Good Vibrations

WARNING - THIS SHIT CONTAINS SOME TOTALLY NSFW IMAGES

I've done a lot of dating since my divorce. A lot. I know, you're thinking, "Oh my God, what a whore," but it's not like that, no sir/ma'am/gender neutral term of respect, not like that at all. Let me explain. I had recently moved to Philadelphia and even though I was born there and spent more than a few years living there, I was pretty much alone in this old and yet new city. I didn't know more than a handful of people, I was bored and I was so very lonely. I've spent entirely too much of my life feeling alone and lonely and I wanted to break the chains of my solitude. More than anything, I just wanted to meet people, maybe make a good friend or two and have a little bit of fun. I just wanted some company; a fellow reprobate. At the time, I was more interested in friendship than in sex, but I certainly wasn't going to turn down a good roll in the hay. Hell, I wasn't about to turn down a bad roll in the hay, either. After enough time, anything looks better than baling hay by yourself. Friends, sex, whatever. After all, if you can't fuck your friends, who can you fuck? Before I could fuck anyone, however, I'd need to actually meet a living, breathing person and the easiest way to meet people, and by people, I mean women, was via online dating. I've always had fast and easy friendships with women, they either want to mother me or marry me or even worse, both. Many women seem to get it into their heads that I'm so absent minded that I'm completely incapable of taking care of myself, which is complete and utter bullshit, even if I do forget to eat most days. Chicks do make for easy friendships though and I really wasn't looking to meet any dudes, it's just not my thing. You can suck all the dick you want to fellas and that's cool with me, it's just not my brand of crotch fruit. Yeah, I fucking said it. Crotch fruit. Get over it. Anyway, it's much easier for a single, straight guy to meet women than it is for said dude to meet another dude. It's socially acceptable for a man to approach a woman and strike up a conversation, but a dude generally doesn't walk up to another dude in a bar and ask him to hang out and do crazy shit. Well, they do, but not in the bars that I frequent, not without repercussions, getting your face rearranged, that sort of thing. I might not have the prettiest face in town, but I'm used to it and again, it's not my thing, but if it's yours, feel free to play Thanksgiving and gobble that shit down.

Okay, now that we've got that bullshit out of the way - RECAP: I got divorced, I moved, I dated, I wasn't a man whore - I prefer free spirit, por favor, and yadda, yadda, yadda, here the fuck we are.

Wherever the fuck that is.

I had met Mary Beth online and according to her pics, profile, messages and the tiny little brain in my dick, she was smart, sassy, sexy and very hot. Hot like in hawt hot. That worked for me. In turn, she thought I was smart, funny and cute and she agreed to meet me, which meant that she was pretty fucking dumb, so that worked for me too. I was in.

Mary Beth. That name. Jesus Christ. That fucking name. It's fucking everywhere. Seriously. If you are female, Catholic and from the Philadelphia/South Jersey area, there's better than average odds that your given name is Mary and your middle name is Beth (most likely), or Ellen, or Kate, or whatthefuckever, so the odds are that everybody calls you Mary Whatthefuckever, but more than likely, your name is Mary Beth, or some iteration thereof, you have big, huge Jersey hair and keep a fucking can of AquaNet in your purse with three backups at home and another in the car. Yeah, I've got you pegged, Mary Beth.

Shit, I have one cousin named Mary Ellen and another named, of course, Mary Beth (they're sisters, don't ask, but with fifteen kids in their family, I guess they ran out of names and had to use the same one twice; Catholics are fucking weird), who are not to be confused with my friend Mary Beth, or my other friend Meribeth, or even the legendary Maribeth. My fucking head is spinning. As a matter of fact, I personally know 39,847.5 Mary Beths. The .5 isn't actually a Mary Beth, but her name is Mary and she is a bitch, so I call her Mary Bitch, so she counts as a half and that's totally logical. Duh. 39,847.5 Mary Beths and they all lived on the same fucking street, attending the same goddamn Our Lady of Perpetual Fucking Sorrow High School. Just fucking trust me on this one, okay? I know I've dated a gaggle of Mary Beths over the years, but who the fuck knows? I can't remember most of the women I've dated and no, that most certainly does not make me a whore. I prefer the term free spirit, remember?

Mary Beth and I had been messaging back and forth, as well as talking on the phone and we decided to meet in person. We agreed to meet up on South Street, a hip yet not hipsterish little urban thoroughfare in the heart of the city that is home to great food, freaky people, cool shops, live music and lots and lots and lots of fucking bars to get hammered in, so get your drink on, bitches! Get your drink on, bitches. I really just fucking said that. No shit. Wow. Next thing you know, I'll be using fucking hashtags. #nah #icallbullshit #nevergonnahappen

***Just to be clear, I do not condone, nor do I recommend the use of drugs or alcohol, but fuck, they've always worked for me.***

Cheers!

Anyway, Mary Beth left it to me to come up with a plan for our date. A plan. Gee. Thanks. Because that's what I do best. We all know how that's going to work out. Fucking yippee. Still, how hard could it be? We'd meet up, walk, talk, get to know each other and see if we clicked. If things went well, maybe a little lunch and then we would take it from there. No pressure. Easy peasy.

