why Cleveland? Two reasons, one because its a big enough city and two, wouldn't want any dudes that I know in NYC emailing "me" with pictures of their wangs or whatever it is horny, men do on the web.

Pretty much I left myself open for all sorts of men to contact "me." I felt that this line "Black, White, Skinny fat, tall short...I don't care I just want a man that can please me" covers all the bases. I don't want a short, fat, black man to feel he doesn't have a chance with this hot broad.

The ad speaks for itself.


Step B: RESULTS:

I googled "Blonde Girl" in the picture search and chose the first one I saw that wasn't porno.

http://www.hearmuff.com/pic-blonde-girl.jpg Pretty ain't she...I...?

I felt she was "real" pretty and not movie star or porn star pretty. I also chose a blonde as I thought that would appeal to more men...I myself am a brunette man.

Further research finds that she is located at this website: http://www.laurajeanangelone.com/ If Laura Jean ever finds this page, then I apologize for using your image for a joke. Many, many, many men from Cleveland find you very attractive, take that as a compliment.


Step C: RESULTS:

Let the emails flow. Over a ten day period I received 84 emails. Here are some "favorites."

Out of those 84 emails only 10 of them were more than 3 lines long.

Most were along these lines:

"I'll fuck you. Call me!"

"My dick is big and you are hot."

or

"You really in Cleveland? Lets fuck!"

Give me a break guys. Stimulate this woman's mind...

Also, I've learned that if you ask for a picture to accompany the email reply, one should specify that "Please don't send pictures of erect or flaccid penises."

23 emails contained pictures. 7 pictures were of "Dr. Dingle," or the "cock" if ya want to be a dick about it.


BONUS EXPERIMENT/PRACTICAL JOKE:

Now, I was sickened by the amount of sick-o's in Cleveland so I thought of a great plan to "punish" these poor, sad, horny sacks of internet-abusing poontang hounds.

I put all 84 email addresses into the BCC and typed an individual email, which read as follows:



"To my surprise I received quite a few offers. But guess what, I'm choosing you! Why? Don't ask questions, You lucky boy you.

To make us both happy and comfortable I'll be renting a hotel room for the night at the Cleveland Marriott Downtown at the key Center.

Here's the address and phone number

127 Public Sq.
Cleveland, Ohio 44114 USA
Phone: 1-216-696-9200

If you need directions call them, not me...because I'm not giving out my phone number.

We will have one night together and that's it. I don't want to fall in love or anything and neither do you. The room is already booked, so here is what you have to do...

8PM tomorrow night...that's Friday Dec 3, you will arrive to the hotel, please don't be late, and you will have a single red rose. No rose, no nookie. It's like we're spies and that's half the fun. Go to the sitting room they have in the lobby and take a seat and wait there...I'll come down to meet you at 8:15-8:25 depending on long my hair will take me. Ugh, girl issues.

Anyway, when I meet you in the sitting room, we'll go get a drink, talk for a couple minutes, and then head up to the room together and not leave until late that night, or the next morning.


Clear your schedule and get ready to have some fun. and please...be clean.


I'll be seeing you and your rose tomorrow night!"

 

[mustynutz]

Best case scenario: There were 80 guys in the lobby of this random Cleveland Hotel each carrying a single rose and looking at each other and realizing the awful, awful mistake they've made. Maybe some of them joked around on how they got duped...and most likely some of them bonded in their mutual hatred of Donna, and your humble narrator. I wish I had a camera...and I could zoom all the way to Cleveland to watch those sad men exit the hotel.

Worst Case: Well, I know at least 5 showed up due to the rather rude emails I received the next day. 5 guys...roses in hand looking at each other...figuring out what happened...Mwah! Its-a nice-a! Now that's comedy.

Surprisingly, a lot of the guys backed out once I gave them the info on where to meet. These guys wanted sex, but they were all talk. When ass was handed to them on a silver platter, they sent it back to the kitchen. Talk the talk, but couldn't walk the walk...I guess they were the true "winners" in this shitty game that only I was playing.

 

[mustynutz]

I called today's tale "I think my boss has the herpes," because when I saw my boss' lip this morning I thought to myself "I think my boss has the herpes."

I'm smoking a cigarette outside of the deli right across the street from where I work. I'm planning on going inside post cancer-intake and getting myself a yummy egg and cheese sandwich...and a coffee. When all of a sudden, mid-inhale, my boss comes out of the deli. Actually, the herpes on his lip exited the deli a second before he did.

"Hey Will. What's going on? You on a break?" He asks...his herpes dance in the sunlight.

"Yea, um. I was gonna get some breakfast, but I'm not feeling so hot right now."

"Aw, come on. They make a wicked Provolone and Roast Beef here." Bob says. [authors note: he probably didn't say "wicked" but it sounded right in the retelling.]

The thoughts of provolone and roast beef coming from a herped-up mouth disgusts me.

"I'm sure they do. I'm thinking of just getting a tea when I finish smoking. A green tea." And under my breath I mutter "...and maybe some Valtrex."

"I gotcha. I gotcha. Hey, would you mind if I take a drag off your cigarette. My wife has been bugging me to quit, so I haven't smoked in a couple days. So just give me a drag to get me over the hump, will ya?." He asks while he outstretches his hand.


[pause]


Now my boss is intimidating, he's an ex-detective, ex-head of the Disgusting Shit Squad. He was the kind of cop, in my imagination, that would get called into a genocide at a heroin den/nursery. He's a stone faced, cold-blooded killer. His gray hair is always perfectly flat across the top. Kind of like Bobby Brown's Gumby hair-do without the Gumby slant, and not in an afro, nor is he black. Actually, its nothing like Bobby Brown's 80's hair.

When I interviewed for this shitty job with him, we shook hands and he told me to take a seat. I did. He took off his jacket to reveal a handgun along his side. I didn't know at the time that he was an ex-cop. So he's interviewing me and tap, tap, tapping the butt of his gun.

"So, where'd you go to school?" Tap-Tap-Tap.

"Ha. That's funny." Tap-Tap-Tap.

To get the job I was told to cut my hair. I didn't argue. Tap-Tap-Tap.


[un-pause]


Finding it very hard to say no I pass the cigarette to him and he takes a drag from the herpes side of his mouth.

"Mmmm. What is this? A Camel?" Herpes juice jumps from cigarette to lip and back to the cigarette. "Tasty."

"Bob, you can finish it." I plead.

"No, no, no. Just one drag is fine. Thanks so much." He says as he passes it back to me. I can almost see the spit line still connecting my smoke to his STD.

I grab the butt by the tiniest amount of paper possible, like the expert joint passer that I am. I want to toss it on the ground when Bob turns around, but Bob has me in a stare down. It's just my luck that Bob has some work business to discuss with me.

"You know Will, I want to say thank you for....early...lobby...Proud...Very busy....phone calls....my office....extension 8600....25th floor...X-mas bonus..."

For an hour and half (or what felt like that long) he spoke and I just held the cigarette and it wasn't even burning away to the filter. The snig was waiting for me. The herpes must have mixed with the nicotine to create this amazing slow burn reaction which disobeyed the laws of space and time.

