Pointless Time Killer.....interesting

[mustynutz]

It's a Monday night; all my friends are going out on the town. "Jobless mother fuckers" I say aloud to my roommate who is also going out on the town. Monday night is the best night to go out in Derby; all the studenty bars choose that night to make the beer cheaper and therefore the clientele cheaper too.

All the girls who 'just wanna have fun' are out, the music is always better, and the air always tastes sweeter. Tonight the air tastes like old tramp vomit because I'm working tomorrow. In the words of 'Wayne's world': "Denied".

My roommate comes up with the ingenious plan that we will venture forth anyway; I can hang out in the pubs get a little bit of that sweet smelling air and then go home to bed when my buddies enter the hallowed land of 'The Blue Note' Derby's finest (still completely shitty) rock club.

We arrive at the pre-club pub "The Blessington Carriage" It's rammed; we're talking shoulder-to-shoulder here, breast-to-breast. Mmmmmmm, sweaty bouncy boobs.

The air is wet, everyone is sticky, and the music is pounding through the walls, people give you that warm tickling sensation in your eardrum as they speak close enough to your inner cerebellum for you to hear them.

I can't get to the bar for people but that's ok because I can drink the sweat off the back of the fat guy in front of me. The atmosphere is brilliant, but that pang of pity for my future self is still with me. I'm working tomorrow, I can't get too drunk and I definitely can't go to the club.

"Dude, screw work, when did THEY last get you laid?" enquires my roommate

"Hey man not seen you out downtown in ages, this is my sister..." Yells an old school friend.

They're campaigning for me to lose my job.

"Please come to the Blue Note, I don't wanna go back to my parents house maybe we could go back to your place afterwards" submits some piece of jailbait.

I'm sure there's some possibility she's 16 and besides we'd probably just talk until I'd gotten to know her and then maybe I could... No! God damn it I can't have any more time off work, I smash my dick in the face with my fist and head to the bar for pint number 4.

Well its time, my friends are moving onto the club and I need to go to bed if I have any chance of making it to work tomorrow, we all walk together towards the town centre, them for the club and I for a taxi...

That familiar bass sound coming from the door, the smoke filled entrance with the flashing lights just behind the fog, and the friendly boobies are all calling to my legs which appear to now have a mind of there own. I begged them, pleaded with them, "legs go home"... This made me look quite silly.

I tried to pass the club; I swear to god I tried to pass it.

My legs move to the rhythm and I'm inside, intoxicated by the smell, excited by the possibilities. So many girls, so little time. I can't stay long; I'll go home after this drink.

There's this beautiful girl sat in the corner, slightly taller than me, but that's not unusual, Shoulder length blonde hair, incredible figure and a sultry bottom lip like Daddy just spanked her. I wanna be Daddy, and the only place to sit is next to her.

I'm a damn sight lazier than my friends so they stand, and I sit and make like I'm with their conversation, the whole time she's looking kind of bored.

"I know how to start a conversation with her" the slightly stupider side of my brain says to the more sober part.

The more sober part of my brain is asleep.

The words are repeated by the stupider part of my brain and consequently ignored by its sober counterpart.

'Sober brain' doesn't even bat an eyelid as I throw my drink at this beautiful specimen of women before me.

The bouncers haven't noticed. I'm stood there if I remember rightly with my eyes looking in different directions, my tongue flopped graciously out of one side of my face grinning and laughing.

She must have found this in some way attractive because she returned the favour. Unfortunately the bouncers also claimed some of the reward, as the Vodka and orange sprayed spectacularly over my shoulders and onto the biggest blackest bouncer I have ever seen.

I felt cold, and the sensation, woke me up a bit because I managed to talk the bouncers out of throwing her out.

She walked away, and the disappointment washed over me. Maybe throwing the beer was a bad idea.

