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The Story Thread

Discussion in 'General Discussion' started by toytoy88, Feb 2, 2012.

  1. toytoy88

    toytoy88
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    Alone in the dark, drooling on himself

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    I know we have a bunch of people here that are pretty good writers and have intresting stories to tell that don't fall into the focus of threads.

    So why not have a story thread? We can ramble away and write something that may (Or may not) amuse others.

    Trust me, I have a bunch of stories...Like the guy I knew that broke his hand punching a horse, or my drunk vendor that ended up on a live radio remote yelling "Hey Y'all I'm on the radio!"
     
  2. JWags

    JWags
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    Emotionally Jaded

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    This is one of my favorite that I wrote about one of my favorite college experiences...

    Spoilered for length
    “And we all just wanna be big rockstars…”

    I am jarred away by this aural abortion and realize that for some reason, I had chosen to set my phone alarm to this assault on music and good lyrical sense. Why you may ask? Because I needed something to slap me in the face and wake up me up like a hammer to the head. I look at my clock through crossed eyes: “5:05 AM”. What in God’s name am I doing awake at this unholy hour? The birds outside glare at me from the trees cause even they wouldn’t dare be awake at this point…or maybe because they too hate Nickelback. Then like a delightfully stinging slap to the face, I remember why I chose the awful ringtone to rouse myself at that awful hour. I grin and imagine hundreds of my fellow college students doing the same as I say those three little words to myself: Green Beer Day.

    While the phrase may ring meaningless upon most ears, Green Beer Day is annually the Thursday right before Spring Break. It is a result of the administration’s Puritan and tyrannical approach to curbing student drinking by “cleverly” scheduling Spring Break so that St. Patrick’s Day falls during that week. That way, in their minds, students can do their grotesque and abhorrently immoral drinking and fornicating somewhere other than Oxford. But in the true enterprising fashion of the drunken college student, we began celebrating our own special St. Patrick’s Day, Green Beer Day, in the early 50s and it’s done nothing but gained steam ever since. It’s even spawned a small cottage industry of Green Beer Day t-shirts and other accessories. Bars open at 5:30 and by mid morning all hell breaks loose. Picture the downtown area of a small, quaint college town at 10 AM; now insert kids passing out on benches, staggering like zombies across the streets, probably some kids emptying the contents of their stomachs in alleys, and, best of all, kids slurring through interviews with local news affiliates with the dictation and candor of stroke victims. It’s a glorious and ideallyic trainwreck. I mean who thinks it’s a good idea to give a day like this news coverage? These interviews end up making Joe Namath’s little discussion with Suzy Kolber look like a face to face with Charlie Rose.

    So I roll out of bed and trying to once again rationalize my decision. For clarification, I LOVE sleeping, and hate waking up, especially when I have no classes or work to attend to. In this situation, you could tell me Megan Fox was outside my door, had just broken up with her boyfriend, and was looking to “talk” and I would probably inform her to come back later if it was before 10 AM.

    Anyway, just then, my roommate Staff kicks open my door, holding a bottle of Old Crow, bellows at the top of his lungs:

    “Get the fuck up, its Green Beer Day you bitch!”
    “Hell yea, just a second. Let me get together and take a shower.”
    “No! Take a shot, now! Whoo!”

    So Ric Flair and I take a shot of whiskey, dyed green mind you, and I stagger off to the shower as Staff happily scampers back to his room and begins blasting Irish music. He also made sure to kick both of our other roommates’ doors on his way back.

    I had the pleasure of living with 3 fine gentlemen my senior year:

    Staff, a senior like myself, who though quiet and reserved to most people who know him, was one of the rowdiest and meaty drinkers I’ve encountered when he put his mind to it. He, to this day, is the only person I’ve seen punch a mutual friend of ours in the stomach and then attempt to fight a car full of people who slowed to a stop to see if said friend was ok, as he coughed violently on his hands and knees. Oh the wonders of whiskey.

    The Senator, a junior, who at 6’4 is so thin and lanky that he, makes my own slight frame resemble that of Brian Urlacher. He also was subjected to us routinely questioning his manhood and sexual preference due to his enjoyment of boy bands, meticulous ironing of his clothes, and an impending internship with a international producer of hair and facial care products in New York. He is probably my only equal in terms of shameless and hilariously sneaky public behavior.

    Finally, Bean, the other junior housemate. Bean is the “Southern gentleman” of the group, straight up out of Louisville: the home of the Kentucky Derby and his unnatural obsession with HS football. He has that “Aw shucks” feel to him, and peppers his speech with “pals” and “y’alls”. Bean’s favorite pastimes include working out, walking around without his shirt on, and filling the house with so much toxic gas from his colon that we anxiously waited for Al-Qaeda to call and inquire about the recipe. We sincerely hypothesized that Bean didn’t have girls spend the night because he feared they would be asphyxiated in the night by the deployment of his natural gaseous odors. It usually knocked me off my feet whenever he opened his door in the morning, regardless of where I was in the house, or on campus for that matter. Other than that, I don’t think a nicer, more sincere kid exists. And he has altered his diet significantly to make it a more pleasant smelling world for us all.

    Bean and The Senator, being juniors, had not yet reached the point where they disregarded class in deference to a day of drinking and thus had classes to attend in the morning and would begin drinking with us in the early afternoon. Considering these two clowns routinely chugged cups of Brita-filtered water while drinking in order to “hydrate” and prevent hangovers; Staff and I had good reason to doubt their true motives for delaying their drinking. Thus we determined that they should probably wake up at the same time as us regardless. We felt their outrage and sleepiness may cause them to put on their big boy pants and drink for real. Alas, aside from a few “Dude”s and “Knock it off”s, they made no effort to wake up. So Staff and I departed for the bars, but not after consuming a few more shots of green whiskey. It should be noted that whiskey at 5 AM goes down as easily as a glass and gasoline smoothie, but I have a liver of steel and a will of iron, so I was golden. We moved on to what would prove to be the first of three significant Green Beer Day experiences.

    Bars at 5:30 AM contain an interesting dynamic. As you continue to wipe sleep out of your eyes, there are people who have shockingly one-upped you by being slammed already. It really is a surreal experience. Shortly the sun will be rising, but, already, people are well on their way to not remembering what they will eventually have for breakfast. Its tremendously amusing to watch these interactions while getting buzzed yourself; however, seeing couples grinding on each at this hour is almost as awkward as coming home from class early to walk in on your freshman roommate flogging the dolphin. We end up leaving the bar around 10 to have pancakes at Staff’s girlfriend’s house and take a nap. Unfortunately, his girlfriend wasn’t able to participate in the breakfast festivities as she passed out on the bathroom floor while washing her hands.

    The nap and subsequent actions after awaking are what truly separate the seasoned GBD participant from foolish 18 year olds who make a mockery of their life on their first GBD. Upon waking up from a 2-3 hour slumber after a morning of heavy drinking and sleep deprivation, the initial instinct is to continue sleeping or watch episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, or some other shameful undertaking. As my alarm rang like the bells of Big Ben, I sprung out of bed knowing full well that every additional second spent in bed could mean my doom. The sounds of the afternoon party that was taking place at our house rumbled gently under my door and forcefully pushed me to my next move. I turn my standard edition eMachine computer speakers to full crackling and song distorting volume and blast “Shipping Up to Boston”. As the Dropkick Murphys begin to rock, I kick open my door and whip an empty beer can off my desk into our living room, hitting a goofy looking freshman square in the temple. His crime? Wearing a stupid green plastic top-hat and sitting on my couch. I feel like I did him a favor.

    I bounded out the front door and around the back to our deck where the party was in full swing. Around 40-50 people of varying ages dressed in green t-shirts coated the deck and spilled out onto our lawn like an orgiastic emerald-tinted Roman bacchanal. I climbed onto the deck avoiding hugs and high fives with random kids I didn’t know as seeing their green fingers and lips, I mistook them for lepers. I see Staff and The Senator with a beer bong, holding dominion over the chaos and moved in their direction.

    I calmly articulate to them my desire to play beer pong and inquire if anyone wanted to join me. The Senator “carelessly” knocked into the table bowling over many cups and effectively ending the game, allowing us to expel the participants and their weak abilities to some other locale. Being the party host has its privileges. Little did I know that a second ridiculous turn of events lurked right around the corner.

    I picked out a cute partner based on the fact that she was wearing sweet wraparound shades and loudly talking to her friend about college basketball. This naturally peaked my attention and I approached her with a few carefully selected lines about bracket pairings and proper free throw shooting percentages being key to a lengthy tournament run. Instantly, she was enamored with my smoldering good looks and intoxicating personality, clearly wanting nothing more than to join me on the winning side of the table. Or maybe she was just eager to skip the line and get a chance to play, but I highly doubt it. The Senator had mistakenly selected some thin attractive blond who seemed to at the utter mercy of his Natty Light fueled charms. I see where he is going with this. Regardless, they wouldn’t be much competition.