"What? Are you sending up smoke signals, Tonto?" Bob states as he points to the smoke coming off my not-in-my-mouth-cigarette. "You're letting a good smoke go to waste."

"Yeah, uh." Is all I can muster out. I raise the cigarette up to my mouth. I feel the herpes cheering as they are about to infect a new host,Lady luck steps in. Bob gets a cell phone call, and turns his back to me as the construction down the block makes it hard to hear. Thinking quick I flick the sickly cigarette away and take out my pack and light a new one. Saved. Bob's still on the phone and I notice the flicked cigarette burning a hole into a discarded newspaper. Fuck. This is like a Laurel and Hardy scene. I gracefully back up and stomp out the flaming newspaper.

As Bob turns around towards me, I quickly get back in place, attempt to look casual and smoke, smoke, smoke away.

"Ugh. That was the wife. Telling me I need to pick up this and that...she's driving me crazy. Let me get another drag."

The world stopped. His herpes smiled.

 

[mustynutz]

The business day is done, I loosen my tie and head to the elevated train. It's a long, desolate walk and I take out my cell phone for some companionship. That job interview was terrible. I check my email, via my cell phone...I check sports scores via my cell phone, and then I scroll through my phone book and pick someone to call.

I stop at "Older-Crazy-Sex-Girl." I thumb "send."

"Hey baby." I say after three rings and a breathy hello from the other end.

"Hey you." She replies, not remembering my name.

"It's me...Will......you remember...from that time."

"Oh yea. What's up, baby?" She replies...still clueless as to who I am.

I tell her "what's up." I talk about the last few hours at the job interview and everything I had to do, and how I was overqualified and how they couldn't afford me. She moans in response to everything I say. I love moaners...and no, not the Grandma from "Who's the Boss?" That's Mona, not moaner. Aw hell, I love Mona too!

After about 5 minutes of venting about my shitty day, Older-Crazy-Sex-Girl asks a question.

"Do you want to know what I'm doing right now?"

"Um, sure. What?" I have a good idea what she's doing, but I want her to say it.

"My hand is between my legs and I'm touching myself...mmmm." She purrs.

Word to the wise, when you have a moaning, masturbating woman on the phone, and you are going upstairs towards, say, the 7 train...Watch the fucking stairs! Maintain basic motor functions and you will get up the stairs alive...or else you'll find yourself falling upwards and making an ass of yourself.

Older-Crazy-Sex-Girl wants me to talk dirty. I want to, but as I swipe my Metro card through the reader I'm suddenly surrounded by a gaggle of human beings with super large ears, all the more better to hear awkward conversations with. They give me solid eye-contact every time I'm about to speak. I walk down the platform, ready to speak and they follow me, with their giant ears pitched ever so slightly towards me, like a satellite dish picking up the signal from space.

I try double entendres.

"Oh baby...I would love it if this train slipped into the tunnel." I smile and say.

"Mmm, Kevin Kline was great in the movie "In and Out. Mmmmhmmm. Get it?" I try, try, try and fail.

"Yowza, I'm a mouse looking for cheese...cheese with a clit. I'm sorry." I'm struggling.

"Baby, I can't do this. I got about 15 people staring at me...and the Mutant Ear Gang...and here comes the train...I'll call you when I get off the train...aight." I plead.

"Oh baby, that's OK. I'm going to keep playing with myself as I think of you and that big black cock." She's nearing something.

"OK. Think about my big, black cock. I'll be riding the 7 train. Buh-Bye."

I stare at my phone as I sit down on the train. She must know another Will with a big, black cock...an African American Will...or another dude named Will who bruises easily on the penis. Disgruntled, and still above ground, I decide to text message her with sexy messages...hopefully doing my part to bring her to orgasm. I know, I'm a moron.

After about 66 different buttons to push, I hit send and via cellular technology this message hits her phone.

::Ur pussy must be wanting to fuck it now::

After I hit send, I realize how stupid that must sound and read. I type again this time more quickly.

::U R making me so hard right now::

I hit send before people have time to read over my shoulder. This is so lame.

About 3 minutes later, I'm still above ground and thinking about what my little Older-Crazy-Sex-Girl is doing and thinking, when all of a sudden my phone rings. The LCD reads "PHONE NUMBER NOT AVAILABLE." I pick it up.

"Hello?" I say. So original.

"Will, what the fuck?" Responds my homophobic roommate Walter.

"Walter, hey...whatchoo talking bout?"

"That fucking text message, fag. Stop texting me messages about your cock. I'm at work."

My phone beeps. An incoming call.

"Walter, hold on I have a call coming in." I click send again. "Hello?" Again, so original.

"Yea, Will? This is your Aunt Irene. Did you just send me a message concerning slang terms for erect penis'?"

"Aunt Reenie, Hold on a second." I go back to Walter. "It's my Aunt on the other line, I gotta –"

"Fuck you, fagbeans." Walter squeals and hangs up.

"I click send again. "Hi Aunt Reenie, sorry about that. Something is wrong with my phone? I really should get it fix--"

"Fuck you, fagbeans." Aunt Irene cusses and hangs up.

The second she hangs up, my phone starts ringing again. It's my old Boss Mike. I have a feeling I know what this is about.

"Hello?" I say.

"Fagbeans." Is what I hear before the click.

My phone continues to ring. I ignore it. When the 7 train hits the tunnel and goes deep into the Manhattan underground, I lose all reception on my phone. When I get back above ground in Brooklyn, I check my incoming calls and find that I missed 27 calls.

I sent the goddamn Sexy Text Message to "all" in my address book. A litany of curse-filled voicemails and return text messages accompany me on my walk (of shame) towards the house. 38 different people called me "fagbeans." To numb the pain, I get a haircut...after my job interview was over...just because I'm a stupid ass.

I call Older-Crazy-Sex-Girl after my haircut...turns out her phone can't receive text messages.






I love you Mona...Love me! Love MEEEEEEE!!!

 

[mustynutz]

A rubber, The Fiveskin, Quiver for the post, Shiver River, heaven's gate, penal colony, soup bowl, sausage skin, penis goggles, wet suit, elastic prophylactic, dunce cap, I can't believe it's not rubber, navy seal, plastic surge-in, bubble boy, inside umbrella, rascal wrapper, the Papal robe, child proof lid, wienerhosen, Wild Willy's worm puppet, and the gauntlet.

Condoms, the product I love to hate.

I love them, cause if I have one ready, it means I'm getting laid, and I hate them...well because they're fucking condoms.

I remember the first time I heard about condoms. It was in Cub Scouts. We were on a camping trip and I remember overhearing the old scouts talking about having to buy condoms, but for the longest time I heard "condoms" as "condo's." Also, Cub Scouts was where I was first exposed to pornography. We were on our way to a roller-rink, and someone's older brother was driving us there and he had a porno mag under the passenger seat. He passed it around the car, us Webloes in the back seat were giggling with enjoyment.