Mary Beth and I met outside of the TLA, a local legend and one of my favorite music venues. Calling it a bit of a shit hole would be killing it with kindness. Mary Beth was about twenty minutes late, but she had messaged me to apologize and to let me know that she would be late. It's not like it was a big deal, I pretty much expected it; women are always late. It's inevitable; I accept it, just like death and taxes. She finally shows up, which was good, because standing around on a street corner looking like a fucking idiot gets old after the first few minutes. So, I'm standing on the corner like some overripe hooker, my head swiveling back and forth like a fucking lawn sprinkler, trying to spot this chick and she comes strolling up like fucking gangbusters and my jaw about hit the fucking ground. Mary Beth's photos did her no justice. Her pics portrayed her as beautiful, but this chick was dick throbbin' hard hot. Seriously. Mary Beth was tall, around 5'8", thin, very curvy and she had an ass that I could have bounced quarters off of. I could feel the evil little smile spread across my face as she walked up to me. I wanted to rub the palms of my hands together with pernicious glee and anticipation as she introduced herself and threw her arms around me, hugging me and pressing her breasts against my chest. Nice D cups. It must have been a little chilly and overcast that day, because someone sure had their high beams on and that had a noticeable effect on me, as those sharp pointy little fuckers cut into my chest, causing quite the involuntary reaction. It twitched. Fuck. I was a little embarrassed, but fuck it. Mary Beth just giggled and pulled herself closer. My kind of girl. A real fucking champ, that one.

We started walking along South Street arm in arm, chatting away and getting to know one another, growing more comfortable with each step. We talked about our jobs, lives and families. We window shopped, pointing out things that we liked and we made fun of the things and people that were a little offbeat and strange. We popped in and out of galleries, boutiques and oddball stores. Everything was going well, we had great chemistry, we were having fun, holding hands and there was a lot of laughter and shit like that.

We stopped and grabbed a few slices for lunch at the legendary Lorenzo & Sons and then we continued our little stroll, our steps eventually leading us to the front window of the Sexploratorium.

Ah, the moment of truth had arrived...

One of my favorite things to do on a date is to take a woman out of her comfort zone, not too far mind you, because I don't want her to freak the fuck out and ruin any possibility of getting laid, I just want to deconstruct her carefully constructed dating persona. i.e., that perfectly sculpted person that they are presenting to you can be shorn away a little bit, so as to give you a glimpse at their true personality. This way you can fuck with them a little bit and not have to wait six months to find out what they're really like. It helps keep out the crazy. Sound thinking, I think. It also saves on the emotional investment and you can take that shit to the bank. Remember, 25% of women are on mood altering medications. That means that the other 75% are running around untreated.

We both looked in the window and then I turned to look at Mary Beth and she turned to look at me. I noticed that she had the good grace to blush, but I also noticed a bit of a twinkle in her eyes. Good. That meant that she wouldn't be a total prude in the bedroom. Rock on. My kind of girl.

I casually asked Mary Beth if she'd like to explore the Sexploratorium. She blushed again, but she smiled and asked me if I were kidding.

"What do you think?" I asked her.

Mary Beth blushed a third time, but she turned and headed for the door. Rock the fuck on!

Here we go...

We walked inside the store...

Holy shit! It was like being stuffed into a pinata full of dildos. There were sex toys everywhere. There was just about everything you could possibly imagine and a ton of shit that you just couldn't even begin to guess what the fuck it could be for and I'm a pretty fucking imaginative guy who flies his freak flag proud and high.

Mary Beth's eyes lit up like fireworks on the Fourth of July as we approached a table that was literally overflowing with different models of vibrators and they all had names. There was the Rabbit, the Butterfly, the Butterfly Kiss, the Temptation, the Slick Rick and the Oomph! It was like the Ballbreaker Suite and The March of the Plastic Dildos at Radio City Music Hall at fucking Christmas time, a chorus line of Cockettes. It wasn't until I reached the end of the table, however, that I found the Holy Grail, the Philosopher's Stone of sex toys, the Sith Lord.

It seemed to be standing aloof, tall and proud, massive in height and girth, gleaming in its black armor and topped with the prosthetic mask of Anakin Skywalker. I looked at the box and sure enough, it was billed as the world's greatest Master Vader.

I shook my head and grinned as I picked it up and turned it on. You could feel the fucking power of the Dark Side course through its plastic and copper veins as it came to life like some sort of misshapen alien monster. It thrashed, it swayed and it gyrated like an epileptic one-legged breakdancer in the midst of a seizure. It even jumped through fucking hoops. Hoops. Hoops! Motherfucking hoops! That fucking thing roared to life like something out of a Transformers movie, but scarier, maybe more like Maximum Overdrive on Red Bull. Fuck you and your killer toasters, Stephen King, I had nightmares for weeks after watching that fucking movie. There were murderous man-eating pocket pussies and demonically possessed RealDolls. I think I have PTSfuckingD. Anyway, that fucking thing was dancing with the stars; I'm telling you, that thing had moves like fucking Jagger.

I held it out to Mary Beth.

"Would you use something like this?" I asked her, all innocence and shit. You know, because I'm an innocent and sheltered motherfucker.

Mary Beth's face turned a deep shade of crimson. Well, that answered that question. Score!

"Can your penis do that?" she asked me.

Ouch. Touche. Score one for the perverted chick.

"Nope. Mine only knows how to sit up and beg," I answered.

I turned the device to a higher setting and I took a threatening step towards Mary Beth, the vibrating menace bouncing in my hands.

"Feel the power of the Dark Side," I threatened and advanced upon her, wielding that BBC like a Fleshlightsaber.

She squealed, giggled and took a step back. Next thing you know, I'm chasing her around the table with the vibrator and we're both giggling like idiots, but as we all know, any time that you're having some good. clean and harmless fun, somebody has to cum along and fuck up your wet dream. In this instance of buzz killing joy, it was one of the clerks, some sort of pseudo professional, vibrator wrangling, rodeo clown, who took it upon herself to interrupt our festive little soiree. What the fuck? Who does that kind of shit? I'm an adult, sort of. I don't need supervision. Fuckers. The world is full of fuckers.