As her beautiful vision moved away from me I turned my attention the dance floor. I had to impress this girl and I remembered that on a weekly basis something I did on the dance floor would garner a lot of attention from the surrounding crowd. What was it? What is it that I do that makes everyone watch me? I couldn't remember; lets have another drink whilst I think about it. Another beer and I remember, I'm John Travolta on Acid... Wait am I? Too late I'm grooving and sure enough everyone is watching me, are they laughing? I can't tell, does this happen every week?... the thought occurs that I can't actually dance.

Any feelings of dance inadequacy are quickly replaced with surprise and shock as I feel the back of my head become drenched. The sweet taste of lager is washed off the side of my left cheek with my tongue, and I realise someone has thrown a drink at me.

I turn to face my angel. She's smiling and her drink is empty.

"Think you owe me a beer" she says the words spilling from that sultry bottom lip.

I lean forward and wipe my sweaty beer sodden face on her T-Shirt and slur into her ear "Fuck off! Buy yer own".

I walked her back to her taxi and we swapped numbers. Two months later I'm living with her, go figure. If you want my advice fuck work, drink like an idiot and throw beer at girls.

I tried to pass the club? Did I fuck...

 

[mustynutz]

After over 30 years service, Osama bin Laden has decided to retire and depart from Global Terrorism Inc.

Osama began his illustrious career with us all in Afghanistan as a Mujahideen fighter on the payroll of the CIA, fighting the totalitarian Russian Communists.

"He was excellent to work with"

commented CIA field service event facilitator Bradley Klein.

After many successful years service wearing down the Russians in the service of the CIA/Mujahideen, Osama spent a number of years freelancing in the East Asia basin.

Former manager Bin Abdul Faraq said

"In those formative years he was developing into a real contributor"

And so he did

Years of community service in Afghanistan followed, and while there he forged a real partnership with the incumbent elected officials of the Taleban. It was there that he famously devised his own unique brand.

Buoyed by the realization that branding and marketing were the key to all successful corporations, Osama realized that real power lay in totalitarianism. His vision upon seeing the success of Capitalist totalitarianism in the West was to develop Islamic totalitarianism. And weren't we all glad he did.

His ideas had him setting the company vision and mission statement to the simple yet catchy "Kill all Americans". It was to be a revolution in the market-place.

His on-going consultancy during this period allowed him a considerable amount of time to utilize his CIA skills to further the development of thousands of mini-Osama's. His vision was truly what has made this company so successful.

Former head of CIA Sth-East Asia operations James Faulkner noted.

"It was during this period that we really started to notice his ideas and potential. We needed an enemy and Osama had all the right credentials and commitment. Plus he was a towel-head which made it significantly easier to market him in the West"

Late in the 90's Osama then took the bold step of moving from hands-on training consultancy to public relations, deploying many of his trainees world-wide to spread the gospel of the company. His brand? Islamic totalitarianism and it was taking off like Frisbees.

The rest is history as you well know.

It is expected Osama will retire to his mountain chalet in Colorado where he is known to have Hunter S Thompson and Jack Nicholson as neighbours.

"Haha....we expect that this wont be a quiet retirement with those two scallywags as neighbours"

winked long-time friend and former Taleban ruler Mullah Muhammad Omar.

And neither do we. Given his drive and commitment it is hard to see Osama truly settling down. It sometimes feels like he can go on forever, and his influence is everywhere despite his non-attendance in the office of late. A truly magnificent brand if there ever was one.

To mark this occasion, Osama would like to invite all his friends and former colleagues, both past and present, to join him for a pint at

Maguires Bar and Bistro
Temple bar
Dublin

5-30pm tomorrow night.

Contributions for Osama's leaving present can be forwarded to Maggie O'Hara at the Global Terrorism Inc Dublin office on Fitzgerald St. and card signing can be made at the front reception of Maguire's on the night.

We wish him all the best on his retirement as he is leaving us with a golden legacy of global chaos and mayhem. Thanks Osama. Thanks CIA. What would we have done without you.

 

[mustynutz]

There are a lot of freaks on campus, myself included.