    Cyclops and I make quick work of The Senator and Paris across the table in a stunning display of accuracy and efficiency. The game culminated with me jokingly sinking a fadeaway jumper to win the game. Amongst the hushed crowd that had gathered, I could instantly sense panties dropping and hear plenty of tiny little sorority girl hearts breaking knowing that they probably would never get to experience the love of this Casanova who had so effortlessly secured victory.

    Amidst the fray, Staff was barking out orders to various party-goers and dishing out bongs and shotguns at will. The man’s drunken voice is a thing of beauty. It is a crisp baritone which immediately strikes fear and demands attention. If his consulting gig doesn’t work out, he truly has a future as drill sergeant or at least a carnival barker, as long as he liberally lubricates his vocal chords with copious amounts of whiskey beforehand. I mentioned to him that my lovely partner and I would like to down a beer bong in celebration. The Senator swooped in and explained to Staff that we need to clean the bong:

    “Dude, we need to clean this thing, it’s filthy.”
    “Chill the fuck out, it’s a beer bong, and this is a party.”
    “ Think about how many people who have used it, it’s probably gross.”
    “Whatever you tool.”

    It should be mentioned that The Senator is positively neurotic when it comes to cleaning and slight messes. Even while drinking, he will drop all that he is doing to blot spilled beer or vacuum some microscopic crumbs he happened upon. I’m pretty sure the kid plays I Spy with dust bunnies for fun.

    So The Senator hurriedly washes the bong out in the kitchen, using soap, before coming back up. I should have realized this was impending disaster but I was more concerning with getting a beer bong to my beautiful drinking game Princess. So as she is placing the bong to her lips, it comes to light that she has never done participated in such a maneuver before. This gives way to the most disturbing conversation of the day between her and her guy friend who also happens to like boys:

    “‘Cyclops’, just go to your knees and open your throat.”
    “I don’t know, I just feel like I’m going to mess it up.”
    “Don’t worry, you know how to do this, its just like…”
    * Makes the tongue in cheek, hand to face, universal oral sex motion *

    I quickly shudder but turn my initial revulsion to support and cheer her on. As she starts to take it down, I notice the copious amounts of bubbles. Not beer foam, these were the kind of bubbles you see coating your young child as they climb out of their bubble bath and run screaming down the hall, inevitably to slip past you and smack into a wall. Before I could move/speak/stop the madness, homegirl took down a full bong of a delicious beer and Palmolive cocktail. Her face immediately registered a face of stomach turning disgust similar to when your buddies tell you that the hot chick you made out with at Mardi Gras wasn’t really a chick.

    BLLLAARRGHH. All over the deck and the side of the house. Shrieks come bursting out of the crowd. Honestly, why do people scream when someone throws up? It’s not harming you; it didn’t even get on these people. Regardless, I shoot The Senator an evil glare and attempt to console my lady. She and her friends scurry off to clean up or do whatever girls do after vomiting. Maybe repaint their nails or something. In any case, I never saw her again.

    I quickly forgave The Senator and put the unfortunate situation behind me in the most mature and positive way I knew how: drinking a ton of beer, directly to the face. The afternoon proceeded smashingly and good times continued to be had by all. Staff continued to contribute to the downfall of many freshmen and sophomore’s livers before his gf arrived and they went somewhere “to talk”. Bean and The Senator were talking to a threesome of cute freshmen, and seeing as I am completely shameless and freshman girls are well within my age parameters, I meandered over and joined conversation, nicely occupying everyone. Bean was full on using that smooth Southern drawl that is oh so deadly. Interestingly enough, in obvious foreshadowing, I had earlier seen a cute Indian girl we knew, Curry Rice, who Bean had hooked up with multiple times but at this point had no further interest in associating with, meandering about the festivities.

    “Hey Bean, didn’t I see Curry Rice here?”
    “Yeah man, she was at a party across the street and called me, wanting to come over.”
    “And you told her yeah? Nice work dumbass.”
    “Well I was drunk and you know I hate to be mean”
    “This is going to be awesome…

    So as we are entertaining the threesome, I make a note of looking around and finding Curry Rice. I notice her wandering around the yard with a confused look on her face like she just suffered a concussion and is trying to find her way off the football field. Clearly remaining out of her view would be a challenge as her eyes seemed to be moving independently like an insect, offering unparalleled vision.

    At this point, The Senator suggests we grab a case of beer and go up on the roof. The roof of our house is slanted at about a 30 degree angle with a ledge that ended about 6-7 feet above the deck. So you could, while sober, climb up fairly easily and hang out. Getting up drunk was a completely different story, usually involving injuries and tears, but that is for another time. So we climb on up and continue our boozing, joined by a large contingent of the party. But as dusk looms, we climb down for fear of darkness and the territorial family of raccoons who reside in the attic and claim the roof as their own. Beer, hot chicks, and rabies unfortunately do not mix well.

    As we move inside, The Senator suggests we all go hang out in his room. This, judging from prior experience, means most likely jumping/dancing on his bed while listening to boy bands. I decide this will be interesting and follow along. Also to be noted, Curry Rice somehow tracked us down and is coming back to the room with us. So in The Senator’s room, the lights go out, the music on, and a thoroughly high school dance party breaks out. 4 girls (Curry Rice and the threesome, K, H, and Crazy C) and the 3 guys, I decide this is better than interesting, it is now promising. And suddenly, the line that would define the absurdity of the day rings out of the darkness…

    “Everyone take their shirts off!”

    It’s not known who said this, nobody wants to confess to this horrible Girls Gone Wild nonsense; however, by the grace of Fortuna, it works. Suddenly, everyone is topless. I decided promising is no longer an accurate adjective, it is now superb. The Senator and Bean exchange high fives and I make note to mock them for this mercilessly. But that was for a later time as, in a flash, The Senator and H are sucking face in the corner, Crazy C is on Bean’s lap in the desk chair, and I have done the only logical thing, and pinned K up against the wall. In a hilarious stroke of irony, this leaves Curry Rice awkwardly standing, looking on, as her former lover is now being caressed in a leather chair from Office Depot. She chooses the best option in this situation and breaks out in tears. Jeez, Curry Rice, way to be a buzz kill. So we all quickly scatter, taking our female companions to, you know, show them the cool posters in our room and stuff. Last I heard of Curry Rice, she was wailing and tearing at her clothes in our hallway as if she was in mourning.

    About 5 minutes later, I politely excused myself from K for a second as I realized I had left my phone in The Senator’s room. My phone is to me what that blanket is to Linus, I need it around me at all times, for comfort. As I get to The Senator’s room, it is empty. That’s strange. So I grab my phone and walk out to our friends Headbutt and Phyllis outside Bean’s room. The door is cracked and I peer in to gaze upon a scene too ridiculous to believe… Bean (still shirtless) has Crazy C on his lap, in his own desk chair now, passionately crooning to her…

    “Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses…”

    WHAT?!?! Are you serious?! I shove my fist in my mouth to prevent a shocked exclamation from escaping and run giggling down the hallway into my room and close the door behind me, collapsing onto my bed in a fit of maniacal laughter that would make the Joker proud. After to explaining the story to K, and her in turn howling with delight, we returned to the matters at hand. So after an extended period of playing some games and brushing each other’s hair (You know, the kind of things drunk adults do in a bedroom), I exited my quarters to get some water.

    I come across The Senator still shirtless in the hallway walking away from me, with what appear to be wounds from a fight with either a velociraptor (or the raccoons) across his back. Bright red scratches and scrapes all over the place.

    “The Senator, what the hell happened to you? Did H get rough and dig her nails in or something?”
    * Huge sheepish smile *
    “No dude, we were just up on the roof, you know…”
    “Hold on, what? You just went up on the roof…Did you? Get the fuck out!”
    “Yeah dude, H is pretty freaky.”

    So clearly, hooking up in a traditional bed was not enough for The Senator and H, they chose to climb up, both half nude, onto our roof and screw like, I don’t know, raccoons. And in the heat of their passion, nobody thought to bring a blanket. So The Senator, ever the gentleman, allowed H to be on top and in turn, he received this ridiculous road rash across his bony shoulders. I frankly felt he should spend the next week shirtless in order to show his personal Scarlet Letter to the world and allow him to answer any inquiries with this absurd, but clearly incredible, tale of sexual deviance.

    Walking back from the kitchen, sipping water and trying to wrap my head around what has just occurred in the last hour, I come across The Senator and H standing around Crazy C who was sitting on the floor with a blanket outside Bean’s door. Shedding the light onto her peculiar moniker, Crazy C is on the phone with her grandma babbling about some ridiculous topic. Despite their previous shirtless dalliances over the past hour, Crazy C seems to have no desire to continue associating with Bean. I consider the fact that she was serenaded by a horrible Eagles song and decide I am not surprised and cannot blame her. But the fact that she was on the phone with her Grandma at 11 at night, that I cannot grasp, unless her grandma was the old woman from Talk Sex with Sue. She firmly contends that she doesn’t want to sleep in Bean’s room, though her friends have clearly secured lodging for the evening, and will just sleep on the floor. Bean, the gentleman he is has offered his bed to her and he would sleep on the couch or the floor and she would still have nothing of it. Kid was getting a raw deal. I decide I have had enough craziness for one night and return to my room.