At least it wasn't security, or the cops. It's kind of embarrassing when they yell for security. Even worse, I fucking hate it when they call the cops. The police never find shit as funny as you do. People need to calm the fuck down and get a sense of humor.

"Hi! Did you guys need some help?" the clerk asked us, entirely too perkily for me. I fucking hate perky people. I dream of feeding them to lions and throwing them off of cliffs and shit. You perky people need to settle the fuck down.

Next thing you know, Mary Beth and I are balls deep into a conversation about vibrators with the sales chick as she held up each one, turned it on and proceeded to extol its virtues. This chick knew entirely too much about vibrators. I wanted to ask her if her sales pitch was based upon personal experience, but I was on my best behavior and so I held my tongue. Not like that, you fucking pervert, I pride myself on being a gentleman, so I limited myself to grinding on her. Chivalry ain't completely dead. Anyway, after pitching four or five different vibrator models to us, the clerk picked up the smallest vibrator on the table. It was about two inches long and silver.

"That doesn't look like it would be much competition for me," I remember saying.

The clerk smiled a secret little smile.

"This is called the Magic Silver Bullet," the clerk stated with a flourish. Again with the secret little smile.

I'm not a big fan of fucking secrets, not when they're being kept from me.

The clerk turned on the Magic Silver Bullet and dropped it into the palm of Mary Beth's hand. It sounded like a fucking industrial chainsaw and it flopped around in her palm like a hummingbird with a broken wing, on crack. The look on Mary Beth's face said it all. She was transfixed. I eyed my replacement warily. Mary Beth's smile grew wider and she let out a little squeal; I swear her eyes rolled back in her head.

Rock on! This chick was a total freak. Can I pick them or what?

"How much is it?" Mary Beth asked the clerk.

Aha! I knew that I'd been spot on in my appraisal of Mary Beth's freak potential.

"It's $39.99, but this is the last one. I can give you 20% off, because it's the display model," the clerk said.

The last one? The display model? What she really meant was that it was the whore that no one wants to be seen with, the redheaded stepchild, the slut that's been fingered by many, yet wanted by none. The last one? Who the fuck wants the last one? Even when I'm at the grocery store, I never take the one in front, it has fucking cooties.

"No, thanks," said Mary Beth, "Maybe something else. I think we'll look around a bit more, but thanks again."

And with those parting words, we were able to escape from the clutches of the evil, pseudo professional, vibrator wrangling, rodeo clown.

We strolled along to the next display and what at first appeared to be necklaces turned out to be racks of nipple clamps, next up were various restraints including things that looked like they belonged in a medieval dungeon or maybe on the cover of a Judas Priest album, it's pretty much the same thing, isn't it? Throw them in the Iron Maiden!

There were whips and chains and Brony tail buttplugs. Anal beads, Ben Wa balls and cock rings. Chastity belts, cock cages and clit clamps. Penis pumps, pocket pussies and prostate pokers. Double dongs, dildos, donkey dicks (totally lifelike!) and even an 18.5" pony pud.

Strap-ons, sex machines and stimulators of every type.

You're going to need those fucking crutches by the time that thing's done with you.

Locks, collars, rings, harnesses, Fifis, extensions and sleeves. Fuck me, they even had a sex robot. I could go on for hours, but I think you're starting to get the picture.

Short Circuit 4: Johnny Five Does Anal

They also had a large selection of latex, lingerie and pleather. It was a regular fucking pleasure palace, I'm fucking telling you.

My lightsaber's a'poppin'.

As Mary Beth and I were coming to the end of our tour of the Sexploratorium, we came upon yet another display of vibrators, shelf upon shelf of them.

I reached out, picked one up and turned it on to the highest speed possible and put it back on the shelf. I proceeded to do this with the next seven or eight vibrators that were on the shelf until I had an entire fucking chorus line of dancing vibrators gyrating happily on the shelf. Mary Beth and I started laughing at our little can can line. This was all fine and dandy until disaster struck. My best guess at reconstructing what happened next is that the combined vibrations from the mass of dancing dildos caused the supports for the shelf to loosen and weaken, at which point the shelf collapsed with a loud crash, pancaking into the shelf below with another loud crash and then continuing downward through another three or four shelves of vibrators. It wasn't fucking pretty. Nope, not pretty at all.

It was the Dildo Deathmarch, the Anal Apocalypse, a Menagerie of Gadgetry... You get the picture.

The entire store was silent. You could have heard a ball gag drop.

Heads turned; everyone was staring at us. Shit. You know it's fucking bad when you're the one that the fucking freaks are staring at. Mind your fucking manners, people; staring is rude.

It was more than a little embarrassing. To be honest, it was way the fuck beyond embarrassing.

There was only one thing I could do. 

It was time to get the fuck out of Dodge.

I grabbed Mary Beth's hand and we hightailed it out the door and around the block just as quick as we could, escaping before the staff could react. We were laughing our asses off as I led us through a maze of streets and alleyways until we popped out who the fuck knows where, but we were in front of a bar, proof that God smiles kindly upon fools, deviants and miscreants. Hallefuckinglujah! We walked inside, went straight to the bar, sat down, ordered drinks and that's when things started to get a little weird.

To be continued...

If you enjoyed this story, try this one:

A Fish Story

Crash Landing

My friend Luke and I have known each other for over thirty years and I've shared a few stories of our misadventures together. It would seem that when you place the two of us on the same patch of earth, some seriously strange shit happens. More brothers than friends, Luke and I have also been roommates at various times throughout our lives and I have to say, there's never been a dull moment.