Every day, you'll find dozens of different clubs or groups handing out their respective leaflets and pamphlets that attempt to dazzle the eye and the mind with the mind-numbingly neon colors.

"Here! Take this!" an anonymous clubster could yell at you. Whilst doing so, he/she usually shoves a flyer in your face so close that it is impossible to read. And much like any flyer on a car windshield, people often have to take the damn flyers off of their face to continue their journey to wherever they were journeying before.

Most of the time, these flyers are for boring organizations, such as Circle K, Campus Cats, or the KKK. And usually, I just pass them by, give a curt nod, and mumble,

"No thanks."

But sometimes there are certain flyers that demand your attention.

Yesterday, I was walking up Morton Hill (Ohio University's second largest hill). At the top, I renounced the urge to raise my fists in the air and dance around a la Rocky. And I'm a small guy. I can only imagine the trouble that fat fucks have as they try to sway their momentum long enough so as not to turn into a giant rolling ball of destruction for thousands of other tuition-donators that are lumbering up the hill in a wrong time/wrong place context.

At the top of Morton Hill, there was a lone carbon-based life form. He was of average height, average build, but had a saintly look about him. Fuck. He was going to hand me something to do with religion. As I started to begin my curt nod, the lad jumped out in front of me. Now the nod was no longer an option. Once these people jump out in front of you, you have to acknowledge them in a more substantial way.

"Hey, what's shakin', chief?" I asked in a quasi-friendly manner.

"Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal lord and savior?" asked the teen in a holier than thou accent.

"Um...Jesus...," I asked in a tone that made it sound like I had never heard of him before. "I don't think I've ever heard of him before. Who is he?"

The kid had a look of pure terror on his face. He spake, knowing that the first words he said would have a profound impact on my faith and religion for years to come.

"Jesus is great. He died for our..."

"Wait. Doesn't he work at that burrito place down the street? When I was stoned the other day, he sold me 4 burritos for the price of 3. Jesus fucking rocks, man. High five for Jesus!"

I let my hand hang in the air long enough to let the kid know who he was up against.

The Christian looked up at the hand, as if thinking about actually dabbling with my palm. He then remembered what I had actually said.

"Um...I don't think Jesus likes it when you smoke."

"Sure he does," I exclaimed. "I told you, he gave me cheap burritos."

"I think we have our Jesuses mixed up," said the Christian.

"Well," I began to ask, "if your savior was so great, why does he share his name with half of the Mexican population? Shouldn't he have picked a more ambiguous name? Like 'The Fucking Savior Of Everything and Everyone'?"

I thought I had met a guy with that name once, and was considering naming my child after him. But I figured my "savior" could have it if he really needed it. Or if he really saved me.

"What's your name, kid?" I asked the Christian.

"The Fucking Savior Of Everything and Everyone," he said ironically. "But my friends call me Preachy."

"You certainly are," I said as I repressed a small chuckle. "So, Preachy, why don't you tell me about YOUR Jesus."

"Oh," Preachy began, "he's not just my Jesus. He's everybody's Jesus. He's my Jesus, yes, but he's also your Jesus. And everybody's Jesus."

From there, he went into a rather large spiel which I zoned out during. Somewhere around the cruxifiction, I interrupted,

"Hey, Preachy. Listen. Just by standing here, I've missed my class. Can Jesus turn back time?"

Preachy consulted his manuals and pamphlets.

"Um...no," he said.

"Well fuck. Can I?"

"Can you what?"

"Can I turn back time?"

Preachy laughed. How dare he challenge the greatness of the almighty Chris?

"How dare you challenge the greatness of the almighty Chris?" I asked Preachy as I spread out my arms in a religious and intimidating manner. "Repent, bitch! For you are not worthy. I know what you've downloaded with our university's generous connection speed. Chris knows all that has been downloaded and watches all."

This seemed to get Preachy going.