The Freudian slip, Mr. Happy's business suit, wham bam dam, Jimmy the sleek, the Egyptian prescription, one-eyed Willie's eye patch, Mount Hood, schlong shed, vice grip, hold the mayo, Luger locker, jimi hindrance, hatch catcher, cape horn, spooge scrooge, Johnson Control, stinky slinky, cheese pipe Clingfilm, spoo keeper, and the parenthood.

"Dad, what are condo's?" I remember asking on the trip home from the jamboree.

"Well, condo's are like houses, son." Dad answers.

"A house for your penis?" I ask back.

"Huh, what?" Dad is concerned.

A few minutes later he puts two and two together and explains what a condom is. Fascinating.

Years later, with a deeper voice and some pubic thicket around my redwood tree, I was given a condom. I was in Jr. High School. Someone gave it to me, or I found it during the course of the day. I walked around with this condom in my pocket like I was the man. I showed it to my bestest, closest friends. When I got home later that afternoon, I went into the bathroom, locked the door and tried it on. It fit. When I was done modeling it, I snapped it off and was too scared to throw it away in the bathroom, so I brought it outside and tossed it into the woods. Wooded lots, where condoms go to die.

Purple Warrior Armor, ferret sock, Coney Island whitefish, no overflowed choad load sowed, indicktment, Don Johnson Mask, hickory dickory dock, peterfied cast, milk miser, Wrinkle Chapeau, wetness protection program, Nub pneumatic, Great Barrier sheath, driving glove, bobby sock, wilderness permit, seed sack, conception rejections, waste basket, 'giner liner, muff buffer, bopper stopper, love glove, jump suit and Mr. Dick Satchel.

Later in life, during my college years, I purchased a pack of sheepskin condoms. They were expensive, like 12 bucks for a pack of three. Sheepskin condoms are rarely sold anymore because they don't stop the transmission of STD's, they only stop sperm. They are made from sheep intestine, so therefore they have pores and STD's can go through those pores and into you. Let me tell you, they feel amazing. They might be a little slimy and a little stinky, but they are the best condoms I've ever used...or tried on in the bathroom. Form-fitting. Second skin style. Use 'em with the one you love.

Also in College, I met this girl after a night of drinking and debauchery. We started to hook up in my dorm room. She wouldn't do anything with my manhood unless it was wrapped up tight. For oral, I had to wear a rubber penis sleeve, it was an interesting and yet boring blow job. Funny, because on the flip-side she had no problem with me going down her without a dental dam. Oh, the irony. Has anyone ever used a dental dam? What's the point?!

Little Red Riding hood, rumpled stilt skin, eruption interruption, Freudian slip, nard guard, torpedo tube, fetus filter, der wiener fits-all, life saver, wong thong, ball blinder, groin cloth, lamb gut nut hut, corn husk, clam dam, poon balloon, Woody's wetsuit, wang wrapper, geyser cork, cock cloak, Bismarck barrier, penis shroud, scabbard, Horse hanger, gent tent, probe robe, banister canister, party favor, peter pouch, and the rod rind.

Recently, I was walking my roommates-sisters pug around the neighborhood. Dante, he is a garbage picker. Every few steps you gotta check his mouth to see what he picked up. This time I see Dante fidgeting with a tissue, I finally wrestle it out of his mouth and what's left in my hand is a used, filled, and ripe ribbed condom. Fucking gross. I yell at the dog, because I'm upset. When we get home I wash my hands and laugh to myself as my roommate lets Dante lick him on the lips.

Ever use one of those "long lasting" condoms? I have, and I never will again. Paraplegics feel more in their legs then I did in a "extended pleasure" condom. There are machines that slime fucking Novocain inside thousands of condoms a day. Imagine that's your job...Maintenance Man for a Willy Numb-er. After I had sex with one of these hellish rubbers, I went into the bathroom and had to whack my penis against the sink repeatedly till I felt anything. Fool me once, shame on me...twice, there is no twice...Never again! Imagine if you wore it inside-out and numbed your partners insides...don't worry, Larry David already imagined that and put it on "Curb Your Enthusiasm."

Propellant repellant, pricknic basket, uterus excluderous, snatch hatch, shower curtain, cum dumpster, weasel den, sneeze guard, ribbed crib robber, sling shot, bull pen, kidnapper, meat sack
potato skin, dick bra, seat belt, shank tank, the pole barn, thriller chiller, cock-a-doodle-don't, cloak for dagger, nub cap, French letter, man cream screen, nookie nook, and Sir Siemon Block.

Buying condoms can be embarrassing. I don't find the whole paying for them aspect to be awkward, I find the stares from the other people in line to be awkward. I know what goes through my mind when I see someone else buy condoms. "Eww, that person shouldn't have sex." "That person is having sex and I'm not." "Ribbed for HER pleasure, sha-right. Like girls can feel that."

Comedian Jake Johannsen had a great bit about condoms which I'll use to close out this slimy diatribe. Paraphrase: "I'm not having sex anymore, but I can't stop buying condoms. I don't want the guy at the grocery store to know I've stopped having sex. I have a roomful of them now. I better throw them away or start some sort of arts and craft project..."

 

[mustynutz]

The 69 Worst Things To Say on A First Date: Female to Male


01. "Nice to meet you, can I see your bank statement, please."
02. "I just had a baby in the bathroom."
03. "Man, my balls are sore."
04. "Do I look fat in this dress?"
05. "My last boyfriend only had 12'' in his pants."
06. "Would you excuse me, I have to take a wicked dump."
07. "All I do all day is watch Real World/Road Rules challenge."
08. "Jeez, I've been paid to do all sorts of deviant sexual acts."
09. "I'll always remember the tragic events of September...September...September...what was it, September 18th?
10. "And I thought John Travolta's eyes were close together."
11. "Would you mind if I read all the liner notes to the new Britney Spears album aloud?"
12. "Mind if a few of my girlfriends tag along?"
13. "Hi, I'm a virgin."
14. "Hi, I'm a republican."
15. "My last boyfriend only made six-figures."
16. "Who cares about the war...did you see what Cameron Diaz was wearing at the shrek premiere?
17. "And this is where my last 4 boyfriends are buried."
18. "My vagina is like a cesspool of STD's."
19. "Can you see my five o'clock shadow?"
20. "My vibrator has 5 speeds, how many do you have?"
21. "Tell me you love Big Brother 5!"
22. "I'm gonna make you cry."
23. "I have lots of role models...my mother, Princess Di, Lorena Bobbitt...who else?
24. "Do I look fat in this car?"
25. "Help me laugh at the homeless people, will you love?"
26. "I had a kid...once. Always obey the signs at the Grand Canyon, aight."
27. "You look like you're part Italian and part Assface."
28. "Men are like ants. Step on one, and there are thousands of others right behind him."
29. "Then Daddy bought me another Pony!"
30. "Gross, you're Asian."
31. "Let me tell you all about my castration fantasy!"
32. "[walking past other women]Bitch. Slut. Whore. Big Bitch. Fat-ass."
33. "Me...pay...HAHAHHAHHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!"
34. "Can I call you Corky? You look retarded."
35. "I've had more interesting conversations with soup."
36. "Do I look fat in this movie theater?"
37. "One time Daddy drove me thought the ghetto to see what Black people look like. Scary."
38. "Then after my fourth abortion I was like.'OK, I'll make my johns wear condoms!'"
39. "Do you have a tissue...never mind, I have a whole box stuffed in my shirt."
40. "Have any cute guy friends?"
41. "Come to think of I never had Chlamydia before...OK, so that makes one so far!"
42. "Oh, a present...this better of put a dent in your checking account."
43. "You have $768.86 left to spend before you get in my pants."
44. "You should read my BLOG."
45. "Lots of people have dead conjoined twins that are still attached, right?"
46. "I don't care what they say. My cell phone stays on in this theater. I have a nail appointment."
47. "Fuck you. Don't make my boyfriend kick your Hell Angels' ass!"
48. "She-it. My bitches will roll up in here in a minute, and you're buying.
49. "Then my Dad came in the massage parlor...and I HAD TO give him a happy ending."
50. "Can I rabbit punch you in the throat?"
51. "If you give me a massage, I'll break your heart gently."
52. "Do I look fat in this city?"
53. "If I don't come...nobody comes."
54. "Sorry, only my father can touch me there."
55. "This meal was great. Please excuse me while I vomit."
56. "Tony Stewart is my favorite NASCAR driver."
57. "Can we watch "You've Got Mail" again? Please!"
58. "Betcha I can fart louder than you."
59. "How strong is your back...cause shit nigga, I got baggage!"
60. "You have this creepy sex offender thing about you."
61. "This is my father, Don Fredrico Pallazio."
62. "What do you mean your car doesn't have nitrous boosters?"
63. "If you come over, I'll show you my severed penis collection!"
64. "Before dinner, can we go shopping for 7 hours?"
65. "Real men will let me shit on their chest."
66. "You look poor."
67. "WWCAD? (what would Christina Aguilera do)"
68. "Ewww. You carry around coins!"
69. "I hope your face can support 350 pounds of woman."