Before we go any further, let me describe Luke to you. I don't think that I've ever described Luke before, not on these pages, anyway. Please realize that I am going to poke a little bit at him in my description, mostly because I'm an ass, but it's basically accurate. Luke is a stunted, little, rotund man... I kid. Luke isn't very tall. He probably claims to be 5'8', but I think he's more like 5'6" and he's been going bald since before the day I met him. Hell, he's been going bald since before he went into the womb. Luke wears glasses and is definitely one of the most Jewish looking people that I've ever seen, so just picture a short, tubby,balding  Jewish guy with glasses and you've pretty much got Luke.

Okay, now that we've got that bullshit out of the way, I need you to bear with me for just another moment, because I need to build this next bit o' bullshit up a bit, so I'm going to go off on a bit of a tangent.

I once worked as a DJ at a posh nightclub in Miami Beach, FL, back in the mid 80's. Now, before you can say to yourself, "Holy fuck! How fucking cool was that?" let me clarify things a little bit for you.

It wasn't exactly posh and it wasn't exactly a club, either. It wasn't exactly Miami Beach  and if I'm going to be honest, I wasn't exactly a DJ, although I did a pretty shitty job of pretending to be one. Let's break this down point by point, shall we?

Point #1 It wasn't exactly posh and it wasn't exactly a club, either. It certainly wasn't posh until the lights were off and as for being a club? Well, it was, but it wasn't. It was a shitty little dive bar, or "club", if you will, that was tucked away in the basement of the Marco Polo Hotel, a hotel that was fairly well regarded and did serve an international clientele. The "club" in the basement was still a fucking dive, but in its own way, it was totally fucking awesome. I realize that this was actually kind of, sort of two points, but don't you try to play your math fuckery games with me.

Point #2 - It wasn't exactly Miami Beach. Well, it wasn't. Not even close. It wasn't even within jerking off distance, but it was fucking close enough, okay? The Marco Polo is actually located in Sunny Isles, FL, which is the northern tip of Miami-Dade County, so it's in the same county, which makes it fucking close enough, okay?

Point #3 - I wasn't exactly a DJ. Well, I was, but I wasn't. I mean, it was my job title and all and I did play music, but to say that I failed in fulfilling any part of my responsibilities would be putting it mildly; I was the worst DJ ever, but I can make a mean motherfucking mix tape and that's basically what I did all night long, make mix tapes. How I got this job is a story in itself, but that's a story for another day. I could go into all of the reasons why I sucked as a DJ, but let's just say that I didn't give a fuck and I played whatever I wanted to, was an absolute wanker and constantly fucked things up. Pretty much the same shit I always do. Trust me when I say that I excelled at that job.

Anyway, even the worst DJ ever has to have DJ equipment and I bought myself all kinds of stuff, mostly tacky shit like disco balls, rope lights, strobe lights, revolving police lights, etc. My bedroom looked like the set of a bad 70's porn film. The Feng Shui was fucking great though, let me tell you, even if I have no clue what the fuck Feng Shui is.

Blah, blah, blah... This sure is taking a long fucking time to tell a relatively short story.

Anywho, around this time, I was having some medical issues that were causing me to have a lot of horrible migraines. The headaches were non-stop and would last for weeks on end. It turned out that the strobe lights and all of the other flickering lights would serve as triggers for the migraines and sadly, my light show had to go. Bummer.

Luke and I were roommates at the time and I mentioned to him that I was looking to sell my lighting equipment and he told me that he was interested in purchasing them. We negotiated a price and they were his. The lights disappeared into Luke's bedroom.

Months went by...

I'd met this girl Kim and it was our first date. We'd gone out to dinner and then headed back to my place for a little Betamax and chill. Luke had a date as well and he was supposed to be gone all night, so Kim and I had the apartment to ourselves. Betamax and chill, yeah baby! Just as things were about to get hot and heavy, fucking Luke comes busting through the door along with his date, Irma. Irma. Seriously. Who the fuck names their child Irma? What the fuck is wrong with people? Anyway, those two shitheads come busting through the fucking door like fucking gangbusters, drunk giggling and totally cock blocking me, Fuckers.

Luke stopped long enough to chat for a moment and introduced the girls. I was screaming, "Get the fuck out!" the entire time. I didn't really scream it out loud, but I did think it right to his face. I was giving Luke some serious stink eye coupled with the universal look for you need to get the fuck out of here before I set your ass on fire. Luke didn't get my subtle hints and both he and Irma continued their cock blocking. Luke walked into the kitchen to get a drink and I followed, coming up behind him and whispering into his ear, "If you don't get the fuck out of here, I'm going to set you on fire." In my defense, I did say it as nicely as I could. Luke, being the perceptive little cock blocking motherfucker that he is, managed to absorb that subtle hint and he and Irma made themselves scarce, disappearing into Luke's bedroom, giggling like drunken idiots, which they were.

Luke's bedroom went dark.

Back to business...

I turned out the lights in the living room and then Kim and I got back to some Betamax and chill. I was in the middle of, "Praise Jesus, I'm about to get some!" when the room lit up in shades of red as the laser light show in Luke's room started up. The blue rope lights were next and then the blue strobe.

Wtf? I felt like I was about to have sex in the middle of an airport runway. Kim and I looked at each other, perplexed.

"Does he have an airport in there, or something?" Kim asked me.

And that was when we heard Luke's voice, just as loud as could be.

"Better watch out, this plane's coming in for a landing!"