    As K and I return to, umm, grandiose discussions on philosophy and politics, I reflect on the day. I have been up for almost 21 hours at this point, minus a 2 hour nap, drinking constantly. I realize what an impressive day GBD really is. It’s like Disney World comes to town for one magical day where anything can happen and dreams really come true. I fall asleep thanking the Irish for contributing something to my life other than potato famines, Gingers, and Colin Farrell.

    Post Script: My nonsense and complete disregard for my body that day came back to ferociously bite me. I had not consumed anything all day except for the pancakes at 10 AM. Thus my body decided at 4 AM to reject all the alcohol in my system and I dry-heaved every half hour for around 3 hours in the early morning hours. Poor K, thanks for hooking up with me so I will reward you by leaving the room every little while to audibly hack in the bathroom. Luckily girl is a trooper and of good humor, she seemed to think it was hilarious.

    As this story is penned nearly one year after that remarkable day, The Senator and H are still dating, in a relationship that began on that magical roof. I truly hope they get married so I hear whatever cockamamie story they concoct to tell their children when they ask how Mommy and Daddy met and fell in love.
     
  3. scootah

    scootah
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    I've posted my ice skating story a few times. It's probably my favorite. This one is good too though.

    Drug Sex:

    When you first drop (swallow a pill, or put it under your tongue and hold it there while it dissolves, feel the tingle, acid burn, diesel and vinegar, powdered bass lines and throbbing dreams of togetherness); it doesn't feel dirty, hell it it doesn't feel anything at all. Until the first time you crush it up, put it in the mortar and pestle your mom bought you from that snooty kitchen store, grind it up with glucose, split it into long white perfect lines, railway tracks to oblivion on a mirror that you can't let yourself look into, acrid and horrible as you inhale, a drop of water makes the burn go away, but the feeling of being dirty lingers when it starts to drip down the back of your throat, burning mucous chunks of filth, that's when it starts feeling dirty, but hey at least you're not one of those freaks who puts them up other cavities, that's something right?; Its like being in an elevator the moment before the cord snaps. Something momentous is coming, but you don't really feel anything at all. When you've done it a few dozen, or a few hundred times, when you're a junkie to the core, you feel the anticipation, feel the intensity building. You're Pavlov's Dog and the dinner bell is ringing. You feel your jaw starting to wobble with an impatient sense of impending something. You never really know what. You hope its going to be perfect.

    You go and you lose yourself. Throw yourself away. Burn away the trail of breadcrumbs with a chemical flamethrower, napalm on the wildflowers of your sanity. Hide in the dark and the anonymity of the crowds, Let the lasers wash away what you were in case you come looking for yourself. You dance because you love to dance, or because it makes the high come faster. You think it’s because you love to dance, physical exertion accelerates absorption, but you think you always loved to dance, maybe that was it, you never really know.

    You go and buy a bottle of water. You throw a mouthful back and it tastes wrong, sweet, the acid dried saliva washing out of your mouth. You feel that rumble in the base of your belly, you feel your heart starting to pump faster, you can't relax your jaw, one thought burns your brain, "Get me to the fucking dance floor, I hear my train's a’comin."

    You dance and you dance and you dance. You spin your hands through the air, little lasers or those stupid sticks you snap to make a glow, you space out and realize that the lights are just a blur. So many colors, so many lights, everything is wrapped in peach fuzz. You brush against something, fur covered pants, made by somebodies mom, you're hand brushes across them, lingering, sensual, Jesus you're shaking like its an earthquake, and baby it’s the big one.

    You throw your head back in the lasers, tasting the lights as they wash over your face; washing you away, you find a water bottle in your hand and water washing over your face. You feel the temperature change but you don't feel the water. You're dancing with somebody, or maybe you were just dancing with the bass. You feel her hands on your thighs, fur covered patches sewn to your pants by your Nana. She just doesn't understand kids fashion today. Fuck those are on the other pants, these ones are just comfortable and ordinary, except for the perfect pair of hands wrapped around your ass, pulling you against the most perfect skin you've ever had wet dreams about. She asks if you've got a cigarette, you don't smoke, you put more shit down your throat and up your nose then you can remember, but you don't smoke, that shit will kill you. You tap your friend, or some guy who was next to you and smoking, you can't talk right now but you can put two fingers to your lips, your jaws are wobbling, your eyes are rolling, everything is a blur as he hands you the cigarette, you put it to your lips and she reaches down the front of her pants, fingers lingering over something in there before she pulls out a lighter and hands it to you. You take a drag and remember that you don't smoke, you hand the cigarette to her and blow the smoke out, coughing slightly, trying not to remember that first hit of meth, or the times when you promised yourself you'd never smoke, never end up an addict like your parents. You think she's got that look in her eyes. Is she really there or is she just the bass line? Fuck how good is this DJ? She's taking you by the hand and leading you off the dance floor. You linger, dragging your fingers over random people's flesh, fur, skin and hair as you trail after her. You stop to watch that guy doing that thing with the lights that you love but can never do right. Jesus Christ did you see that? That guy just did a back flip!

    She's leading you up the stairs and into the bathrooms, the ones with the doors that stretch floor to ceiling. You blink, you've got her pressed up against the wall, your hands holding her wrists above her head, her body arched, aching against you, you open your eyes and read the graffiti on the wall behind her hair, one of her hands is free, pulling up your shirts, skin on skin, you can feel her, crushed silk and velvet, a kittens fur and perfection, unbefuckinglievable, Christ its hot, you're pouring water down over both of you, you don’t remember pulling the water bottle from your pocket.

    You’re soaked to the skin with sweat and ice water, burning up, her hand wrapped around you, your hand in her hair, mashing your mouth against hers, her nipple in your mouth, she's got the cutest freckles and a tattoo of something, your vision blurs and you can’t tell what, you’re pretty sure its cute though. You know time passes but you can't remember it, she's on her knees, her shirt on the hook on the back of the door, don't want to get it dirty, Jesus Christ she's got her mouth around you, everything blurs and she's bent over and you're inside her; am I hard? Fuck! God what is this feeling? Pounding on the door? Bouncers are telling you to get out now. You aren't finishing any time soon with the chemical flood rushing though your blood.

    You aren't sure how but you talk your way out of getting kicked out, you're back on the floor, she's dancing with you like you're still fucking, you've got your hand down the front of her pants, inside her panties, rough plastic baggie full of something crystalline and her wet lips against your fingers as you dance, and then she's gone and you never know if she was real. A hundred photos on your camera phone the next day, was that what she really looked like? Or was it her? Maybe it was that one? Maybe it was just the bass line.

    What's the epilogue? Where's the morality tale? Every one of these stories has one. Eventually, if you push the recreational narcotics envelope far enough, if you're hardcore, old skool, last of the real ravers, dedicated to the pursuit of the perfect high, or just persistent in your stupidity, you reach a point. Some people see the point coming and stop early. Some people never really push themselves, their bodies or their minds far enough to reach the point. But if you push hard enough, long enough, everyone reaches the same point. You get depressed, nothing feels real, you feel sanity slipping away. You realize you can't stand any of your friends in the cold light of sobriety. You start to hate the scene, the bullshit, the desperation, the depression, the paranoia. You fuck up some friendships and you hate yourself a little more every day. You clean up or you break up, little pieces of yourself lost and gone away. You are never the same person again. But it's a long, fun road to reach that point.

    Do I miss it? The journey? The chemical safari? Riding the Disco pony to funky town on a road made of rainbows and dream? Nah. I don't miss it. Not at all. It's not me any more. I don't still Jones. I don't hear Pavlov's dinner bell ringing. I hear the music now and it's cleaner. Pure without the drugs. My brain works now. I don't miss the drugs. The escape. Not at all. I'm not a junkie. Not any more. Not at all. I'm fine. 100%. A-Ok. Fuck I could do with a trip.

    Drug sex - We bump and we grind
    Drug sex - We lost track of time
    And you never fuckin' done it 'till you done it fucked up
    Drug sex - I can't believe I'm still up
    ~ Machinegun Fellatio
     
  4. R_Flagg

    R_Flagg
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    I met this girl, lets call her S, my second semester at college. The first time I saw her I was walking towards the library to kill some time, and she asked me to help her with some long division. I'm proud of myself if I can add without using my fingers, so I turned her down and went on my way.

    Later that week, I was waiting outside a classroom chatting up some nursing students. S joined us since she knew one of the girls, and she and I hit it off. She told me she didn't drive, and that she lived in a town along my commute home. I offered to let her ride with me, mostly for the company; I never have had many friends.

    This becomes a bi-weekly thing, I drive her home after our math classes, and I usually come up and chill for a while before going down the road. We play cards, guitar hero, maybe a quick game of monopoly; more often than not we sit and bullshit. S ain't bad looking; 5'5, a bit curvy/thick but not fat, and blonde.

    One day she and I decide to skip our night classes; instead she offered to buy a pizza if I'd rent a couple of movies. I wasn't up for a night of lecture on AND/NOR logic; so we just went on and done our thing. So we're up here in her apartment, watching something with Nicolas Cage in it; and she stands up and say's she'll be right back.