 

[mustynutz]

Male to Female

01. "My Mom says I have to be home by 9:30...so eat fast."
02. "Your favorite movie is like your complexion...shitty."
03. "I like my coffee like I like my women...Puerto Rican."
04. "Know what the fattest part of your body is, cause I sure do!"
05. "Can I see some ID? I ain't going back to jail again."
06. "I pretty much hate ALL people, myself included."
07. "Now the positives to joining the KKK are..."
08. "Here I got you a gift! Open it...it's my ear."
09. "Hi, my name is Scott Petersen."
10. "You know, they should make a version of Sesame Street for adults."
11. "Remind me...why are we on this date? Oh yea. So we can fuck."
12. "Most people have 4 nipples...right?"
13. "9/11 huh? Lets talk about it."
14. "I masturbated throughout the entire blackout last year. Non-stop."
15. "I just corn holed me a homeless man, what did you do today?"
16. "Hurry, or we'll be late for the monster truck show."
17. "Know which law is bullshit...all of them!"
18. "What a lovely smell! What douche do you use?
19. "I do sketch and improv comedy."
20. "Have you ever watched Blues Clues?"
21. "Have you ever watched Blue Clues on Acid?"
22. "Will you excuse me for a moment, my gerbil is gnawing."
23. "I do."
24. "Do you have a band-aid? I think my penis is bleeding."
25. "Are your parents related?"
26. "Pack your bags, we're going on a guilt trip."
27. "My favorite book? Well, its hard to choose. I love all of Dr. Seuss' work.
28. "Here I got you a gift! Open it...Oh shit, the puppy died."
29. "I'm 24, your 68...who cares, we both got holes!"
30. "This is the song that doesn't end...it just goes on and on my friend..."
31. "So, what's your least favorite minority?"
32. "If you cheat on me...I'll crush you."
33. "Please sign here...and here...and initial here...and sign here. Great, time for dinner."
34. "Yeah, and on Friday nights I play Daddy Mack in a Kriss-Kross tribute band."
35. "I hope your pussy doesn't take as long as you do to get ready."
36. "Next thing you'll tell me is that the Holocaust really happened."
37. "I'm too drunk to NOT drive!"
38. "This is my wife's favorite restaurant."
39. "This scar and this tattoo I got in cell block 41A. 25 to life. Got out after 12 for good behavior. Suckers!"
40. "You should check out my website at http://www.iwannafuckyourbrainsout.com
41. "Know what I like about you? I can't tell where your legs end and your ankles begin?"
42. "I'm thinking about becoming a gynecologist...Can I just see your labia minora for a second."
43. "I can count to 17. Wanna hear?"
44. "I'll have the steak, rare, and Fatty here will get nothing and like it."
45. "What the fuck happened to your face? Were you in a fire?"
46. "Hi, my name is Yakov Smirnov."
47. "What do you mean you're not a transsexual? Look at your hands!"
48. "Just because we met on JDate doesn't mean I'm Jewish."
49. "Do you want to see something swell?"
50. "Wouldn't you rather have LITE Ranch dressing, hmm?"
51. "This one time, at college...I was gay for 4 years! Crazy, huh?"
52. "Yes, the lady will have the #4, with a coke...and I'll have the #1, super sized, please.
53. "I can't beleive you're gonna make me smack-a-bitch tonight."
54. "Here I got you a gift! Open it...it's a scale...and this one goes up to 350Lbs."
55. "Do you have names for your breasts...if not, I've already named them. Fuckbag and Dessert."
56. "No, YOU have the right to remain silent officer!"
57. "Oh, I forgot you said you were an amputee. Guess I'm not getting a hand-job tonight."
58. "Can you hide this in your bag? The fuzz ain't looking for you!"
59. "Whew, one of us needs to shower and it's not me!"
60. "OK, the check came out to [holds out hands] this many!"
61. "My favorite TV show is 'The Jimmy Kimmel show', hands down."
62. "Well, I find Toilet Paper evil for lots of reasons."
63. "What? This black eye? Nope, no story behind that one."
64. "No dessert. Look at her, she don't need it."
65. "You are beautiful...SYKE!
66. "What do you mean you never robbed a liquor store?"
67. "Wanna see my white power tattoos?"
68. "Hey, baby. Don't worry. You'll buy another car one day."
69. "Well, I've wined ya...I've dined ya...when can I 69 ya?"

 

[mustynutz]

....pimp my rode gone wild

 

[mustynutz]

My buddy Matt lent me Book One of the "His Dark Materials" Trilogy, "The Golden Compass" written by Philip Pullman. It's a 400 page fantasy story that surprisingly hooked me right away. I flew through the book. I called Matt and told him I want the next book. Bad News: Mother-fucker don't have the next book. I gots to find it!

I have three choices:

A) Buy it from some sort of business that sells books.
B) Murder Matt for leaving me with literary blue-balls
or
C) Go to the library.

I chose the latter.

So Thursday, I use my lunch break to sweat profusely and walk down to the NYC Public Library. I search the stacks, nothing. Now disgruntled and flustered, I wait in line for the Help Desk and give the geriatric man behind the desk the information for the book I'm looking for. He types about as fast as dead hummingbird types. I wait, clicking my tongue and tapping the marble on the desk.

