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Ya, he's fun to be around until he's had one too many beer. And then you've got this big red-headed German chasing you around the bar with his pants around his ankles.
You want me to tell these folks THAT story, DEP? Cause I will. Just say the word. The guy is a menace, locke.
I like Rolling Rock, people tell me I have awful taste in beer. Then again, I see it as a means to 2 ends. Calories and drunkenness. Nothing else. I find it to be one of the most quaffable brands.
Rolling Rock is quaffable. It's a step above the Bud and Miller Lites of this world. I actually like drinking Rolling Rock. It's not half bad, for a domestic brew. At all. It's low in carbs but still retains some...quality.
For my dollar though I like Newcastle, all kinds of Black & Tans, Guinness, Boddingtons, Cream & Outmeal stouts, and well...everything. I love beer in all of it's forms. Even hefferweizens.
Because of my financial predicament though I tend to drink a lot of Steel reserve 211 malt liqour. Horrible stuff. But it gets the job done.
That and REALLY cheap vodka with cranberry juice. It's as good as any mixed drink out there.
Sometimes nothing beats a Newcastle, though. I wish I could visit their brewery.
Are you a beer fanatic? What is your favorite kind of beer?
Don't get me started. My favorite types are probobly stout. I like lagers and Ales too. I love strong beer, weak beer, old beer, new beer, hot beer, cold beer, eye beer, ear beer and all types of beer.
My Ideal breakfast.
1 bottle Guinus
2 bottles corona
2 bottles of VB
I like anything... exept XXXX... that stuff sucks. Forex is the urine of horses my good sir.
The second car that was officially mine was a white Dodge Shadow. I used to love that car, but after a few years of me driving it; it started failing me.
It would shake real bad when it was idling, like really bad. Not like “Poop, your car is shaking a little”, but more like “Poop, my soda can just exploded because of this.” I was once heard to say “Man, this thing is shaking my balls like nuts.”
It also had a hard time making it up steep hills unless it had a running start. There were a few times that I had to pull into a driveway, turn around, and get a better start for the hill.
That aside, I loved the car. It lasted me a few years after high school and three moves, (parents to first house, first house to apartment). When I was living in the apartments with Mrs. Poop we started saving up to get married. I was playing video games with Mrs. Poop’s drug-addict-psycho brother one day when the phone rang. It was Mrs. Poop. She had taken the car to the store and was calling to tell me that it was on fire not to far up the road from our apartment.
After checking to make sure she was okay I remembered that I had all of my notebooks with stories and plays and poetry in the back seat and I started freaking out. I asked her brother to drive me up there to pick up Mrs. Poop and he agreed.
I wasn’t quite sure where the car was, but as soon as we turned onto the main road we could see the billows of smoke in the distance. We drove up the street further and my car came in sight, huge flames shooting up into the sky. It was like a car explosion in the movies, huge flames and tons of smoke.
We pulled into a driveway and I rushed into the backseat to retrieve my notebooks. Everyone thought I was crazy, and maybe I was/am; but this wasn’t the first time I had rushed into a burning car to retrieve something… Okay, that last point doesn’t really counter the “everyone thought I was crazy” line, but fuck it; there it is.
I grabbed the notebooks and folders and a few minutes later the fire department arrived and put the thing out.
Needless to say, with the need to purchase a new car we were going to have to postpone our marriage. But at least I had my notebooks… Oh, and my wife-to-be. That’s important too.
A gift from above and the repercussions of receiving it
Mrs. Poop got really sick for a while, stomach upset all the time, a loss of balance, and headaches. She wasn’t throwing up or anything, but she kept saying that she wished she would just throw up because she figured she’d feel better if she did.
She went to the doctors office, which is a block away from my parents house; so I dropped her off and went to my parents. No, I wasn’t abandoning her; I was asked to help a friend build my parents back deck and promised that I would help at least a bit. So I went there and ended up not helping at all, but my parents were gone and my two friends who were doing the deck asked if I wanted to smoke some dope. I said yes, and we smoked.