    I was like, whatever, I figured she was gonna take a piss or something. Well I heard her bathtub facucet cut on, I was curious for a second what that was about, but I was into the movie so I didn't pay much mind to it. Next thing I know I hear foot steps coming down the hallway, she's naked and carrying a bloody towel.

    That caught my attention.

    S walks into the kitchen and gets this jug of bleach from beside her refrigerator and heads towards her bathroom with it. I thought to myself, 'dear god what happened now?', and I grabbed a mop and followed her to the bathroom. I expected blood on the floor or some kinda shit; but no. What I saw when I stepped into the bathroom cannot be unseen.

    S, now and forever known as BleachGirl, was was in this crab-walk position on one hand; her pussy was angled under the running water. The free hand was pouring the jug of bleach over her genitals; full on pouring, the smell was so strong my eyes were watering.

    "S! The fuck are you doing?!"

    She shrugged best as she could in that position, and said to me...

    "This is how I keep clean down there. You've never seen a woman do this before?"

    No, I hadn't and I've asked other women if they've done this. So far I've yet to discover any other woman that washes her pussy with bleach.

    Well I watched, made sure that she washed herself properly down there and there were no chemical burns. Then I fucked her; twice. It wasn't bad, but I never did eat her out.

    When the semester ended, there wasn't any reason to keep carpooling. My cell number changed, and so did her's and we never managed to get back in touch. One of the nursing students said that BleachGirl ended up moving back to her hometown in North Carolina. Just one of life's little random events I suppose.
     
  5. R_Flagg

    R_Flagg
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    Experienced Idiot

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    Not sure if this is kosher or not, but after seeing some of the rep comments I've gotten I wanted to make one statement.

    That story is 100% true. I didn't make any of it up, nor did I embellish anything. The girl did indeed pour bleach over her genitals.

    I've got another true story to share while I'm drunk enough to be interested in telling it.

    =======================================================================

    One night I was cruising the painfully small town I call home, and I eventually found myself at this mini-golf course I used to work at. I was hanging out on the patio of the clubhouse/arcade building, smoking cigarettes and making small talk with this guy I went to high school with. He had this black chick sitting on his lap, kinda puffing on his cigarette like an inexperienced smoker will do. You know, those little baby puffs and then coughing her lungs up for five minutes afterward.

    This girl introduced herself, said her name was 'J'. I shook her hand and introduced myself, and eventually I got bored and decided to ride back home.

    Well it was about a week later, I found myself back up there just looking for something to get into. I didn't expect to see J again, the town I live in is small pretty small and isolated, but big enough you don't know everybody. Well I was out in the parking lot, getting ready to leave and she popped up out of the shadows, and said 'you're cute''. I stopped and spoke to her for a while; and we decided to ride towards Walmart to just hang out. The gist of that evening is I ended up having sex with her.

    J wasn't bad looking, kinda like BleachGirl, short and thick (my type more or less). We eventually end up dating, but it wasn't for about a week til she let me set foot into her place.

    I went up into the condo she lived in, and we were chilling and watching TV and we decide to go back to her bedroom. I no more than get it in, when we hear the front door open.

    "Dammit! It's my brother!"

    She jumps up, pull on her pants and pushes me into the closet. I don't know why, but for some ungodly reason her bedroom closet had a lock on the front door. I'm standing naked on top of a pile of shoe's for god knows how long, a pair of high heels digging into the bottom of my foot the whole time. I heard her leave the room and I try to open the door with no success, so I just wait her out.

    I heard footsteps outside and some rattling, and she opens the door. She tied her bedsheets into a rope, that's hanging out of her bedroom window. J expects me to climb out of the window to avoid catching shit from her brother. (Note: She was 17, I was 19.)

    That would be no issue if it wasn't for the fact she lived on the third floor of her building; and I'm expected to scale on a rope of worn out bedsheets. Despite my attempts at reasons, I found myself dressed and hanging from her window with one hand and the other clutching a mattress cover. I made it about halfway down when one of the sheets ripped and I made a unceremonious landing next to a heat pump.

    She wasn't bad in bed, so I went back a few days later. Once again' we're sitting on the couch watching TV, and she turns and asks...

    "Hey Flagg, can I tell you something?"

    "Yeah, sure."

    "What would you say if I told you I'm a vampire?"

    "Um, nothing I guess. Are you a vampire?"

    "Yup."

    Well through the course of that conversation, she reveled to me that she wasn't 17, she was well over a billion years old. Her first boyfriend was God, whom she left for Satan, before she ended up with me. I sat in silent wonder as she babbled on about her Mexican goth friend Lestat, who was a vampire and at times a bat. When the urge to piss struck me, I excused myself to the bathroom and on a hunch after finishing my business I examined her medicine cabinet.

    There were several bottles of Zyprexa in her name, only one of which was partially used. In hindsight I should have looked into her cabinet sooner. Well I went back out there and was treated to a lengthy appeal for her to convert me into a vampire. To shave some time off things, I left and shortly after I broke things off with her; I figured that'd end the matter and I'd never deal with her again.

    A couple months after we broke up, J called me out of the blue. She was riding across the state line to a nearby town and wanted to meet up. I was making up excuses when she screamed. Apparently whoever was driving the car she was in ran someone the fuck over. J was crying and begging me to come help her and her friends with the body. God help me on this, but I told her to buy a shovel and bury the body out in the woods or something and hung up.

    I read the paper pretty close for a while after that, looking for missing persons reports or an article about a body found half buried or something. Nothing ever came up about it, and it was a few years ago; I'm still not sure if someone got killed that night or not. I probably won't ever know, there's lots of empty land out in these mountains. Lots of places for people to disappear.

    That was the last time I heard anything from J for a long time, I changed my number and didn't care to pass the new one along. I just wanted to wash my hands of her and move on.

    My first semester at my second community college I had some time to kill before my math class. So I ride over to this bar and have a beer. Well I pay up and head outside into the rain, I was walking towards my Jeep when I hear this voice cry out...

    "Flagg! Hey!"

    Out from the shadows came J, holding a newspaper over her head. I made some uncomfortable small-talk, and seeing her getting soaking wet out there I had to give into chivalry and I gave her a ride to her new apartment. It paid off, I got some head out in the parking lot of her apartment complex; J always had a talented tongue.

    She got out, and disappeared into the shadows of the staircase leading up to her apartment. I ain't seen her since, and if I never do again that's fine by me.

    Then again for an unmediated schizo she does give good head...
     
  6. walt

    walt
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    I can't seem to get this to post just right and it requires a photo for the whole story to make sense, so sorry about posting the link instead of typing it all out here.

    "My Forgettable Moment With Conan"

    http://www.commonmindthoughts.com/?p=640
     
  7. toytoy88

    toytoy88
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    Alone in the dark, drooling on himself

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    Here y'all go:
    (For those of you with a short attention span, fuck you. Thank you very much.)

    Owning a flea market, I crossed paths with all sorts of...ummm..."Interesting"... people. People I never would've encountered in my everyday life, mainly because I try like hell to avoid the lunatic fringe. Some of these folks I could of done without meeting because they left me twitching and blinking my eyes in disbelief. (Twitching and blinking is what I do when I can't grab a firearm and shoot someone for hurting my brain. Besides that, waving a gun around is bad for buisness. I may be a hillbilly, but "Don't shoot your customers" is a pretty rock solid buisness plan.)

    Flea market people are a unique breed. They like to pretend they're flying under the radar and are trying to get away with something, and sometimes you get an inkling of what that "Something" might be. Trust me, you don't want to get them to open up and tell you about their own special bat shit insanity.

    I already alluded to a couple of these special people in my thread idea, so here's their story:

    Like most people I enjoy music, especially live music. And being a musician, I know one of the hardest things to do is find a place to get your band together and play as loud as you desire without your neighbors calling the police about "Excessive noise" and "Disturbing the peace." Fucking neighbors.

    Anyways, part of my buisness plan (Aside from not shooting my customers) was that I'd have live music at my flea market. I put out the word in the music community that they could come and play and have a captive audience.

    I was as sly as a fox. I would get free entertainment for my roving hordes of flea marketeers looking for bargains, and the musicians would get to play as loud as they wanted without fear of a the po-po knocking on their door.

    Win-Win. Right?

    One of the bands that played at my place featured a Garth Brooks wannabe as the singer. These guys went all out to perform at the flea market. That should've told me something right there. Who in the bloody fuck dresses up for a (Free) gig at a flea market?

    The singer was actually pretty talented, but just talking with him I could tell he was a wee bit removed from being part of functional reality. "Meh, he's a musician", I told myself. Musicians are always just a bit off center from the normal, it's one of the curses that goes with thinking musically instead of like a normal human being, besides that he cost me nothing, so go for it Garth. He wore an American flag shirt and belted out original songs like a poor man's Merle Haggard. He trotted out his wife and kids to sing, trying his best to put on a show that espoused family values. Despite his efforts, I saw through this charade. And I twitched. There was something not quite right with this dude.