"Oh, well. Looky here." The Grandpa spits out.

"Well, what?" I ask as I stroke my cheek checking to see how much stubble has grown since I met this man.

"Well," He pauses to cough, "It looks like your book isn't at THIS library. Its at the Children's Library up on 53rd St."

"Excuse me, Children's Library?" I'm more annoyed at the fact that the Children's Library is much closer to work than this one that I walked and dripped to.

"Yes Children's Library. It's a kids book." He notices my confusion. "Oh, I see. You thought you were reading a big boy book, eh?. But no, you're reading a book for babies. Take this map and head up there."

"OK." Is all my defeated self could muster.

I walk out the library and with vim and vitriol I light my American Spirit. I check my watch. No time for the kids library I gotta get back to work. A lunch break, squandered.

Next day, after work, I go to the kids library. Welcome to hell on Earth.

I walk into this hall of silence to a deafening roar of pre-pubescent wailing. Kids are running amok. There's a kid to my left ripping pages, one by one, out of a book, his mother trying to control the other twin brother attempting to pee on the periodicals. I duck and dodge what appeared to be a pudding pop. I stand up and am eye to eye with a 6 year old little girl who's standing on the counter. She looks me in the eye whilst picking her nose.

"You know, that's disgusting." I say to her.

She replies by smacking me in the face with her non-booger hand and runs off screaming that I tried to touch her naughty place.

Fuck. I hate the smell of children after work. I scurry off to the fiction section. I'm in the "P's" and this goddamn book isn't here. I know this means I have to go to the Help Desk. Fuck.

I wait in line for 15 minutes as the girl in front of me has about 15 books she wants. I don't even think she really wanted them, it seemed more like a quiz to the poor old man behind the counter.

"OK, but what about Flowers For Algernon!? Betcha don't have that!...(of course they have it)...OK, then what about "Catcher in the Rye" NOOOO WAYY you have that!"

Ten minutes later, it's my turn, I have to yell over the crying and screaming...from the parents.

"I'm looking for the book "The Subtle Knife," by Philip Pullman. Do you have it in?"

"The Willing Wife?"

"No, the SUBTLE KNIFE! S-U-B-T-L-E K-N-..."

I know how to spell sir. He punches it in. Hits enter. His eyes flood with fear. He looks at me. Than back down to screen.

"It can't be." The Librarian check again. "God damn it. It is."

"What," I'm getting worried, "is it not in."

Oh we got it in, sir. It's up in TEEN CENTRAL...upstairs." As he points to an innocuous stairwell. "Good luck and Godspeed sir."

I battle my "Fight or Flight" instinct telling me to run, and head up the stairs. Neon lights spell out "Teen Central." There are 2 dark doors with smoky glass, obscuring whatever it is going on inside. I push open the door, and step into a world foreign to me.

 

[mustynutz]

At quick count there are about 50 teens and 'tweens in the room. Most are online. I'm deluged with an overpowering roar of AOL IM chimes going off every 2 seconds. I wouldn't be surprised to find out these kids are IM'ing each other. Eminem is playing on the stereo. "Teen Central" is as "Lord of the Flies" as you can imagine, only with electricity and hints of ghetto. Teens rule. I was taken aback by the swearing going on in this room, by the teens and by the milky rapper on the stereo. Just 20 stairs below there are children, but then I remember the chaos down there and this is much more my speed.

I find my book, and the third one "The Amber Spyglass" as well, and I head back down to the checkout line. Teen Central is where the bad-ass smarter kids hang out. They tell their proud parents they are going to the library, and little do Mom and Pop know that Teen Central is a 24 hour rap orgy. I escape, and check my back pocket to make sure I still have my wallet.

The check-out goes smoothly, as I exit I'm warmed by the sounds of the city which I took for granted. I thanked the homeless man screaming about the Vietnam War. I applaud the bus with the squeaky brakes. I high five the drunk vomiting on the sidewalk. The guy hawking the Strip Club down block gets a wink. A thumbs-up to the honking cabbie that drenches a couple dirty puddle water. An elbow nudge to the construction worker who puts down his jack-hammer so he can fart.

Whew, good to be back in the peace and quiet of a NYC street.

Oh Uber, on the train I start to read my book and find that people are giving me weird looks. When I get home I realize that not only does the book binding say "Teen Central" in big, gaudy letters, but there is pudding pop stuck to my pants.

 

[mustynutz]

Tommy would sit Indian style, alone, in the middle of the floor of his NYC studio apartment, his back up against the bed. Bob Marley's "Legend" cranked through his speakers. Between his legs he cradled a big and bright green bong that gave him the sweetest, coolest and cleanest tokes.

The bong was too big. Judging by the amount of space in his tiny apartment, and the exorbitant amount of rent he paid each month, he figured that the rent per month for the space that his bong took up cost him roughly 30 bucks a month...and adding his weed bill every few days to that, he was paying close to 200 bucks a month for his habit. He didn't care. He was stoned all the time.

Tommy subscribed to "High Times," "Grow," and "Weed World." All monthly Marijuana magazines. He lived weed. He loved weed. His friends often would joke that all he needs are some roots and he could become a plant himself. That notion was funny then, but all too real now.

---------------------------------------

The morning of April 20th Tommy woke up around 1PM.

"Shit man. Its early." He grumbled to himself as he swung his feet around to the floor. He did his early morning stretches and he took each foot into his hands and cracked his toes. The soles of his bare feet were black from all the ash and dirt that littered his floor. He didn't have dust bunnies, he had dust bison. No one ever accused him of neatness. He wore it like a badge of honor. He lit up the rest of the clipped joint from last night. Wake and bake style.

He walked over to his kitchen cabinet, a smoke trail followed him like exhaust follows a shitty engine. He took out a box of Holiday Rice Krispies. He had no milk so he just took swigs of cereal straight from the box. Red and Green Rice Krispies filled in the hairless gaps of his grungy beard.

Suddenly he heard footsteps. No one lives on this end of the basement of the building. Someone was coming to his door. Was it the police? His landlord? Whoever it was it wasn't good. He pillaged his room and shoved all his paraphernalia under his bed. He then sat on his bed waiting for the knock on his door.

He saw the shadow stop from underneath the door. There was no knock. Tommy felt like something was out of place...or was he just too stoned, too early. An envelope slid under the door and the shadow disappeared. No sound of steps.

Tommy became paranoid, but not paranoid enough to quell his curiosity. He picked up the envelope and tore it open with his yellowed teeth. Stapled to a handwritten letter was a bag of the greenest weed that Tommy has ever seen. He ignored the letter and went right for the grass.

He packed it into his favorite pipe, which he dubbed "Ol' Smokey," and proceeded to puff, puff, puff away. He forgot about the letter which sat face down on his brown Sobakawa pillow.

"This weed is the shiz-nit!" He exclaimed with his white boy glee. "I wish I could grow this shit myself!" He was rocked. Alone. Thrashed. Floating. High as a kite on Everest. High enough to see the MIR space station from above. He was rocked. Almost too stoned to feel the rumbling. Almost too stoned.