After a little while I informed my friends that I had to go get the old lady from the doctor, and when I arrived all stoney-happy I found her sitting in the waiting room.
“Are you still waiting?!” I asked.
“No, I’m all done,” she said. She looked really nervous and scared.
“Well,” I said; “What’s wrong.”
“Poop, I’m pregnant.”
There it was. She was pregnant. That explained it all. This wasn’t exactly a bad thing, just not something we had planned for. Still stoned off my rocker, I just smiled back at her while I processed everything.
To this day she claims that it was the most reassuring thing I could have done, she says that the smile on my face made her feel much better about it because she could see that I was happy to have a baby on the way. The truth is I was just stoned (but don’t tell her I said that.)
Eventually the high wore off and I was happy. I mean, we’d been together about three years at this point, had been living together for nearly all of those three years, and were planning on getting married anyway.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Poop already had two kids from a previous marriage and the apartment complex required three rooms for that many kids; which meant we had to move out. This also meant no marriage for a little while.
We moved in with my parents who thankfully agreed to put a roof over our heads while we saved up some money and got everything squared away. The kids stayed in my old room and we stayed in the basement. It wasn’t the most comfortable living environment, but it was an environment and we were living.
We’re closing down
While living at my parents house I worked every bit of overtime they would allow, which was thankfully a lot because I worked in a call center as a supervisor during the day and was able to add hours on the phones at night. I was also the equipment maintenance guy there and was able to get an extra hour at the end of the night organizing and repaired equipment.
One day about an hour before the end of the shift someone from the corporate office came down to have a meeting with the staff. We walked into the office and one of my co-workers said “Uh-oh, last time I went to a meeting like this they were announcing that they were about to close the store down.” Fucking ominous bastard.
They were closing the site down, moving it out to Canada. We had 45 days left to seek employment elsewhere. It looked like the marriage was going to be postponed again.
While this was bad news, and Mrs. Poop and the baby cried in our basement dwelling over it; it was also one of the more entertaining times of my life.
If you’ve never been part of a company that is going through a close-out, you have no idea what you’re missing out on. It’s sad, but incredibly funny at the same time. The thing is, no one gives a shit about anything anymore. We’re all expected to show up for work to get paid, but it really doesn’t matter what the hell we did while there. Take a few calls, go smoke a cigarette, go BS with your neighbors; whatever. So long as we were moderately productive, we were allowed to play.
I started selling beers out of my trunk, one dollar for a bottle; they brought me their mug and I filled it up. I made a mint, it was great. On Thursdays we would all go to lunch up the street for happy hour. We were given half-hour lunches, but these easily turned into three hour drink-fests.
It was a great time. But all good things must come to an end and eventually (regrettably) the place closed down.
I took six months of unemployment pay, because why the hell not?
After six months of hanging out with my baby I re-entered the workforce. Worked a crap aluminum manufacture job for a month. The work wasn’t hard, but it was mind-numbing; I felt myself getting more and more stupid while working there. I’m not saying factory workers are stupid, I’m just saying that while I was there and not using my mind I felt my limited intellect slipping away.
I then went to work in a call center and their base rate despite my seven years of experience as a supervisor in a call center. I was making seven dollars an hour less than I had at my previous call center job. I expected to make less, but not seven dollars less. Needless to say I was still looking for a job elsewhere.
In the meantime I sat and made sales calls for long distance while writing a new play in a notebook. I blew most of the other people out of the water with my results and they were all bragging on how awesome I was. I didn’t want my sup to have false hopes so I informed him that he shouldn’t bank on me.
I soon found another job in another call center that started me out at only fifty cents less than what I made as a supervisor at that first call center. Freaking sweet.
Six months later they promoted me to trainer, two weeks after that they promoted me to some weird made-up position as a specialist trainer for one of our major clients, and two months after that I made supervisor. I’m still a supervisor there today.