"Can he fly that plane and land it?" Kim asked me.

"Surely you can't be serious," I said.

"I am serious... and don't call me Shirley." she answered.

I fucking lost it. Just the thought of that tubby, little bald fucker sailing through the air, hoping for a one point landing sent me off into maniacal madness and laughter. I started giggling and then I was laughing so hard that I fell out of where I was and off the couch. Thankfully, both the floor and my face broke my fall.

The next thing we heard was a loud thump, followed by another loud thump, which was in turn followed by a scream and then another scream, both so loud and shrill that I couldn't determine if they came from a man or a woman.

Irma came running out of Luke's bedroom.

"Luke's been hurt," she said.

I lost it all over again. How the fuck do you hurt yourself while fucking?

Kim and I jumped up, fixed our clothing and ran into Luke's room, where we found him splayed out on the floor and he wasn't moving. I knelt down to help Luke while Irma explained what had happened. Evidently, Luke had made his landing approach, bounced off his water bed runway, sailed through the air and managed to hit the floor in a perfect belly flop of a heap. I started laughing again.

Kim, Irma and I managed to lift Luke off of the floor. We dropped him. Twice. I shit you not. Luke screamed out in pain both times and all that I could do was giggle uncontrollably. I suppose that I should have felt bad, but I didn't. Fuck that, it was funny.

The three of us were able to drag Luke's ass onto the couch (sorry about that wet spot, bro) and he just laid there whimpering. Whimpering and cock blocking me. Look, I know he was in tons of pain and all, but I just wanted to get laid and here was my supposed best friend, keeping it from happening. What kind of fucking friend does that?

Luke wanted to go to the hospital. I wanted to get laid. The selfish little prick wanted me to take him. We were at a bit of an impasse.

"I'm not carrying your ass down three flights of stairs," I told Luke. "Besides, I'd have to drive your car. There's no way you're riding bitch on my bike."

Irma shot me a look that made me feel as if I were the most horrible and selfish person on the face of the planet. It made me feel good. It made me feel proud.

"I'll take him to the hospital," Irma said.

Good luck with that.

"No one is driving my car anywhere," Luke told her.

I knew that line was coming and Luke had just painted himself into a corner and I still wasn't getting laid. Who was the selfish motherfucker now?

In the end, we called 911. Just fucking great. More red lights, more people invading my apartment and more of me not getting laid.

Fucking roommates...

The paramedics checked Luke over, strapped him to a gurney and carried him out of the apartment. No matter how hard I wished for it to happen, they didn't drop him on the way down the stairs. Doesn't anyone care about my happiness?

Obviously not.

Fuckers...

Don't Be Lude

As I've mentioned in a number of other stories, my family had a summer home in Atlantic City, NJ and I spent many a summer season prowling that old wooden boardwalk with my friends in search of adventure and girls, always girls.

I've always been a whore. My father respected and encouraged that.

My father... As tough as that man was, I could get straight to that man's heart, and his wallet, by mentioning that I had the possibility of getting laid. It worked every fucking time. Pussy was my personal four leaf clover. Okay, I'm lying, but I'd like to pretend it was. Fuck off, they're my memories.

I remember when my father and I had the sex talk. It was pretty damn funny. I was about thirteen or so and he sidled on up to me.

"Steven," he said, "We need to talk."

My father looked embarrassed; horribly so. Good.

"Sure, Pop. What's up?"

"We need to talk about sex, son," my father said. There was quite a bit of uncertainty in his voice.

"Sure, Pop. What did you need to know?"

My father's face grew red and drifted into purple. I didn't know if he was embarrassed, pissed off, or what, but he just spluttered something and stalked off in a huff. Ah, good times.

But our typical conversations would usually go something like this:

Me: "Dad, can I have $20?"

Back in those days, $20 could get you places.

My Father: "No. You work, use your own money. I'm not giving you $15. I'm not giving you $10. What the hell do you need $5 for?"

Like it was a fucking negotiation or something. How much was the vig going to be?

Me: "I'm broke and I have a date. I might get laid."

My Father (reaching into his wallet): "Don't use words like that. Here you go, Is $20 going to be enough? Don't tell your mother."

And then there was this famous conversation after I started high school in Atlantic City when I was fourteen. We were headed back to Florida and the transfer paperwork from my high school had a typo in it that made me a year older. In my mind, this opened up a world of salacious opportunities and I did a little research. As it turned out, the State of Florida's Department of Motor Vehicles would accept school records as proof of identity and age. Suddenly, I was eligible for my learner's permit an entire year earlier than I should have been. I had a plan.

I approached my father and I told him of the typo and my scheme. He refused to be a part of it. What the hell? My father was into all kinds of shady shit, why not this? I tried and I tried, I fast talked as much as I could; I was literally tap dancing, but still my father stood firm, so I pulled out the big guns.

"Dad," I said, "You just don't understand."

"I understand plenty," my father said, "I said no and that's final. Don't make me tell you no again, or you'll regret it."

Fuck that. I wasn't about to give up, this was totally worth a beating.

"Dad," I pleaded and then I dropped the magic words, "This could get me laid."

"Your mother will kill me."

I was winning. I knew it and he knew it. I pressed home my attack.

"She doesn't need to know," I told him. "I'll never say a word. Seriously, Dad, I could totally get laid."

When the collapse came, it happened all at once.

"Alright," he said, "We'll go to the DMV on Saturday morning. Don't tell your mother. She's going to kill me."

I couldn't believe it, I had won.

I got my permit and then I got a motorcycle. It got me laid. Oh, did it ever.