The room shook. "A fucking Earthquake? This is New York Fuckin City!" The hardwood floor began to split in half, Tommy, although scared continued to puff away. "If I'm dying. I'm dying high!"

A cloud of green gas plumed upwards from the crack in the floor and filled the center of the room. It swirled. Arms of green mist tickled the outside of the spiral and Tommy. Tommy puffed away. "This weed is fantas-mic-razzle-bee-hooky-dooky!" Tommy laughed as his hair billowed from the winds.

Then the swirling stopped and got sucked back down into the crack and all that was left was a piece of bark. The crack sealed itself up and only a faint odor remained. Tommy wasn't sure if the odor was from the green tornado, or from his overflowing laundry heap.

Tommy's pipe still hasn't left his lips. He puffed away like he was on Masterpiece Theater as he went over to the piece of bark. He picked it up, and examined it. On the smooth inside layer of the bark an inscription read "Your wish is granted."

"Whoa. This is some trippy shit." Tommy wondered if he caught all the commotion on his web cam. But then he immediately realized he doesn't even own a computer.

"My wish? What the hell does that mean? It's times like these that I wish life came with instructions." He thought and giggled at his "life-lesson.". Then, like a 1-2 punch he remembered the letter. "Oh man. There was a letter." He mumbled, realizing his folly.

The jumped on his bed and found the letter stuck between the wall on his bed frame. He picked it up and read aloud. Slowly and precisely since he was stoned. It read.

****
Dear Thomas,

We've been watching you for sometime now Tommy. We here feel that you have proven yourself time and time again to be worthy of a gift. A wish. What you see attached to this letter is a bag of what your kind calls "Marijuana," but this isn't your normal stash. It has magical powers to grant you one wish of your choosing. All you have to do is make a wish as you smoke it. And then there will be a scary green tornado cloud for effect and then minutes later, your wish will be granted.
Be sure to wish very carefully, as you will only be granted one wish. Be well. And we here look forward to your progress.

Puff, Puff, Pass,
Ganja McSmokey, God of Weed.

 

[mustynutz]

"What the fuck does that mean? My wish is granted? I didn't wish for anything?! Ganja Mc Smokey?"

He stepped to the middle of the room and tried to retrace the events from that first hit. "What the hell did I wish for?" He wondered. He put his hand to his brow to help him think. He wiped his eyes. And at that moment something pricked him...not a thought...but something on his hand pricked his eye.

"Ow. What the fuck, man?" He was holding nothing. With one eye shut he examined his hand and found a little plant growing from the spot where his thumb met his palm. He tried to pull on it but it hurt. "What the fuck, man!?" Tommy was starting to freak out.

He started to head towards the sink but his barefoot was stuck. He couldn't move forward. He bent down to look at his foot, and protruding from his bare, blackened feet was a thick root. "What the fuck is happening? I didn't wish for this!?"

Tommy was stuck. he could no longer move. He started to scream, but every time he opened his mouth more vines and weeds came out. His tongue because branch, and twigs pushed out all of his teeth. He became a weed. A Plant. A shrub. His wish was granted. He became a living breathing marijuana plant.

All he has now are his thoughts. He can't move and he sure as hell can't smoke himself. He does remember his wish though. "I wish I could grow this shit myself!"

Be careful what you wish for...it may come true.

 

[mustynutz]

So I look around for some weed, and find it in a shack that sells pharmaceuticals (like a Walgreens or CVS- medicine is only around 10% of their bread and butter, and most of the stock is odds and ends that you'd need at a general store). Out front is this guy smoking something like two pounds of weed wrapped up with string. We're talking like thirty-two ounces, no wrapper, just packed tightly with string wrapped around it to hold the bundle together. He offered me a hit. Oh man, that's good squishie. It was as big as if I took my pillow and folded it in half lengthwise to smoke out of one end. Come to think of it, one end of my pillow WAS pretty soggy this morning...

After I take the massive hit, I go to hand it back to the guy. He tells me it's not his, people are just passing it around, and to give it to anyone. I'm like, sweet, this town rocks. I hand it off to another person walking down the dirt path. I was going to buy some weed at first, but I tell Ashley (that's the name of the chick I was with) with slurred speech that I feel like I've smoked three bowls, and I'm set for the moment.

So Ashley and I get ready for some big performance or something going on in a theater (not like a movie cinema, but the kind stage performances and concerts are held in) down the street. I hadn't noticed the building before, but dreams are like that. We go inside and I excuse myself to the bathroom. When I get there, I realize that my wisdom teeth (which are not yet removed because I was jewed out of the appointment I had made - have pushed my two front teeth out of alignment. In real life, I've had some molars slightly displaced by these new teeth coming in, and biting down to force them back into alignment has been very successful. So I use my fingers to push my two front teeth back into place. It wasn't too hard to do, but I suddenly become aware that there's serious pressure between the two against each other.

The time is somewhere around ten AM Eastern Daylight Time in the real world. It's a very important time. It's the time when my dream becomes a nightmare, and my perfect day begins.

My teeth, uncomfortable from the pressure, suddenly explode. The back part of the two front teeth remain, while the front of the teeth shatter into far more pieces than should be capable of coming from such a small amount of teeth. The result? The teeth are bisected vertically, with the root exposed, pain abundant, and my good time in Amsterdam generally ruined.

But oh, dear reader, do not pity me yet. For I am just getting started.

I rush back to a hotel room that has suddenly materialized in my dream. Ashley is waiting there, wondering why I hadn't shown up at the performance. I show her what's happened to my teeth. She says, "Oh, come on, that's hardly a problem- we can still have sex."

She didn't seem to comprehend the problem of kissing someone when your mouth is in blinding pain.

So I go into the bathroom and spit the pieces of the teeth out onto the sink's countertop. I reassemble them manually and find that I've swallowed some of the pieces. Great. Now I need to vomit before I can get my teeth fixed, and of course the acidic content of the vomit is going to make it all more painful, and Ashley's still whining about wanting sex in the next room, and shit is generally not looking good.

That's when my genitals fall off.

I swear to God, I have no idea why this needed to happen. I guess it's because I don't get nightmares often, and when I do, they generally don't phase me too much, because I try to stand up to my fears in the dreams. I've been doing that since I was a little kid, when I studied lucid dreaming to combat the crazy demons that would haunt my dreams. After doing it for a while, nightmares just stopped happening. But recently they've been coming back from time to time, and I've been kicking their ass.

Today, they were getting their revenge in the worst way. I cry out in shock, and grab the family jewels before they hit the ground. My most precious equipment was now in hand, and even worse than there being a hole where they had once been, there was nothing. Ever seen Dogma? Remember how the angel had a seamless, empty crotch? Welcome to my nightmare.

I have no idea how to reattach my genitalia. I have a seamless crotch. And now I have to pee.

Wondering how the fuck this was supposed to work, I'm holding my genitals in front of the empty crotch, and standing in front of the toilet. The feeling of having to pee so very bad just wells up inside me, until my whole crotchital area there just completely explodes. The genitals explode, the seamless crotch explodes, and pee is going everywhere. I'm covered in my own blood and urine.