In a little over a year I was able to save up enough to finally marry Mrs. Poop, and we did it on a beautiful clear day in early October (it rained the day before and the day after).
Mrs. Poop and will be together 10 years come November of this year. In October we will celebrate our second year of marriage. And we have another baby on the way that’ll come out some time late this summer.
I said earlier in the thread that I had more stories about the big white house in McDonald, but I never delivered.
Well, here's another one.
I had just had my first psychadelic mushrooms experience the day before and was about to have another one.
I ate the shrooms sat in living room on the back of a chair and waited for them to kick in. The moment they did I felt that I needed to be outside in the night air with the stars above me. So I walked out into the yard in my bare feet and walked around.
Directly beside this house is a bar, there was a little hill next to the driveway and then BAM you're in the bar parking lot.
Well one of the letters from their sign was in my yard. So I picked it up and decided to return it to its rightful owners. I walked up the little hill and into their gravel parking lot and entered the bar.
I walked up to the bar and the bartender lady asked if she could help me.
"I found the letter "R" in my yard and I believe it belongs to you," I said, holding the letter up in my hand.
"Oh, thanks," she said, taking the letter from my hand.
I was about to turn around and exit the bar but this middle aged skinny and drunk as f**k guy walked up to me and said "HEY!"
I gave him the "what's up?" nod and said "Hey" right back to him.
He didn't say anything but he pointed to my bare feet and shook his head as though he were disappointed in me. For some reason I felt that I needed to explain myself (it was probably the shrooms).
"Oh, yeah I know. I'm supposed to wear shoes in here. But I was walking around in my front yard and stepped on the Letter R, so I brought it over."
Strangely enough, he seemed to understand.
Without further incident, I exited the bar and returned to the relative comfort of my living room. I watched in amazement as the room expanded all around me, the walls stretching farther and farther away.
Then from outside there was a loud BANG!!, like a stick of dynamite was set off.
I ran outside to find out what the hell that was and everyone in the bar was outside looking around as well.
"What the hell was that?!" I asked.
The skinny as f**k drunk guy recognized me and decided to come walk over and talk to me. Sadly, he did not seem to notice that he and I were on different elevation levels and when he tried to cross from the parking lot to my driveway, the hill took him down. He took one step and then fell flat on his face in my driveway.
I rushed over to him as he rolled onto his back.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
He said that he was fine, so I extended a hand out to him to help him get to his feet. He took my hand and I pulled, but he was all limp.
"Okay, let's try this again," I said.
"Okay," he said.
I pulled, he did not get up.
"Alright," I said to him. "This time, when I pull, put your legs down and try to stand up."
"Ah," he said with his eyes, understanding dawning on him. I pulled him to his feet and patted him on the back.
"There," I said; "that's more like it."
"Did you do that?" He asked.
"Do what?" I asked. At this point I had forgotten why I was outside in the first place.
"Blow something up?" he asked. Oh yeah, now I remember.
"What? No, I don't know what that was," I told him. "I ran outside when I heard the noise."
"Oh," he said.
"Do you know what that noise was?" I asked him.
"It sounded like an explosion," he told me.
That made sense, I guess. And with this new understanding of the events that had transpired, I felt content enough to return to my house and the comforts of my living room.
Hey kids. A funny thing happened to me today. I know today doesn't really count as "the past", maybe just as "past" without the definitiveness of an article to give it concrete meaning. But I really just want to tell you all about the shit that happened to me today, I get a hard-on for continuity or at least the illusion of same, and well, I didn't want to double post anywhere. It seems I've been rounding off a lot of threads lately, but I thought you'd all know by now, seeing as you're older and ostensibly wiser than when this absurd potato-sack race began: you should never, ever, ever, let a woman win an argument. Once she gets the last word, she can never un-get the last word and you will be sweeping the fragments of your balls off the floor for the remainder of your pitiable collective futures. As a recently outed dude, this is the wisdom I share with you. Seeing as I'm a dude, there is no need of course for you all to start flocking to threads where I've had the last laugh. Just be pre-advised and aware and cognizant and all that, so the next time your bitch tries to sass you, you say SHUT UP BITCH I'M TALKING HERE! (even if you're not). If she resists, that's what duct tape is for.