    One day he showed up with his hand in a cast and I was intrigued. (Never ask a flea market person how they got an injury. Seriously. The answer will make the nuerons in your brain fire off signals that they are not eveloutionally equipped for and you'll end up twitching and blinking like me.)

    During a break I pulled him to the side because curiousity got the better of me and I just had to ask:

    Me: "Dude...what happened to your hand?"

    Garth: "I punched a horse."

    Me: *Blink...Blink...Twitch* (My body involuntary does this shit,) "You punched a horse?"

    Garth: "He done pissed me off."

    Me: "You punched a FUCKING HORSE?" *Twitch, twitch, blink, blink, blink*

    Garth: "I taught him a right lesson."

    I had no words. I simply turned and walked away twitching and blinking like a fucked up robot with a dying battery while my brain tried in vain to process this new information. "He punched a horse? What the FUCK?" My sense of what is reality wasn't equipped to deal with this shit. I doubt anyone who's a functional member of society has enough room in their brain to process why some sociopath would punch an animal with enough force that it would break their hand.

    I never invited him back. Hurt my brain once, shame on you, hurt my brain twice and I'll probably snap. Being a savy buisness owner, I realized that might be a bad thing.

    And then there was Kathy...

    Kathy was one of my vendors, and like most of my vendors she camped out down at the Flea Market in a motor home over the weekend.

    She was actually a very pretty woman. "Stunning" would be the best word to describe her physical appearance, but Kathy held a secret behind the pretty wrapping...she was literally fucking insane. At least she tempered the insanity by being drunk. All. The. Fucking. Time.

    It's no secret that I spend a great deal of my waking hours with a blood alcohol level that would get me arrested if I ventured out on a public roadway, but Kathy made me look like an amatuer.

    Every weekend morning I would go down to my buisness at 6:30 in the morning and prepare for the day. And every morning there would be bubbly little blonde Kathy waiting to greet me with a huge smile and a big bloody mary. At six fucking thirty in the morning.

    By 10 AM she'd give up the pretense of drinking something that might not be full of alcohol and just drink straight vodka. I had to deal with her stupid drunken ass constantly...steering her back to her booth and telling her not to annoy my other customers.

    One weekend I had a radio station doing a live remote from my flea market (Did you know you have to pay the frantic announcer on the radio to show up and tell the listening audience what a wonderful place you have? You do, and you have to pay a lot.)

    So, the announcer was live and pratling away about how everything was happening down at the flea market and you just had to get down here. He then decided he was going to interview someone.

    Oh shit.

    He caught my eye and I started blinking and twitching. I shot him a look that said "I will gut you motherfucker." He got the jist of my glare. I have no problem with public speaking, but at 1 in the afternoon after dealing with shit house crazy people all morning I realized it wasn't in my best interest to be interviewed. My mind was frazzled and I'd probably end up babbling away about Elvis stealing my onions or something equally insane.

    And then my worst fear that I hadn't even known exsisted at that point in time came to fruition.

    He spied Kathy and asked her to talk.

    "You are so fucked" said my suddenly hurting brain.

    "I know", I answered back, probably out loud. ( I know that having conversations with your brain is pretty much frowned upon and is a sign of serious mental illness, but after dealing with idiots constantly I had to have a confidant that wasn't fucking retarded and my brain was a convienant ally.)

    Kathy was standing there, actually she was more weaving back and forth like a tree in a high wind, with her glass of vodka and this dumb ass that I'd paid good money to hype my buisness thrust a microphone in her mug and gave her an audience.

    I could only stand there in dumbfounded silence as this transpired before my slowly becoming vacant eyes.

    75,000 watts of power and heard all over of north Mississippi.

    Kathy stared at the microphone for a moment while her alcohol addled brain tried to interput what was happening. I suppose if I were to look at the bright side of the situation, at least she didn't go mouth first all over it like it was a dick being waved in her face.

    Then again, that my have been prefrable to what happened.

    The first words that escaped her lips were "Hey y'all! I'm on the radio!" She then proceeded to babble, slur, and actually sing into the microphone.

    All I could do was stand in the background twitching and wishing I had a gun. If I'd shot her while live on the radio at least folks would've come out to see the crime scene and no jury in the country would've convicted me. Temporary insanity brought about by constant exposure to idiots.

    Seriously, in the middle of her drunken diatribe she started hitting on the announcer and then sang "Mama don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys."

    Let me repeat this: 75,000 watts of power and heard all over of north Mississippi.

    No jury in the world would find fault in me for shooting her. My only problem was I didn't have a gun and throwing rocks at her would've been constrewed as juvenile at best. All I could do was serve witness to this melt down happening at my expense.

    I knew when I built my flea market that I'd be dealing with less then intelligent people. I knew I'd be dealing with folks a few chromosones removed from Darwin's theory and I thought I was prepared for it because I didn't set the bar very high. The flea market people then proceeded to limbo right under my low hanging threshold and leave me twitching and blinking while they continued on oblivious and uncaring about the damage they'd done to my poor brain.

    Sadly, I'm apparently a glutton for punishment and I decided that I'd also open a mud racing track. As if dealing with flea market people weren't enough, I came to the brilliant conclusion that I needed testosterone fueled hillbillys with 4 wheel drives added to the chaos.

    I'm a fucking idiot and even I realize this when I'm making my poor decisions, but for some reason my brain (My supposed ally) whispers to me and tells me "Go for it dude." (Yep, my brain calls me "Dude." I think it's trying to get even with me for all the punishment I put it through in my younger years. It's a few million cells shy of what a brain should have cell-wise and that's probably why it speaks like a 14 year old California surfer.)

    So, I built a mud track on a corner of my flea market and was suddenly up to my eyeballs in not only flea market people, but I now also had hundreds of drunk hillbillies milling around my property . If this hadn't been my land I would've fit right in with the drunks, but it was my duty to try and herd them into something resembling socially accepitical.

    I ran around putting out little fires of unaccepted behaviour and uttering phrases like "What the fuck?" and "That's a cat! It shouldn't be on fire. What the HELL is wrong with you?"

    Then something caught my eye.

    It was a jacked up 70's Chevy 4x4 running amuck across my property while flying two flags from the bed...one was a Confererate flag, the other was black flag with very prominant white lettering stating "No Niggers." I told my brain "Would you please just have an anurism and kill me now?" I made a point of asking nicely. My brain just laughed at my predicament and continued to pulse and throb like brains tend to do. Obviousley, I was going to have to deal with this with or without the help of my brain, which sadly is how I end up coping with most of the curveballs life tosses at me,

    Fuck me. Does anyone else ever have to deal with shit like this?

    I chased this dumb ass down and told him "No. Just no." I was once again out of words to describe my disbelief of outright stupidity. You'd think that after a while I'd have a pat speech down to chastise people with that I could recite from rote, but these fucking idiots kept coming up with new and different ways to surprise me with levels of stupid that just left me flabbergasted.

    He started babbling about free speech and how he was just excersising his constitutional rights. My heart started pumping all the spare blood it could into my overworked and occasionally trechorous brain.

    I snapped. I was overworked and I'd had a belly full of fucking idiots that made my brain hurt.

    "Look son," I yelled, "Either you take down that flag or I'm going to stick it straight up your ass."

    He began flapping his mouth about free speech and the const...I cut him off short of finishing his argument. "Look, this is my property and I'm fucking God in this universe. You and your idiot flags are going to go away. Period."

    Would you believe this moron decided his best course of action was to try and argue with me? Apparently he lived in an alternative universe where you can espouse your hateful views all over someone else's property without recourse.

    "Don't be a dick" he told me defiently.

    "Go away" I retorted. It wasn't a brilliant response, but my brain was pretty much shutting down due to stupidity overload and there were very few firing nuerons left at the moment.

    He had some little underage cutie scooted over next to him on the bench seat and she was about to open her fucking mouth (As a guy I know that look in a woman's eyes when she's about to start flapping her lips saying something defiant.You can actually see mushroom clouds in their eyes if you look hard enough.)

    "Gate. Go away now." I yelled while pointing at the highway.

    By this time little Lolita was leaning across her boyfriend and her mouth was attempting to form something that may or may not have resembled the English language, really fucking loud. My brain had already shut the fuck down and I was now twitching and blinking like I had fresh batteries installed. All I heard was "Bastard...murple, gumple, fuck you, gfrgh, funtle."

    I have no idea what she'd actually said, but them were fighting words. I grabbed her befuddled grand wizard Klan wannabe boyfriend's hat off his head and stomped it in the mud. (In all honesty I was actually feeling kind of bad for the guy about this time. I know how many unfortunate incidents a loud mouthed woman has gotten me into and Lolita over there was really loud and pissing me the fuck off.)

    His hat stomped into a mud hole, I could see this guy was ready to surrender and just go away like I had politely requested he do in the first place. Lolita, on the other hand was still bellowing away like a banshee with a megaphone. "This is why people beat their children" my suddenly functioning brain whispered to me.

    Jethro Jr. and I both knew we wished to be exited from all this unpleasantness, but Lolita wanted to keep hollering and was completely impervious to the fact that the situation had already been resolved....Jethro simply takes his stupid flags and goes away and I won't shoot him. Problem solved.