That is when I woke up. The only thing that would have made the day worse would be actually waking up in a puddle of my own urine. When I was around three or four, the only time I would wet my bed was when I had dreams of going to the bathroom. After developing bladder control (I had it perfected by the age of seventeen), I had many dreams of urinating where I didn't pee at all. So I thank God for that. But I did have to pee now that I was up. So I went over to the bathroom, covered in a cold sweat (yes, goddamnit, it was sweat) from my heinously evil dream.

When you wake up from a nightmare, you're supposed to be able to take consolation from the fact that the worst is over. It's all behind you. You're in the real world now, and it's all sunshine and lollipops from
here.

Not so. Today wasn't meant to be a sunshine and lollipops day.

I went over to my computer to check my e-mail and see if anyone had enjoyed or slammed my posts overnight. This is when I discovered that my computer wasn't on. Hmm, that's odd. I never turn it off.

*click*

Funny, normally pressing that button makes my computer turn on.

*click*

*click*

*CLICKACLICKACLICKACLICKACLICKACLICKACLICKACLICKACLICKACLICKACLICKACLICK*

It's okay, I told myself. It's cool. The power cable isn't connected properly. I'll just follow the cable, panic panic panic, back to the power switch, panic panic panic, okay it's plugged in but maybe the strip is out, panic, and great, the other devices plugged into the strip are on.

And now I am forced to go through the remaining four stages of acceptance in around two-point-six seconds.

"I'm not going to be able to get my work done! Oh, goddamnit, I have to go back to school in two days! How am I going to get my papers in! Why, God, why me? WHY??? THIS ISN'T FAIR! I'LL KILL YOU, YOU GODDAMN PIECE OF SHIT ASS-STABBING POOLICKER OF A POORLY BUILT ASIAN CORNER CUTTING PROFIT GRUBBING ASSBEAST! Why didn't I just shut it down? It could have been prevented if I didn't let it overheat, goddamnit, I could have just shut it down! Well, I _did_ want it to download massive quantities of pornography and illegally pirated movies overnight. It's not my fault, I didn't make the shitty equipment. I'll just catch the manufacturer at the next show, and work on my laptop until then."

*sigh*

The shows come around every month or so. The local promoter has them in different cities each week. I go to their website. Next Saturday: show's an hour away. Sunday: an hour away. Saturday after that: forty-five minutes away. Sunday: an hour away. Saturday after that: in town.

Oh, fucking A. Three weeks without a working PC? Hellllllz no.

Well, might as well get the receipt. Going to need it for the repair. After my last encounter with these crazed technogypsies, I was sure to leave it right on top of the... on top of the fridge, right over here... right here on top of the... it's supposed to be right here... WHERE THE FUCK IS MY RECEIPT?!?

I can't believe it. Now I can't get it repaired even if I wait the three weeks. So I go to a different website to order the part. I have my credit card number memorized, as well as the expiration and the verification code on the back- so I don't have to hunt out my card when making online purchases. But of course, on a day like today, the website I'm ordering from wants a telephone number off the back of the card. A telephone number?? Jesus tapdancing Christ of Latterday Saints, since when is the credit card number, the name on the card, the expiration date, the billing address and telephone number, and the three-digit verification number on the back not enough??

So of course it takes me thirty minutes to dig out my card from its dubious hiding place.

Right about then is when my genitals fall off.

No, not really, but it's been a shitty day. It's only one in the afternoon. And now I have to go to a family reunion. I will probably develop a monster zit on the tip of my nose while driving over there. In fact, in light of the recent events, I imagine you can count on it.

And oh, did I mention that the first version of this entire post disappeared because Word decided to crash while I was writing it? Of course, it waited until I had typed the whole thing out, edited it a couple times, and clicked on Save. That's right. It didn't crash until I went to save the file.

But what the hell. I'll be the first to admit that even on my worst day, I have it better than ninety-eight percent of the world.

 

[mustynutz]

During high school I was a recreational pot user. Never bought the stuff but on the occasions that someone offered to share would usually partake. My roommate's girl and I had nothing to do so we went to a friend's house, John, where he offered to light us up. We all enjoyed a few joints and then John suggests we go for a drive, in his car. We drive out of the city to this little neighborhood that has one of those hills you can lose your stomach on if you drive fast enough.

It's about 10:30 P.M., we're out in the boonies, so we figure that it's probably safe to speed excessively over this hill to catch a cheap thrill. Speed limit 25, we're doing 45. As we crest the hill we see a car approaching us.

Me: John, that's a cop.
John: no it's not

Car gets closer

Me: John, that's a cop!
John: shut up man you're just paranoid

Car goes by us

Me: JOHN THAT WAS A COP!
John as the red blues flash on and the cop whips a shitty: Aw Fuck!

As we're slowing to a stop we all rolled our windows down, I casually, without thinking about it (I am stoned after all), throw my cigarette out the window. Then John turns to me and hands me three joints.

Me: what the fuck am I supposed to do with these?
John: don't care but I can't have em on me, I can't go to jail again!

I wasn't ready for that shit. I had no idea he'd visited the slammer for possession. What the hell?!! I had a hole in the lining of my jacket so I shoved em in there acting as naturally as possible. The cop gets to the vehicle and takes John back to the car. He comes back a short time after that with a ticket for speeding. Then the cop comes to the rear passenger window where I'm sitting and says that he needs to see me. Holy Shit!

I walk back to the car with him wondering what the hell he wants from me. Wondering how I was going to get through this, high. Gnawing on the fact that I had three joints in my coat and I was getting into a police car

Cop: Was that a cigarette or a joint you threw out the window.
Me: it was a cigarette sir

Cop: I'm going to give you a ticket for throwing a burning object from a vehicle, you could have started a fire.
Interesting side note: this ass clown made that statement while pointing out the window at the snow covered field next to us.
Me: ok

Cop, as he's writing the ticket: you're eyes are awfully red
Me: I've been up since 5 this morning moving

Cop: all three of you?
Me: yeah they were helping me out

Cop: you been doing anything illegal tonight?
Me: no sir

Cop: you been smoking weed?
Me: no sir

Cop: you hittin the bong?
Me: no sir

Cop: tokin a J?
Me: no sir

Cop: maryjane?
Me: no sir

This cop definitely knew what was up and was waiting for me to screw up, something like: "Yeah man it's good shit want some?" He went through every name he could think of for marijuana while he wrote the ticket. It was the longest ten minutes of my life, sitting in a cop car with three joints in my coat while he asks me in every imaginable way if I'd been smoking pot, while I was high! The officer finally got to the end of the ticket and sent me back to the car and us on our way. John was sweating the whole time sure I was selling him out and making a deal or something. This was ten years ago and I haven't smoked up since, partially because of this incident, mostly cause I no longer have the opportunities.

 

[mustynutz]

Now, I am not going to lie to you: I have been told that I am pretty as a pony numerous times by my mother and by my sister and by a few rotund women at the women's shoe store, and I guess they have helped boost my confidence a little bit. Even with my boyish good looks, though, I do not expect women to just fall head-over-heels for me just as they lay eyes on me. No, no, I have to actually work a little bit for it.