"What? You're impersonating the lord our savior? You'll surely go to hell for this."

"Not if I turn back time," I spat back.

Preachy did not utter a word of dissent, but simply folded his arms and looked at me as if to say "prove it."

So I did.

I whirled around and made lots of noise and spun and made run-on sentences and then stopped.

I walked back over to Preachy and then said,

"Success. Can your savior do that?"

"What? You mean whirl around and jibber jabber?"

I nodded.

"Well...I guess if he wante-"

"What about that giant cross on his back? Wouldn't that make it pretty hard to spin around?"

Preachy nodded. And I nodded back at him. We had an understanding. Neither of us wanted a savior who couldn't spin around a bunch and get all dizzy.

Uber, I've always enjoyed my hungover Sunday mornings to the extreme, but now I know that sitting around in my underwear dripping Lucky Charms on myself is truly the will of God.

 

[mustynutz]

Every month sixty dollars get automatically deducted from my paycheck. Thirty disappear after two weeks, and thirty more at the end of the month. With the loss of this miniscule amount I am able to walk over a block during lunch or after work and make use of the facilities at the New York Health and Racquet Club.

Ah prestigious sounding.

Ignore the murky pool, the limited weight equipment, and the mad scramble for treadmills during lunch and it's almost quite serviceable. Well, also the pushy trainers who, if they see you alone, pop up with testosterone fueled enthusiasm. Muscles flexing, outlandishly wide grin beaming, they shake your hand, smack your back and offer their services at the low low rate of almost eighty bucks an hour.

But this story doesn't take place on the floor. It takes place a little past the front desk, second door on your left. The marble floor gives way to small tile, hundreds of square inches pressed together in a confusing pattern of white and gray. A quick right, and you hit carpet and the olfactory stimulating stench of sweat and man.

And, as our building is in the heart of the financial district of NYC, even if I had been a raging homosexual nympho, devoid of cock for an outstanding number of continuous weeks... I would dangle uninterested and forlorn.

Pushing aside the desire to bleach your eyes, a casual sweep of the room revels gray hair and sagging bodies. Middle level professionals unable to avoid a personal trainer or plastic surgery. Midlife crises wrapped in limp white towels, seeking their lost youth. The occasional toned body, but lost in the sea of back hair and pudge.

I think of my future and cry.

I had just finished working out. Some cardio, some weights... I won't bore you by pretending that I know what I'm doing or that I care that much. I stay toned; I won't win Mr. Olympus or even Mr. Williamsburg. Stripping my sweat soaked clothes I wrap a scratchy white towel around myself, small enough to generously allow my tantalizing thigh to show seductively.

I head to the showers, the faint smell of disinfectant hanging in the air. Hang my towel, shampoo, bodywash, rinse. Stepping out of the shower and into my boss, I stagger back wondering if our lips just touched and he's going to hit me with sexual assault. He takes a step backwards and looks at me, his eyes small without his glasses. Thick gray bushy eyebrows arch and he smiles, as I watch his eyes dart downward.

My mind freaks out.

He just checked me out, he's gay. He has a wife, two kids. Oh my fucking God, what if he asks me to bend over. What if he wants to know if I'm free later? What if he wants a boy toy? Could I deal with a sugar daddy? Wait, I'm not gay.

My frantic eyes shaking as options and consequences assault my brain, his eyes come back up and meet mine. He stares at me for what seems like an eternity, and at a loss, I look to my left, right into a mirror.

I'm confronted with the image of my boss, stomach sagging, in his full glory... miniscule penis poking out of his crotch.

I smile. I can't help myself. I think I might have unconsciously stretched my back, allowing my own member to swing free and lazily in the steam leaking from the sauna.

My boss clears his throat and mentions something about leaving files on his desk... I wasn't really listening. I shrug and walk away, 'I'll get to it later, I'm getting lunch first,' I call over my shoulder.

He nods, accepting this answer passively.

Oh, how the power has shifted.