    But Lolita kept yelling like it was her God given right, while poor Jethro started twitching and blinking. Welcome to my world motherfucker.

    I would say that I'm a patient man, but that would be an outright lie. I'm not. A 16 year old girl calling me every combination of foul words her fragile mind can string together in a feeble attempt to be clever seriously pisses me off.

    As calmly as I could I said to Jethro "I think you best take your bitch and go away."

    Oh fuck. That wasn't what Lolita wished to hear. Apparently her calling me every curse word known to man in languages that hadn't yet been invented was ok, but me calling her a bitch was unacceptable.

    Screech! went Lolita.

    "Ow" said my brain.

    It was about then that I realized I was a grown man trying to reason with a shrieking fucking idiot, Poor Jethro Jr was already a twitching mass of racist Jello warbling in the breeze while this little girl tried to out yell me even though I wasn't yelling.

    I placed a hand on Jethro's shoulder and told him "Son,I think you should go now." Jethro nodded his head and took this sage advice and drove off with his flags drooping behind him with his girlfriend still shrieking like a wounded bear caught in a trap.

    Thank God that I was never blessed with a daughter, it's bad enough that I have to put up with other folks shrieking bundles of joy. That girl is probably still yelling in some poor befuddled fool's ear.
     
  8. Crown Royal

    Crown Royal
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    Just call me Topher

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    I could probably spin quite a few yarns, but if I can only say one then it must combine hilariousness with outright psychotic behaviour. This time I am not an instigator but more of a witness, but you think you know crazy people and have seen their final resolve, and then you soon discover that they will go to the absolute LIMIT...(please forgive any typos)

    Rells was a guy my friends knew from high school. How do I explain him: he's not one of those guys who is your friend, but you hang around with him on specific occasions because of their entertainment value: they are missing puzzle pieces in their brain, usually centering around "conscience" and "impulse". To look at this guy, you might think he's an accountant or something: Wire-rimmed glasses, goofy milquetoast buzzcut, but in really good shape. I had heard stories about how this guy would go off the deep end while drunk-- including a time when he ran down the hallway of a house at a party a drop-kicked an assailant through the front screen door-- but I really didn't know that "deep end" meant "actual psychosis".

    So myself and Rells and my friends El Nino, Shit-Boy and King Kong Lover Lips went to a beach not far from here, Port Stanley. Somewhat popular place, never TOO crowded. We head to a patio bar a friend of mine owns called GTs and get pants-around-the-ankles drunk off margaritas they were serving in children's sand pails. Baking in the sun, we're pretty shitfaced. We decide to go for a lap around the beach area, shoving each other full force from behind randomly, when King Kong Lover Lips (asshole that he is) secretly pissed into a drink cup and tossed it on Rells' chest. Splash. At first we didn't clue in, then you just get that feeling that rolls across your mind: Oh my God, that was fucked up. What's going to happen NOW?

    Well what happened was freaked out by the disgusting cheap shot, Rells drunkenly stumbles backwards, twists on a kid's hole in the sand, and falls face first. He immedietly gets up to dust himself off, but THE PISS MADE THE SAND STICK TO HIS CHEST WHEREVER IT WAS ON HIM and he was covered. Naturally, we instantly and collectively have cardiac arrest laughing at his misfortune.

    Rells white-knuckles with rage and his pupils dialate. He seems to let out this fifth demension Gaelic shriek, runs up to some small kid laying on his air mattress (asleep), grabs the mattress and rips it out from under the kid like a bad tablecloth trick. The kid splashes into the sand, Rells hoists the mattress over his head like Old Glory and just BOOKS down the beach, screaming with rage carrying this poor perplexed kid's mattress with him. He disapeared from sight in no time flat and we stood there like a bunch of mouth-breathing retards, utterly dumbfounded at the surreal fuckery that just took place. I looked at the others:

    "I guess we should go? I mean.... I don't think he's coming back!"

    That wasn't the funny part.

    We stood around for half an hour waiting for him, wondering if he's murdered someone or been jumped by ten dudes. However, we're also sick of waiting for a full-grown adult to stop acting like Margo Kidder with a fist full of vicodin and nothing to wash it down with. Just as we start walking back to the car, we hear familiar yelling.

    It's Rells, coming back up the beach STILL with the mattress in arm, being persued by five cops dressed in their bike cop shorts and helmets. UNBELIEVABLE. They are fucking SCREAMING AT HIM to lay down and give up, and fuck that on his behalf. He's LOVING it. Fun fact about Rells: he was the city champion in high school for both the 100m AND the fucking1500m. He's in bare feet, they're in clunky black running shoes on sand with 30 pounds of gear around their waists to boot, so guess who can't catch their Flame-footed perp?

    So there we sat, on the hood of our car with a beer, laughing ourselves sick as we watched Rells book it up and down the beach in a one hundred yard radius, taunting and insulting these cops like a dog with a bone-- cops who were NEVER going to catch him. Then, he finally notices us. He grins ear-to-ear, stops dead running and throws the mattress like a finished cigarette:

    "HOLY SHIT, I'VE BEEN LOOKIN' ALL OVER FOR YOU FAGS!" he yells in front of thrity families.

    SHIT. "Start the car man, he's running for us!" we get into a slow drive out of the parking lot and pull him in CIA kidnapping-style. KKLL speed up the car and off we go to safety. As soon as we're clear, he slaps KKLL across the face from behind while he's driving.

    Shit-Boy pins him against the door, ready to clean his clock. "What the fuck was THAT for?"

    "For throwing piss on me. Just look at what you caused!"

    And that, kids, is why we hang around certain people in VERY SMALL FUCKING DOSES.
     
  9. Renholder

    Renholder
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    Experienced Idiot

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    I have one story I've posted before that is a perfect example of what my friends and I are like when we all drink together.

    A few Summers ago a bunch of us were at a party at our friend's place. A chick friend of ours and I snuck off into the basement to hookup but she was a little too loud and it attracted the attention of all six people still awake. Within minutes of starting to fuck, I could hear snickering from around the corner and a shadow darted across the hall into the other room. We both just laughed and kept at it. Then, with no hesitation or shame, one of our guy friends strolls into the room butt ass naked. I honestly thought he was going to ask to join in and I'm sure she would have said yes.

    "Oh, hey. Where's the party? Just gotta grab the beer cooler here. Don't mind me," he says as he casually walks past the couch where I am balls deep. I didn't even bother to stop. I just kept laughing and humping simultaneously.

    They finally left us alone after getting the beer and after finishing up, we joined them back outside. As if what I had witnessed wasn't funny enough, our friend [John] told me he had commando crawled right up to the fold out couch we were on without us even knowing and when he poked his head up for a peak, he found himself eight inches from my asshole.

    Soon everyone started passing out so we decided to have a proper fucking without interruption. After she fell asleep I got up to take a piss and heard some squeaking that I could only assume was someone getting it on upstairs. I didn't think anything of it and continued around the corner. In the doorway to the bathroom was a pair of shoes and socks, next to it a pair of pants, and another pair of pants. My eyes slowly followed the trail of clothes down the hall until I was staring at [John] nailing our friend's younger sister from underneath, balls slapping against her very nice little ass. I was in shock and disbelief and before I could realize what I was witnessing, they saw me. I ducked into the bathroom, took my piss, gave it a minute, then shuffled back to the couch. [John] came in a few seconds later.

    "Hey. What did you see?" he asked nervously.

    "Uh.... nothing." with a huge shit eating grin on my face.

    "Good, let's keep it that way. No one can find out about this, especially not [Ross]."


    The next morning, I waited until [Ross] and his sister left and I told absolutely everybody.
     
  10. dixiebandit69

    dixiebandit69
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    This is a true story that happened to me about 4 years ago.