With this in mind, and being the type of guy that is always looking for shortcut, I have developed a system that, when applied correctly, takes most of the hard work out of the hunt. I am American, after all, and this is what we do.

Let us start with my latest misadventure from Friday, December 3, 2004. That's right, booooooy! While you were home cupping your balls, scratching your ass, taking a piss, and then smelling your fingers, I was fucking an ugly fat chick!

While browsing the forums over at SomethingAwful.com, I was exposed to a banner for an original and great idea for a website: another fucking dating site: eDoggers.com. My first impulse was to ignore the banner and continue on with my reading, but the banner was created by a damned good marketeer and with an awesome slow-motion slide it proceeded to show me the top half of a naked woman lying on her side, cleverly freezing right before reaching the presumably awesome nipple. Being a child of the information age and being affected by an increasingly debilitating case of AADD, I was impressed. This company knew that the only was to get my attention was with the promise of luscious areolas. I was hooked, and could not stop myself from clicking the stupid banner. I should have got the hint and halted my actions completely when my Avant Browser's pop-up blocker automatically blocked the link from showing up, but I am a stubborn fool who cannot contain myself and will let nothing stand in my way between lactose-generators and I.

 

[mustynutz]

Anyways, I was at the site for a good 5 minutes, being regaled with promises of easy sex and possible STD's before I decided to sign up. I created a profile psychologically designed to make girls want to subconsciously drop their stained panties on the floor and dry hump me upon reading it. It can be found here: http://edoggers.com/juan.html. If you have read any of my previous articles it is immediately apparent that I like to stick to the old college suggestion of KISS: keep it simple stupid, for all my stupid viewers and the same technique is used when I write a profile for an online dating site. eDoggers.com was nice enough to give you a free 3 day trial to send as many private messages as you'd like, so I took full advantage of it while I searched for possible candidates within the Dallas metro area. It didn't take me long at all as she was the first one to show up on the list, and she was online now!

I private messaged her something along the lines of "hey whats up girl uR2cute. how r u?" and she must have felt loved and wanted because she immediately messaged me back with some inane bullshit like "noting wats going on with u?" (My free 3-day trial has ended and as such I cannot look up the messages to confirm what was really said, but trust me, you are not missing anything intelligent). I sent her my MSN username so we could chat live, and within seconds she had made contact with me. The full transcript, with her home address and phone number edited out because it's funnier if you try the same things on her instead of prank calling her or mailing her HIV in a bottle, can be found at the official Idiotopia.com Forums, here: http://forums.idiotopia.com/index.php?showtopic=1653. Being a steadfast believer in freedom of speech and always preaching that the truth is always funnier than made up dribble, the transcript is exact word for word.

 

[DTP]

Sadly the following has happened in the past...

30. "Gross, you're Asian."
Comment: I think she was joking... cuz she's my girl now
37. "One time Daddy drove me thought the ghetto to see what Black people look like. Scary."
43. "You have $768.86 left to spend before you get in my pants."
Comment: I think the amount was $500. I bought her some rolos... she know what she can do with it.
44. "You should read my BLOG."
46. "I don't care what they say. My cell phone stays on in this theater. I have a nail appointment."
62. "What do you mean your car doesn't have nitrous boosters?"
64. "Before dinner, can we go shopping for 7 hours?"
Comment: I think this is happening to me right now.

 

[mustynutz]

think now is a good time and advise you on one universal truth about online dating sites: there are always going to be fake pictures being used in almost all of the profiles. Amazingly, cherrykinkymoonbaby3 mostly used her real pictures! Note, however, that the image of the legs in a bathtub is not her and the one of the nice flat belly is an extremely outdated one.

Anyways, you will note in the transcript many of the techniques and tips that I use to get strange, ugly women to fuck me.

Contrary to popular belief, typing lke ths will not get u n e where. Use complete sentences with correct structure, grammar, and do not sound overly excited or seem that you are trying to sound younger than the 45 years you truly are. Women, especially the cheap, easy ones, are like dogs: they will run over you if you let them but will obey your every command if you are authoritative and sound like you are in control of the situation, whether it be throwing a Frisbee at them or trying to get them to give you your hard-earned head.

Never say she is beautiful. Like this example, they most likely will be God-awful freaks of nature that are just trying to get through life without having more than 5 shoes thrown at them a day and the most that is needed is a 'u r 2 cute' or some other inane and untrue bullshit.

Whenever she says something sexually interesting that she would like to do to you, retort by saying that she is teasing. Women love this sort of shit because it gives them an excuse for whatever freaky stuff they do. Looking back they can always say, "Well, he dared me so I had to prove myself." It's stupid but it works.

Overuse of those stupid smiley emoticons makes women go hog-wild. Use them wherever you can

Girls who have sex regularly have no need for online dating sites, unless they are huge ham-beasts or over-priced escorts (read: hookers), so use that 200GB hard-drive worth of porn to your advantage and show off your skill of the sex by amazing her with clichéd phrases like "Virgin boys won't do it right", "It won't hurt if they know what they're doing", "I can make you feel so good" and others. Make them up yourself, it's fun!

While the girls you will meet are first-class slutbuckets, you on the other hand are an upstanding citizen that is only looking for a one-night indulgence before going back to the real world and helping society out with your actions, so you must always remember to protect yourself from possible harassment from the girls you talk to in the future. Here are a few tips to help you out:

Always ask her for her phone number, do not give out yours, and call her using either a payphone or having your cell phone not send out caller ID. This will prevent the dumb broad to call you the next day proclaiming her love for you and the pickle still wedged in her rectum, possibly ruining your relationship with your partner who you really care about and treat well.

Don't give her your home address, and don't bring her home with you to fuck her. Either convince her to do it in her room that for some reason is always next to or above her parents' bedroom and has paper-thin walls, or take her to a Motel 6 or some other seedy, cheap place.

BUY A GODDAMNED CONDOM. I cannot stress this enough. There's plenty of possible reasons why she has resorted to online dating sites to find men, with one of them being that she's an infected slut who is a biological hazard to everything she touches. I trust Trojans, mostly because I've yet to impregnate a woman to this day and because they make sizes small enough to fit me.

Check her arms, teeth, and possible tattoos. If her tooth-to-tattoo ratio favors the tattoos, don't even bother with her and go home. If her arms look like an Elbonian has been gnawing on it for a month, or if it has more holes than your father's pocket book, dump the bitch. You're looking for easy sex, not to get stabbed for crack.

17 is the age of consent here in Texas and that means if you're a 30 year old pervert you can fuck a nice, young 17 year old. I recommend you looking this pertinent information up for your own location as they change state to state and country to country (It is something like 14 in North Carolina. What the hell is up with that?) unless you enjoy the thought of being sent to one of those federal pound-me-in-the-ass-one-more-time prisons. Also, if she is a day under 18, whatever you do, DO NOT TAKE PHOTOGRAPHIC/VIDEO EVIDENCE OF THE ENCOUNTER! This is a federal offense and no judge in the country would risk their political lives by not assigning you at least 5 years in the aforementioned prison.