 

[mustynutz]

I sat down in my high school's tiny library, carelessly throwing my gray backpack onto the floor. There I sat, at the usual table, with the usual crowd.

"Hey Jared," Steve adjusted the glasses on his freckled face, "What's up?"

"Some good news," I informed him, "Ninety-seven on a U.S. history test. Must be some kind of miracle. If I score higher than a C+ in that class, it'll be a sure sign of the apocalypse."

"Wow, good job. I---oh boy. Cover your ears."

"My ears? Why---?"

From behind me, a boisterous, window-shattering voice yelled, "Jared!"

Jumping in my seat, I didn't even have to turn around. I knew who it was.

Preparing for the onslaught of windpipe-crushing hugs that were sure to follow, I cringed slightly and groaned, "Hi Julie."

Julie's thick Chinese arms swung around my neck and she gave me a colossal hug. "Hi everyone!"

From the table, the previously quiet Tim, a short and squat fellow, looked up and commented, "Julie, you devour people with your voice. Why don't you just shut up and eat some chow mein?"

Julie gasped and ran over to Tim, her hands at the ready for supreme tickling. "Tim!" she playfully admonished, "Here I come!"

Tim yelped and took off, leaping over a short bookshelf and weaving amongst the stacks. Julie, her challenge apparent, screamed and pursued her quarry. Yes. This is what high school was like for me.

All at once I looked down at my bag, and what I saw struck me with an unforgettable horror. While I had been distracted by the aforementioned goings-on, someone had painstakingly removed each of my belongings, turned my bag inside out, re-filled it with my possessions, and zipped it back up, effectively playing one of the most dastardly tricks upon me that had ever been performed!

Next to my bag stood a pair of sneakers. Within those sneakers lay feet, supporting the ankles of the body of the person who my eyes traced upwards to discover was---

Alan. The tall, dark, grinning perpetrator. I lifted my bag in horror and all noise in the never-quiet library died down. All attention was on my bag's sorry state.

Flabbergasted, I couldn't help but stutter, "What---I---you---my bag---you---"

Alan leaned in and laughed the cold, callous laugh of a rogue. "You've been had!"

It had begun. From that point on, every bag was fair game. The library became the battleground, and we were the soldiers in this unholy war. Some high schoolers take their vices from drugs. Some from smoking. Some from sex. For those of you not in the know, this is how the geek crowd found their kicks. We'd had each other.

Had (verb)

1. Past tense and past participle of have.
2. The act of turning a backpack inside out and refilling it with the items of said bag's owner.

Within weeks, the epidemic had reached such virulent proportions that some among us went out and bought special, metal bar-reinforced, ridiculous-looking "un-haddable" bags. When passing through the library, people would clutch their bags tightly and never let them out of their sight. There were initial strikes, retaliations, re-retaliations---but nothing could prepare us for what came next.

One day as I walked outside of the school building, I noticed a crowd of compatriots, a dozen strong, standing by a juniper tree right across the street from the main building. They were looking up at something, high in the tree's strong branches. Upon closer inspection, I found that the item of interest was a man-made, bag-like object swinging from the branches, no less than fifteen feet up.

Shuddering, I knew that this was something new. The hadding war had taken an ugly turn. This was beyond normal hadding---this was---this was---

"It's had, level 2," Steve solemnly murmured, "Someone hadded Alan's bag and threw it up into the tree."

The slippery slope. The dark path. The giant toilet. Whatever you'd care to call it, we had started down it, and there was no turning back.

Bags in the street (had level 4), on the school roof (had level 10), hidden in the assistant principal's office (had level 50), and even hadding the bags of teachers (had level 100) became the norm. It had enveloped the school completely.

Teachers spoke to each class, warning us against the perils and dangers of being a hadder.

"A hadder," Mrs. Simmons, English teacher by trade, warned, "Has no respect for you or your belongings. To be friends with a hadder is to be friends with someone who will smile one moment and string your bag into a tree the next. Are those really the kinds of friends you want for yourself?"