I just wanted you to understand how my father was when it came to me and girls. We're going to go back to Atlantic City, now.

It was the Summer of 1980 and I was almost fifteen years old. I thought that I was hot shit with my license that made me a year older than I was and it set the stage for a whole new world of trouble. Trouble of the best kind.

I worked a lot in the summertime, usually having two jobs and I also dabbled in a few other things to help supplement my income. I had a close relative that moved a lot of drugs and I would purchase weed and Quaaludes from that relative and then sell the weed to my friends and the ludes would make their way to other friends, or I would sell them for top dollar at the local discos. Nobody really cared about your age back then when it came to getting into bars. If you had money to spend, you were in.

On this particular day, I had scored three hundred Quaaludes from my relative and I needed a safe and secure place to count the pills and then divide them up. Our condo was out; my parents watched me like a hawk and they didn't trust me for shit. I've never understood why, I was always such a wonderful and loving son. Responsible, too.

My friend Sue had a sister named Kathy, who was a few years older than I and lived in the same building that we did. Kathy was also one of my biggest customers. Her parents would let her stay in their condo all summer long and would only show up on the weekends, when they would drive down from Cherry Hill, a suburban enclave in New Jersey, but was more of a suburb of Philadelphia. I went down to the beach and I approached Kathy and explained what I needed to do and I asked her if I could use her apartment for a few minutes, telling her that I'd make it worth her while. As luck would have it, my parents were also at the beach and they took notice of the two of us leaving together. I looked over at my parents and waved to them. They didn't wave back. Instead, they looked at me suspiciously. Somehow, they always knew when I was up to something, not that they were the most trusting of souls to begin with.

Kathy and I went back to our building and she brought me up to her apartment. Once inside, I pulled the bag of ludes out of my pocket and I dumped them on a small table by the door. Those fucking things were rolling all over the place. We started counting everything up, to make sure that the amount that I had was accurate. When we were finished, we would divide them up into piles of ten and wrap them in aluminum foil; they looked just like a roll of Lifesavers when we did that. It was so cute.

Just as we started counting, someone started pounding loudly on the front door.

We both looked up, startled. We hadn't been expecting anyone. I looked at her and she looked at me. Who the fuck could it be? Whomever it was, it couldn't be good, we had three hundred fucking Quaaludes on the table and they were in full view of the door. Fuck, fuck, fuck...

The pounding on the door continued.

Kathy's voice was cracking with fear as she asked me what we should do.

I whispered back to her, "Stop freaking out. Calm down and ask who it is."

Kathy gulped, took a deep breath and sounded a lot like a big ol' hoot owl when she asked, "Who-who is it?"

"It's Tony. Is Steven in there? Tell him to get his ass out here, right now!" yelled the voice at the door.

It was my father. Fuck. Shit. Fuckshit. What the hell was he doing here? Shit. I was well and truly fucked. Maybe he'd understand that I was just trying to make some extra money. Maybe he wouldn't actually kill, me either, but I knew that I was just bullshitting myself. My father wasn't going to understand shit and I was a fucking dead man. Hell, even I understood that much.

If I thought Kathy had been panicking before, she seemed about to piss herself at that very moment and I don't think that I was too far behind her. This shit was getting out of control. I had to think of something.

Like a lightbulb that sizzles and pops, I had an epiphany and I knew what I had to do.

I looked at Kathy and I said, "Don't worry, I've got this. I've got a plan."

You'd think that would have calmed her down, but noooo... Why do people always get nervous when I say that I have a plan? They always work. Mostly. Sometimes. On occasion, maybe. Fuck you.

I got up and started walking towards the door, unbuttoning and unzipping my pants as I went. I pulled my shirt out of my jeans and then I messed up my hair. I unlocked the door and cracked it open enough for my father to see me as I was pulling my jeans back up and started zipping them. I could tell from the look on my father's face that he thought that he had interrupted something and that I was getting dressed. My father's face turned cherry red. It was working, I was going to get away with this. For once, one of my fucking ideas was actually working. I felt giddy with joy.

"What's up, Pop?" I asked him. "Need something?"

My father was speechless for a moment and then he started spluttering.

"I just wanted to know where you were," he said. "When you're finished here, come and find me. I need to talk to you about something."

He was trying to save face. My gambit had totally worked and I was going to live to see another day. The relief that I felt was palpable. This... This right here... This is why I'm a fucking evil genius and you're not.

"Sure thing, Pop," I said as I closed the door in his face and locked it. I turned around and started laughing my ass off.

Kathy looked at me as if I'd gone mad. I told her what I'd done and she started laughing too. Insanity, like laughter, is contagious.

"I can't believe he fell for it," I told her. "He really thought we were having sex."

Kathy looked at me a little funny and she said, "What would be so hard to believe about that?"

Oh? Ohhhh...

It was a while before I went looking for my father.

Thanks for stopping by!

If you enjoyed reading this story, you might enjoy this one as well:

If the Shoe Fits

The Fugly Duckling

Before I start, I'd like to thank Lisa and Kristina, who proofread for me and catch most of my typos and grammatical errors. Ladies, I'm way too lazy to do it without you. If there ever is a book and I become rich and famous, I'll buy you each a doughnut. Fame and fortune won't change me. I promise not to forget the little people.

“You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from.” 

― Cormac McCarthy, No Country For Old Men

I've finally started writing my second book. I haven't actually written a first book yet, but I've been writing it and it will include quite a few of these stories. Anyway, I've actually put that first book on hold, in order to write the second book, which really isn't my second book, because there's already a second book that I haven't been writing either, so maybe this one would really count as my first book if I finished it first? Or my second? Or third? Whatever. Fuck math.