    It was a stupefyingly boring Sunday. Nothing had happened all day, and it was evening now. I was bored--very bored. I had rented "Dirty Harry," watched it, and was still bored. I wanted social interaction. It was getting late, just past midnight, so the only alcohol sources would be bars. Off I went to the usual ghetto/tejano bars that are near my house; purveyors of cheap beer, pool, coke, and whores. That would at least be more interesting than doing nothing.
    But as it turned out, all of the bars around me close at midnight on Sundays. Damn TABC. There was this shitty topless bar near my house, but I don't like paying a cover charge to sit and drink with a bunch of horny old men and phony women looking to wring every last dime from me. I want to hear some funny stories, for crissake.
    So I decided to head over to the nearest Fast Eddie‘s to shoot some pool. I knew one of the waitresses there, and I would probably see some friends.
    I walked in, and it was a dead sausage fest of frat boys from the local college. I didn't want to talk to them, and they didn't want to talk to me.
    Where were the Vietnam vets and oil rig workers, secretaries and off duty stewardesses? None to be found in that sterile environment. But at least they had beer and pool. I started a tab with my credit card and lit up a cigarette. No sooner had I done that, than a thirty-something woman walked into the bar. She looked around and seemed confused, as though she was supposed to meet someone there. Not finding what she was looking for, she turned and walked out the door with a discouraged look in her eyes.
    I was so bored that I just wanted to know what her story was. I walked outside and asked who she was looking for.
    She didn't speak English.
    "You wanted social stimulation and you got it; time to practice your lame-ass Spanish," the voice in my head said.
    We went back in and started talking as best we could. My awful Spanish, coupled with the Budweisers I was downing, made me sound like a schizophrenic 8 year old lost in Mexico. But she was into it. Her name was “V” (not her real name), and she was a cosmetologist from Reynosa. (You can insert your stereotype of an "International" woman here.) She had fake blond hair that went well with my fake black hair, and her cosmetology training showed in her excessive makeup application. I thought she would have looked better without any makeup at all, but that is just the ramblings of a guy who was raised by a woman that was completely opposed to shaving her legs or armpits.
    After some stilted conversation, she mentioned that she was hambre, and she wanted to go to Denny's. By this point I had bought her a few fruity looking mixed drinks, and she was giving me hungry eyes.
    Well, this was certainly more than I expected, so I paid the tab and we headed off.
    We ate an uneventful late night breakfast; uneventful, except for the fact that she was rubbing my leg with her bare foot under the table, and devouring me with her eyes while she devoured her hash browns. By the end of the meal, she had progressed to stroking my hands and forearms.
    She said that she was finished, so I paid the check with my credit card and we left.
    "What do you want to do now?" I asked in Spanish.
    She said that she was tired and wanted to go to sleep. It's wasn't that late, I told her, she could stay out for just a bit more, couldn't she? No. She had to get up for work in a few hours.
    But she did ask for my phone number, which I gave her, and she called it to make sure that I got her number.
    I thought only guys did that.
    We parted ways, and she wouldn't even give me a kiss.
    As I drove home, I felt very negative towards the female of the species. She played me like a $2 kazoo.
    At least the kazoo gets blown.
    I went to bed and fell into a black, dreamless sleep.
    I woke up the next morning and poured myself a large glass of water and a large glass of orange juice to rehydrate my abused body. As the liquids were soaking into the lining of my stomach, I looked at the incoming calls on my phone in hopes that it was all an insipid nightmare. It wasn't. To mark the occasion, I actually saved her number, that way incase she ever called, I would know who it was and ignore it. The name I entered was "Bitch from Denny's."
    I vowed to not be so gullible again.
    Feeling like a tool, I wondered just how much I spent on that strumpet.
    Grand total: Nothing.
    That's right, nothing, not one damn dime. The receipts said "Carlos C." on them. I looked in my wallet. There was an identical looking credit card in there, with Carlos's name on it. Evidently some guy named Carlos was at Fast Eddie's that night, and had a card that looked like mine. The bartender gave me his card. I took that gold digger out on some other guy's dime!
    As soon as Fast Eddie's opened, I explained to the manager what happened, and I got my card back with no extra charges.
    Lucky? Maybe. I try to look on the bright side of life.
    And to Carlos C.: sorry about the generous tip I left at Denny's and the tank of 89 octane gas I bought afterward.
     
  11. AlmostGaunt

    AlmostGaunt
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    Freud would have a field day with this and your posts in the drunk thread. Ahem.

    Meanwhile in Russia...
    Background. This sets the scene so you can understand the sort of mood we were in for the conclusion.
    2009 saw a bright-eyed AlmostGaunt arrive in Russia with his brother, B, his brother's wife, W, and his housemate H. Fresh from a cruise around the Mediterranean and a glorious time in Romania, I was excited to finally begin the adventurous part of the trip. This excitement was compounded by the fact we'd touched down safely, as the Russian airline we had flown on had an impressively awful safety record, and from the shaking and swinging we'd experienced on the way down they'd earned every bit of it. We fight our way through Russian customs after a couple of hours, and manage to elbow our way to a stall where we eventually throw enough money at a disinterested woman to get some train tickets. We manage to locate the correct train platform, which is no mean feat considering how hard Cyrillic lettering is to interpret when you are used to the Latin system. The platform is mostly empty when we arrive, but quickly fills up. And then fills up some more. And keeps filling up, while me (6'3), H (6'4), and B (6') try and form a shield around W (5') to prevent her getting crushed by the men and women suffocating us. The train arrives and what was merely unpleasant takes on the atmosphere of a football riot. I'm a beefy guy, and people were flat out running through me to squeeze onto this train. Eventually we give in and manage to brute force our way onto the train. We are packed in so tight that I'm basically penetrating the person with their ass pressed into my groin. People are still pushing and shoving to get onto the train. Eventually it leaves, and even though I can't actually breathe that's ok because we only have to make it two stops. We reach our destination, and attempt to push our way through the crowd out the door without losing W. We all make it, except for my brother. Our last sight is of him trapped in the throng, being carried away at 100kmh to... somewhere.

    Turns out our phones won't work in the vicinity of the station. We try various things but are unable to reestablish contact, but after an hour of fruitless waiting, we decide to try and make our way to our hostel. We are, in theory, only 2 blocks from it. Every person we ask on the street sends us in a different direction, our GPS isn't working because Russia has somehow locked the fucking map, and none of the street signs match our map. Finally we make our way through a crumbling brick wall and find our hostel, and thank Christ my brother has somehow managed to find his way there. So we go in, and words can't do this place justice. This place was rated 90%+ on hostelworld.com, and I am 100% sure it would have been condemned in the Western world. The disintegrating walls and the lack of hot water were unexpected but not egregious. The fact that the 4 of us couldn't all stand upright at the same time due to lack of space, and the stinking hellhole of a toilet next to our dorm were unpleasant but manageable. The lack of any lighting above 3 story high narrow, uneven concrete steps could have been fatal, but what the hell. The killer for me was the combination of 40 degree heat (with accompanying toilet stench) and 1001 mosquitos. Oh, and the sheet they provided only covered 3/4 of the bed, and anywhere my bare skin touched the mattress, it came out in a rash. (Anyone who knows what this was, please keep it to yourself. I honestly don't want to know at this point. I've never seen it again and I really don't want to.) We moved a mattress leaning upright in a hallway, and beyond it was a gaping hole where the floor should have been. On the 3rd floor mind you. It wasn't all bad though. The one thing this hostel had going for it was 50 cent shots of vodka. Russian vodka is actually noticeably better than the Western stuff, even the 50c variety, and we got well and truly stuck in.

    Ok, actual story time: spoilered for ludicrous length.
    We are joined at the hotel by Dave* (not actual name) and Bill. Dave is a friend of ours (the guy who got me involved in my one and only fight incidentally) who went on a trip to Europe for 6 months, and liked it so much that when he came to meet up with us he'd been there for 4 years. Bill is a guy we've never met, but he's been travelling around with Dave, and the two of them have basically reverted to a feral, proto-human state. (Bill's an awesome guy, but a loose fucking cannon.) We are all on edge from the day's events, and we start punishing the vodka like it fucked our mothers. Dave tells us he has a friend that moved to Russia a year ago and is happy to show us around. Awesome. We head out, stopping only to buy Baltika beer from little old ladies pushing prams full of it in the park next to our hostel . We meet this guy, and he takes us to.... an English pub showing cricket. I don't even like English pubs in England, and I sure as fuck haven't travelled to Russia to see them. We slam our pints and request that we go somewhere a little bit more.. Russian. The guy says that he's been in Russia for a year, Russia sucks dick and he hates it, but there's one club he goes to 5 or 6 times a week where they know him by name and we should go. Game on.

    The place turns out to be a strip club. At this point I'm 25 and I've been to a strip club exactly once in my life, and it was one of the most wretched experiences I've ever had. (If you're ever in Perth, Aus, don't go to strip clubs. The sadness is palpable the minute you step through the door.) Whatever. At this point I just want something to go right, and they welcome us in with free shots of vodka and a large hookah with some delicious shisha. They sit us down in quality lounge chairs, and at least 50 women file out of the shadows to greet the 6 of us. And by greet I mean drape themselves across our shoulders, simultaneously rubbing crotches and whispering in ears. I'm not really into the stiletto and make-up look, but these women were all legitimately gorgeous. (I guess you get quality when you can basically raid the surrounding countries and enslave their women.) I'm mildly uncomfortable, but Bill is in his element. He grabs the dancer kneeling between his legs and heads into the private booth. 2 minutes later, him and the dancer are back, screaming at each other, as a number of large, pissed off bouncers move between us and the door. The head bouncer unsnaps the holster of his gun and pulls it partway out. I'm still trying to figure out why a bouncer needs a large handgun when he grabs Bill. Bill drunkenly yells at him. I start seriously wondering if we are going to live through the night. The guy who brought us to this shitshow comes over, and starts talking Russian. Eventually it turns out that once inside the booth, the dancer had pulled Ben's pants down and tried to blow him. He refused and walked out. She went to the bouncer and told him she'd blown Ben, and he now owed the house $2,000. Great. After the tensest 5 minutes of my life, the bouncer puts his gun away, everything is sort of normal again, and we sit back down. I am rattled and keen to bail, but Dave has either missed or ignored all this drama and is keen to stay. And then he goes into the booth with a fucking stripper. And the same fucking thing happens again. Stripper comes out yelling, bouncer brings out the gun, guy who speaks Russian eventually defuses the situation.