She didn't have to tell us twice. But what if everyone you knew, including yourself, was a serial hadder? Were we to go through life friendless and alone? Who would be there for us on miserable days? Who would comfort us after failing a mid-term? There was always hadding. There was always the competition inherent. There were the smiles of the guileful, the cries of the tricked, and the growing ire of the administration. Do you think this'll end here, Mrs. Simmons? No. Hadding will take over the planet, and we will not rest until all bags are inside out, all bags are up in trees, all bags are---

The English classroom door swung open with such force that its glass shattered upon hitting the wall. Kelly, a friend of mine from another class, ran in, her clothing torn and her face disheveled. "Oh my God! Someone---anyone come quick!"

Mrs. Simmons ran to Kelly's side and knelt down. "Kelly, dear, what's wrong? Take a deep breath and tell me what's happened."

"It's horrible!" Kelly gulped, "It's Alan! He's---he's in the front parking lot---with a bag---and gasoline---and---and---a lighter!"

The class collectively gasped. Turning bags inside out was one thing. Setting a bag on fire was something else entirely. This was beyond any had we had ever even dreamed of. This had to be at least a level 500.

I stood up. "Is the bag inside out? For it to be a proper had, the bag should be inside---"

"Quiet!" screamed Mrs. Simmons, "You students stay here! Kelly, follow me to the nurse."

Paying absolutely no attention to Mrs. Simmons's demand, we waited a few moments after her departure, then ran out of the room. I squeezed through the classroom doorway, clogged with anxious bodies. In the hallway, similar students were jamming into the corridor, the din of excitement outweighing the protests of their respective teachers. This was something to see.

Far worse than I had imagined, there stood Alan in the center of the parking lot, with most of the 600-strong school surrounding him. He turned nervously, Chihuahua-like, to all sides, a lighter shaking in his hand.

Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind in a wheat field.

"Whose bag is it?"

"I hear he's got explosives in the bag."

"I hear he's fucking nuts."

Five police cars pulled in and parked alongside the main road. One of the cops shouted through a megaphone, "Okay, son. Nice and easy. We don't want anyone to get hurt. Just drop the lighter and put your hands over your head. We don't want you to hurt yourself or your---"

Alan laughed maniacally. "This is the only way! The only way! This has to stop! It's always me! Always me! My bag, it's mine, mine, mine!"

I squinted my eyes and found that the dark blue bag Alan was cackling about was actually his own bag, inside out. Smiling with relief, I was glad that he was going through with the hadding in a proper fashion. It simply wouldn't do to incinerate a right-side-out bag.

"Son," the policeman's tinny voice reverberated through the front courtyard, slowing traffic on Main Street, "Think of your friends and family. If you put the lighter down now, we'll cut you a good deal. Just put the lighter down. Put it---what the hell are you doing? Put it down! Put it down!"

Alan had poured gasoline onto his bag and thrust the lighter onto it. The bag was quick to kindle and 4-foot-high flames lapped upward, catching Alan in the face. He jumped back, bringing his hands to his cheeks, but probably realized far too late that his hands were wet with gasoline. In a few short seconds, his entire body was on fire!

"Awesome!" Steve yelled from the clapping, whooping, laughing crowd, "Had level 1000! Alan wins!"

The police officers stumbled over each other while running their fire extinguisher to Alan, who was screaming and running himself in circles. We cheered and chanted his name.

Weeks later, when he returned to us after extensive therapy, he received a hero's welcome. His grafted skin was a sight to behold, and his artificial voicebox made us crack up. Gosh, I'll never, ever forget Alan, the mad hadder.

 

[Been Drinkin]

hahah thats cool thanks for that I needed something to laugh at. Friendly boobies hahah good one.

 

[CALiLiFE82]

LOL !!!! GOOD SHIT .....

 

[karloz]

Coo TKs... Keep 'em up man. My job fucken sucks.....