I've been writing these insane stories about my dating life, post-divorce. I'd been trying to decide which dating story to tell first and I was drinking the crazy Kool-Aid of memory, when this story popped into my mind. I haven't thought about this night in many years, in fact, I'd almost completely forgotten it, but it's a tale that's ready to be told. This story isn't really about dating, per se, it's more the tale of a hookup or a one night stand.

The 80's were young, but in full swing. It was a Halloween night in Greenville, North Carolina, a raucous college town and home of Eastern Carolina University. At the time, ECU was considered to be the number one party school in the nation, which I assure you had absolutely nothing to do with my choosing to go there. It was purely coincidental. I swear. Cross my evil little heart. My roommate and friend Mike (whom I knew from summers in Atlantic City) and I were getting ready to hit the bars along with our friend Dean and we were prepared to do some serious drinking. For us, drinking was more than just a recreational sport, it was a professional pursuit. However, we still had a bit of pre-party partying to do before we could go out. Once the three of us were well past wasted, we headed for town, walking (stumbling, staggering; whatever), because we knew that we were too impaired to drive. Once in town, we joined the line to get into Rafters, our favorite bar. I should mention that we were all wearing costumes, although I can't seem to remember what any of them were, although I do recall wearing an army cap or hat of some sort. Shit, it could have been a fucking yarmulke, for all I know.

As we were waiting in line to get into the bar, the three of us were bullshitting and passing a flask of Evan Williams back and forth. It slowly started to dawn on me that I was shitfaced drunk, so I double hit the flask and passed it on. Out of nowhere, this flash of hideous electric orange appeared between us and accosted Dean.

Dean was the pretty boy out of the three of us; blonde hair, blue eyes and fair skinned - a typical WASP dreamboat. I was the opposite; tall, dark and muscular, a typical Italian guy and I got by on bullshit and charm, ringing many a Southern Belle during my tenure at ECU. Mike was a Jewish boy from North Jersey and he looked the part. Short, stocky, pale and hairy. Mike got by on fast talk and by being a novelty item. Honestly, what spoiled, rebellious, Southern Baptist debutante doesn't want to impress her daddy with the news that his precious baby girl is fucking a Jew? Maybe her sister that's fucking the black guy? I dunno...

Anyway, let's get back to the Electric Orange. The Electric Orange was apparently a female. Surprise, surprise. I thought it might have been an invasion of the fucking pixies. The Orange was short, thin, and she had a shock of almost iridescent orange hair. My eyes traveled downward, scanning her body; decent tits, nice ass. I looked up at her face and I blanched. That face. Holy fucking shit, Batman! That fucking face. The Orange was horrifically ugly. No, she was beyond ugly, she was fugly; freckled, speckled and looking like some sort of demented, drunken pixie. She said something to Dean and he said something back to her. Dean laughed, put his hands on the Orange's shoulders and spun her around to face me.

She wasn't as ugly as I'd originally thought. No, it was much worse than that. She was so fucking ugly that she had to sneak up on a mirror. So fucking ugly that if she went to the beach, cats would try to bury her. Seriously, this girl was so fucking ugly, she could have made blind kids cry.

Dean looked at me, winked, smiled, and said, "Steve, this is Jamie Lynn."

Of course she is. There's nothing like a good ol' Southern trailer trash name to help perpetuate a stereotype.

Dean pushed Jamie Lynn towards me.

"Jamie Lynn likes you," Dean continued. "You should take her back to the dorm and fuck her,"

Gee, thanks for the intro, bro. Dean didn't really think that I was going to fuck this girl, did he? Seriously, if I was that fucking drunk and she was still that fucking ugly, how bad would she look in the harsh light of morning and the brutal truth of sobriety? My eyes scanned Jamie Lynn again. Well, she did have a decent body. Fuck it, I'm in. I quickly pushed all logic aside, as all of the blood in my brain drained into my dick, leaving my mind incapable of cohesive thought.

I laughed and said, "Hi," to Jamie Lynn.

Jamie Lynn responded by pulling down the brim of my hat.

Nothing promises hot sex like a drunken dipshit. Fuck it. I'm a guy; even bad sex is better than no sex and she met the majority of my requirements. She was female, breathing and willing. That pretty much dots all of the i's and crosses all of the t's, doesn't it?

I grabbed the flask from Dean's hand and took a deep pull. I was going to need some serious liquid courage for this shit. I hit it again. I felt the warm liquid burn down my throat. I have the power!

The four of us wandered into the bar. We had a few drinks and Jamie Lynn and I got a little friendlier, making out in a darkened corner of the bar and away from any witnesses. I'm not a whore, but my dick used to be and my dick didn't care how ugly Jamie Lynn was; he was all like, "Feed me! Feed me!" Poor Dick, he's in recovery now, it's a twelve stroke program.

Jamie Lynn and I were were starting to get a little frisky, when she whispered in my ear, "Let's go back to your room."

You didn't need to tell me twice. I made the "I'm getting laid, now fuck off and find somewhere else to sleep" secret sign to Mike, grabbed Jamie Lynn by the hand and headed out into the night with my new study buddy. It was a long walk back to campus and time, along with the cooler, late night air, was starting to have a sobering effect upon me and that was something that I didn't want to happen. Oh, hell to the no. I knew that I didn't want to be anywhere in the vicinity of sobriety for this. Thankfully, there was more booze in my room. I hoped it would be enough. Jamie Lynn and I continued the walk of shame back to my room. Usually a walk of shame is what happens when you leave in the morning, wearing the same clothes from the night before, but in my bizarro world, everything happens in reverse.