    Fuck it. I'm done. I convince people this place has nothing for us but extortion and death, and we walk back to the hotel. As we get to the park outside our door, a beauty pageant (or hooker casting call, I don't really know) is walking across the park and we stay to watch. A young woman in the park is being hassled by a grizzly drunk man who turns out to be her father. Bill goes over to play white knight and pick this girl up. Her father pulls out a knife. (By this point, I am starting to be underwhelmed with both Russia and Bill.) Undeterred, Bill talks this psychotic drunk down and takes the girl into our hostel. We follow suit, and get into the vodka. Dave picks up the girl working at the hostel. Dave and Bill end up fucking their respective girls on the bunkbed they are sharing. The rest of us get drunk and go to bed.

    And get woken up at 6am to the sound of screaming and shattering plates. We crack our door open and look out. Some random Russian woman is going absolutely berserk. Smashing crockery, picking up the pc monitor from the reception desk and smashing it, just absolutely mental. We shut the door and bar it as best we can. Eventually her giant boyfriend comes in, puts her over his shoulder, and takes her away. Apparently, Bill had been on the computer early in the morning. This drunk Russian had come in and asked if he thought she was pretty. He responded "you're alright", (which in Aussie slang means 'hot') and she lost it. Picked up her beer glass and pegged it at his head, then started destroying the place. (There was some additional weird backstory with this woman and my brother's wife, but I can't quite remember it. It was creepy though, on the part of the random). The receptionist says she has called the cops. Dale and Bill have been smoking weed in the dorm room, so they start packing up and getting ready to bail. Eventually this woman's boyfriend turns up and removes her. In the course of packing up their room, Dave leans over, passes something to Bill and asks him to throw it out for him. That something turns out to be his used condom.

    Postscript: I checked out of that fucking hostel and into a Hotel Ibis that day. I haven't spent actually spent a night in a hostel since, although that's about to change. The rest of our time in Russia was awesome and involved bribing Kremlin guards and running from cops, but that's another story.

    *edit for accidentally using real names in previous photo.
     

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  12. iczorro

    iczorro
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    Here is a very brief something I wrote while on deployment when I was 23.





     
  13. JoeCanada

    JoeCanada
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    Wrote this a few years ago in university. I'd change a bunch of little things about it if I had to re-write it, but fuck it - I just wrote it for fun. I give you,

    Confessions of an Idiot: The JoeCanada Story

    My academic career has been a lot like a chubby guy running a marathon. I started out strong, thinking it wasn’t all that bad; I was even near the front of the pack! As I went on, I was still doing fairly well but more and more people seemed to be passing me. A couple more kilometers down the road and people were whizzing by me as if I were standing still. Finally, after losing bladder control and vomiting on myself, I saw the finish line! I was barely beating the retarded girl and the guy with one leg, but who cares: I was almost there!

    Now with one year of school left, the end is only a few meters away. Unfortunately, as of this week, I have tripped and fallen. All I can hope for is that my momentum will carry my sweaty, battered body across the finish line in a pathetic moment of vainglory.

    So what event was my metaphorical fall? Was it the time I needed 17% on a final exam in order to pass the class and got exactly that? Or maybe the time I opened my text book the night before my exam for the first time, only to realize that I had bought the wrong book back at the start of the semester? Nope. Those were nothing.


    It was Tuesday evening, and I was feeling quite happy with myself. I was relaxing after handing in an essay earlier that day which I had stayed up nearly all night writing. It was approaching midnight, and I was casually talking on msn and planning out in my head how I was going to write my 10 page research essay in the next two days. Two full days is a lot of time for me to spend on one essay, so I was imagining the feeling of satisfaction I would have on Friday, as I handed in what was sure to be a well-written, perfectly organized essay.

    Then I noticed something strange. In my imagined scenario, I was handing my paper in during my seminar, which is Friday… but every other assignment for that class had been due in lecture, which is Wednesday. That’s weird, I thought, why would she make this one project due on a different…

    OH FUCK!!!

    It felt like I had been hit in the face with a shovel as I realized that I had written it down wrong on my calendar. I didn’t have two full days to write my term paper—I had just over nine hours.

    Not only that, but, if you remember, I had only gotten three hours of sleep the night before. In a state of utter disbelief, I checked the course syllabus to make absolutely sure that it wasn’t due Friday. It wasn’t. And as an added bonus, I noticed this little gem: “Late work will NOT be accepted/graded.” She had actually taken the time to capitalize the word “not.” What a bitch. I realized that I literally didn’t have ten minutes to spare for thinking about how shitty this was, so I jumped right in.


    12:30 am- I start writing. I have a very general idea of what my topic is (Multiculturalism in Canada), so I just start carelessly throwing around words like identity, culture, and ethnicity.

    1:30 am- I’ve written two pages! The first was my rambling, shit of an introduction, and the second was where I “defined” all the smart-sounding words I could think of that seemed related to my topic. “Before evaluating the effect of the Multiculturalism Act of 1971, it is important to first define some terms…” That’s actually true. It’s unfortunate, then, that my definitions were made up on the spot and I had no fucking idea what I was talking about.

    3:00 am- Ohhhhh man I’m tired. I feel drunk, I’m so tired. I’m still writing, but it’s like I’m on autopilot. And not normal autopilot; some really cheap version of autopilot that was programmed by Puerto Ricans and crashes you into a mountain.

    4:30 am- I realize that I’m not allowed to find all my sources online, and that I need three book sources from the library (“NEED” them… she felt the need to capitalize that too. Bitch.). I am required to adjust my schedule: Be done by 7:45, get to the library when it opens at 8:00, find three sources, and incorporate them into my incoherent bucket of crap I call an essay.

    5:00 am- I don’t know what dying feels like for sure, but I think this might be it. I feel sick to my stomach, numb, and I literally can’t focus for more than a minute at a time. I have never been this sleep-deprived in my life. I hope whatever my third world autopilot is writing is legible.

    5:03 am- I kind of hope I do die. How bad could it be? It would be like sleep, but… forever. Jesus Christ, that sounds AWESOME! No, no, I have to keep going…
    Autopilot: “...and furthermore, multiculturalism is extremely beneficial to the individual, because it works to maintain one’s identity in a world dominated by globalization…”
    Me: I live on the sixth floor. Would I die, or just break my legs if I jumped? Hmm…

    6:00 am- I can’t feel my face. Seriously, I can’t feel my face.

    7:32 am- “…multiculturalism policy is not only good in theory, but it has proven itself to be beneficial in practice as well."
    …mighty morphin’ Power Rangerrssss… DA DA DAAA…-wait, did I just finish? WAHOOO!!!

    8:00 am- I arrive at the library and head to the section about Canadian racial issues and grab the first three books with some form of the word “multicultural” in their title. At this point I am legally insane and have lost all interest in anything but getting this goddam thing done.

    8:03-9:10 am- I skim through each book and as soon as I find a sentence that even remotely fits in with what I’m saying, I throw it in. You know how when you’re doing a puzzle, and by the end you’re just so pissed off that you force pieces in that don’t fit because you’re tired of looking for the right ones? This is like that. The piece is light blue and everything else is dark blue, but who gives a fuck—blue is blue.

    9:37 am- I am done. I try to proof read it once in order to fix some of what are sure to be dozens of blatantly obvious mistakes. I make it half way through the introduction.

    9:40 am- I have a sudden, inexplicable craving for grilled cheese. I wonder if I’m dying again. Isn’t there some thing where if you smell almonds you’re about to die? Is craving grilled cheese the same thing?

    10:00 am- I hand that bitch in.

    10:45 am- Everything seems like it’s very slightly tinted green. This confuses and frightens me.

    10:52 am- I get on the elevator. Sleep is so close. The girl in the elevator asks me which floor I’m going to. I say “Up.”

    11:00 am- I have now had 3 hours of sleep in the previous 48. I am pale, shaking, and cold. There is literally nothing I want more than to sleep; if someone offered me the cure for cancer if I could stay up another few hours, there would be a lot of pissed off sick people, because I would have jumped in bed without hesitation.

    11:01 am- I fall asleep.

    1:00 am- I wake up. I realize that I was not conscious for the PM of March 26, 2008.

    2:00 am- I have a peanut butter and jam sandwich.

    4:00 am- I’m tired again. I don’t understand how this is possible, but I decide to lie down anyway and see what happens.

    12:30 pm- I wake up again. I congratulate myself on the fact that I went to bed at 11:00 am and managed to sleep through a class that started 24 hours later.

    I set several personal records this week: biggest awake to asleep ratio (48:3), fastest essay (from no thesis statement to 8 pages with six sources in 9 hours), longest sleep (approx. 22 hours, with a 3 hour intermission), and longest piss (you sleep for 14 hours and see what happens). That’ll all look nice on my resume. I’m really getting the most out of my time here at university.

    Once again, I shudder at the thought of where I’ll be in a few years.



    EDIT 04/15/08: Holy hell, I got a B+ on it! Two more percent and I would have had an A-! What kind of fucking monkey college do I go to?!