Anyway, I'm a dude, but apparently I still look like a chick, because chick shit keeps happening to me, like drooling, subhuman specimens on these filthy city streets who somehow think they've qualified to have a little chatty-o or a little looky-o or even a little grabby-o at my vaunted, elevated and empedestaled person. Ridiculous, right? Yet they keep trying. Here's what happened to me today. I found it raucously funny, even if no one else did.
This deranged little kid and what looked like either his grandmother or legal guardian, boarded the bus this morning one stop after me. Before you start making jokes at my expense, YES, I am a proud bus rider now. But I also live in a place where that's socially acceptable, responsible even, and I am not ashamed. No, I am not ashamed. Fucking gypsies and old people and ... no, I am not ashamed. Anyway...
This kid looked vaguely familiar. I think I've seen him around. He looked about 9 or 10, but big for his age. And just balls-out, batshit, bedlam BANANAS. The first thing he did, upon taking the seat in front of me, was to climb all over the seat, facing backwards, right in my face, staring me down from just a few inches away for a painfully awkward span of what must have been at least half of forever. It's a good thing I'm not superstitious or even racist, because that little gyppo brat might just have been giving me the evil eye.
Except he was clearly besotted. I made a face at him and laughed, which seemed to injure him, because he flumped back down in his seat for a few seconds. But only a few seconds. Apparently, he liked my vintage Fendi shades, the ones that make me look like a sinister super-villain (people have actually asked me to remove them before because they find them so unsettling...don't get that at all). He pleaded with his grandma and she handed her own sunglasses to him, which he put on, reeling for a minute as her doubtless turbo-powered prescription took its toll on his "fragile little mind". Then he whipped his head around and made what he didn't know was his best Fonz impression, specs included. I tapped my glasses back at him in recognition, and this seemed to encourage him.
Fool! Never, ever, add fuel to their fire. Because the next minute he was back in monkey mode! Dancing around on the seat, practically climbing in my lap. It all came to a head when he dropped his empty candy wrapper on the floor in front of me. Then gran had the effrontery to ask me to pick it up, like this was something he NEEDED. I handed it to him and he grabbed my hand as well as his prize and smiled a great big, almost winning smile. I say "almost" because it was 90% bonkers, but also 10% ladykiller. I mean that sincerely.
Then he started doing a little seat dance. Bouncing up and down, turning around to gaze fondly upon me, gabbing with Grandma, whose shoulders were up to her ears at this point and I could tell she was desperate for the little interlude to end. He started singing something, turning around, smiling, putting his foot on the rail, turning around, looking at me, Grandma forcibly takes her sunglasses from him...
Then it happened. He whipped his whole body around just as fast as you please and made a quick, passionate grab right for the titties. It was too fast for me to even process what had happened. Let's just say being 9 or 10 or whatever must suck for you little boys because your arms are really, laughably, short.
Missed me by a mile! I couldn't help myself. I started roaring with laughter, and the people around me were either snickering or staring with Moral. Disapproval. (I live in a weirdly polarized place.) But Grandma slapped that cheeky little bastard like it was 1932 and for a moment he was quiet.
But just for a moment! He was back the next second, japing, clowning, grinning, wooing. I swear my heart was nearly won!
But alas, the old hag, at this terminal point on this verrrry long bus ride, she lifted him bodily from his seat, literally kicking and screaming, removing him to the front part of the bus, where she assumed that his unseeing me would be the same as his forgetting me. Alas, he had to love me from afar. At this juncture, I was actively trying to assist poor frazzled old Grans and her obviously o'er-heavy charge, doing my damndest not to look at this kid or acknowledge him in any way. Yet I felt those beady little eyes, those bright, crazy, needy little eyes.
Finally stepping off the bus, a weird sort of standoff ensued. They had gotten off the front and I off the back, and seeing as we were both moving forward, I figured they would take their leave first and I would wait at bay for the pair to be properly out of sight, especially as this way I wouldn't have to cross paths with them again, which was clearly what Baba Yaga dreaded.
But she waited for me.
And I waited for her.
And she waited for me.
And I waited for her.
And it's a pity they don't make many surrealist movies anymore, because two perfectly still women standing on a busy street right off a bus, added to the allure of one actively insane little boy, is a striking image one doesn't see every day. It was a cold, freaky psychodrama of enforced courtesy, and I'm sure that from some angle, this view of Us in our Strangeness would have colluded with the rules of Perfect Symmetry and Proportion. It was a moment crystallized in time, in weird, lecherous, titty-grabbing time.
At last the spell was broken. They ambled their way down the street and further down into the subway station and I, breathing the first free air of my life, made my way quietly to the bookshop.
Yet something was gone, disappeared. A certain frisson, a certain joy, a certain chaotic certainty...
...that no matter where I go, no matter what I do, there will always be a deranged underage dude there, just dying for his first fistful of Beauty.
If there was ever an appropriate time to use that overused meme "Cool Story Bro" it would be here, since it was indeed a cool story and you are obviously a TRUE BRO.
-10 points for talking like a fag by using terms such as "besotted" and "frisson" though.
Writing: It's more fun than a barrel of Ebola ridden monkeys!
A few weeks ago this lady at work shit all over the hallway while walking to the restroom.
I work in a call center in a building of multiple call centers. She was in the hallway on her way to the restroom when it happened. She came back into the call center while everyone was still clueless to what had happened, and said she wasn't feeling well and was going to go home.
Then someone else stepped into the hallway and freaked out. They came back saying they thought a wild animal might be loose in the building. Then she showed us the piles... Yes, PILES, of poop.
Huge monstrous piles, five in all. The cleaning crew was PISSED. lol.
There is some speculation as to how the crap escaped her pant legs so easily; the main theory is that she wasn't wearing underwear at all.
According to a few people who saw her earlier in the day, she ate all but one slice of a large pizza from Pizza Hut.
According to a few people who saw her earlier in the day, she ate all but one slice of a large pizza from Pizza Hut. Man, it was so nasty.
Unless this woman has some sort of amazingly fast metabolism or she takes some very strange drugs, I don't see how she could have turned a large pizza (minus one slice: that was mighty thoughtful of her) into wild jungle guano within the course of a single day. She must have already had about five large pizzas stuffed into her. But then you have to ask: why didn't this all come out gradually? Why did it suddenly explode with such bright radiance? (That's called Splendor in the Ass, in case you were wondering.) I have a couple of theories:
1.) She contracted the ebola virus in between the five pizzas at home and the one at work. By the time the horrible diuretic properties kicked in, she had six intestinal pizzas to expunge. Yikes.
2.) She failed to read the directions upon taking her first enema. After inserting the salty pop into her boom-boom, she threw out the box (with the directions still folded up neatly as you please inside!) and returned to her desk. When the fast-acting properties of this ancient remedy took hold of her, she was simply unprepared for the military-grade consequences.
3.) This story about poop is the invention of a guy named for poop. It is his element, after all. Mine is water. My Libra friend's is air. Poop's is poop.
I don't know what happened to her. They talked to her behind closed doors. She still work here, which is odd. Everyone thought it was a major health/sanitation concern, but apparently you can't fire people for pooping on the floor.
This particular person has gone home more than once for shitting her pants. One time she tried to pretend it didn't happen and just sat in it until we called her out on it and sent her home.
There was some other guy who works in a different room from me who dropped a log outside the building on the sidewalk. It was solid, not a pile like the lady above, but a little poop that fell out of his pant leg and took a bounce. (we watched it on the security camera to find out who left the terd out there.)
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