We made it back to my room and things really started to heat up. I had a few more drinks to cure my anxious feelings of sobriety and Jamie Lynn and I did the dirty deed. I gave her the batter dipped corn dog, buttered the biscuit and then cleaned the cobwebs with the womb broom. At one point, she was complaining that her face was hitting the wall and I remember thinking that it couldn't possibly do any more damage than there already was and that if anything, it might actually be an improvement, so I made sure her face hit the wall a few more times, before I eased off. When we finished opening the gates of Mordor, I chased her off, telling her that I had an early class the next day and that I needed to get some rest, which was complete and utter bullshit. The truth was that she was so damn ugly, I was afraid that I might gnaw my own arm off in the morning, trying to escape from my own bed. I planned on sleeping in, going to class and then I was scheduled to work after school was done. I figured that I'd never see her again and no one need know my secret shame. Mike and Dean might know, but the threat of their bodies being found in the river would ensure their silence. Or not.

After Jamie Lynn left, I went back downtown and found Mike and Dean. We drank and tried to talk to girls until the bar closed and then we wandered back to the dorm, where we all passed out.

I woke up the next morning and it was a beautiful and warm Fall day. Unfortunately, I was horribly hungover and couldn't appreciate it. I kissed my bong good morning, hoping for a little relief, threw on some clothes, and I ran out the door, perpetually late for class.

After I was finished with classes for the day, I headed off to my job, as a delivery driver at a local pizzeria. I worked for a a couple of brothers, Greeks, who pretended to be Italian. I had one of the most popular jobs around and people were always happy to see me. Seriously, who doesn't love the pizza guy? I met a lot of girls, got a lot of phone numbers, made mega tips (although a lot of it was in coin). and I could always count on copping some free beer or some bong hits. At eighteen, I thought I owned the world and was living the life.

My shift started off slowly, with just a few random deliveries, I only made a few bucks, but I smoked a mind boggling amount of weed. Apparently, all of the stoners had spent their money on pot and only had enough change left to cover the pizza. No worries and thanks for the buzz, bro.

I was on my third delivery of the shift and I was headed over to one of the girls' dorms, which I loved delivering to, because it always provided an excellent opportunity for me to get shot down, or not. Even a blind man can find the right

I parked at the dorm, jumped out of my car and started to walk in the door when I heard a voice yelling my name. I looked around and didn't see anyone that I knew, but then the voice called to me again.

"Hey, Steve," the voice called. "Up here."

I looked up and to my absolute horror, she was much uglier than I remembered. I stood there speechless, my mouth hanging open, as I questioned the depths of my depravity the previous evening. I shrugged. It's not like this was my first rodeo. I ducked into the building.

I don't know how it is now, but back then, if you went into the women's dorms, you had to be signed in and escorted upstairs. This usually meant that the girl(s) that ordered the food would either meet you downstairs or come down once the RA called up. I approached the counter, put the pizza down and told the RA whom she needed to call downstairs.

Jamie Lynn beat the customer downstairs. She took one look at me, yelled my name, ran over, threw her arms around me and tried to shove her tongue down my throat. I felt like I was being kissed by an iguana. I was able to escape from her flying lip lock, but she came at me again. I took a step back and put up my hands. Jamie Lynn kept coming. I was trapped against the counter.

People were staring. That happens to me a lot. Entirely too fucking much, if I'm going to be honest about it.

Jamie Lynn smiled and announced to the room, "I want y'all to meet my boyfriend, Steve. We're in love."

Boyfriend? Love? What kind of bullshit was this? What the fuck was happening? Did I miss something here?

The room actually erupted in applause. White people are so fucked up sometimes.

Some of the girls came over and said hello to me and hugged Jamie Lynn, congratulating her as if she'd won a prize or something. Was I the prize? What was the prize for? Girl most likely to never have a boyfriend, or girl most likely to never get laid? Even worse, I had just been branded, pissed on,and  marked as fucking property in front of an entire room full of coeds. Word would spread and I was never going to get laid again. I would need to change my name, transfer schools, and go into hiding.

Karma. It's a motherfucking bitch.

After all of the excitement died down, the girl that ordered the food arrived and paid for her pizza. I tried to use that as a chance to escape, but Jamie Lynn blocked my way. She put her hands on her hips.

"Don't you have anything you want to say to me, Steve?" Jamie Lynn asked.

Throughout all of this, I hadn't had a chance to say a single word.

"I'm not who you think I am," I lied through my teeth.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

I quickly explained as sincerely as I could pretend to be, "I'm not Steve, I'm his brother Tony. We're twins. We both go to school here."

A look of pure embarrassment came over Jamie Lynn's face. Either she was so fucking stupid that my lie sounded plausible or she had never had someone drop such epic bullshit upon her before. Personally, I thought it was a combination of both.

"I'm... I'm so sorry...," Jamie Lynn spluttered. "I... I thought..."

"It's okay, it happens a lot. People get us mixed up all of the time."

Might as well lie some more. I couldn't believe that she was buying my bullshit.

"Would you do me a favor?" she asked me.

"Sure, Jamie Lynn, no problem."

"Would you ask your brother to call me?"

I told her that it wouldn't be a problem.

Jamie Lynn took a pen from the counter and wrote her name and phone number on the back of my hand. Fucking classic. There was even a little fucking heart over the 'i'.

I'd just been branded a second time and this time I wasn't even me.

Jamie Lynn thanked me and apologized again.

I told her not to worry about it and I turned to leave. Just as I reached my car, I heard Jamie Lynn call out, "Wait! How did you know my name was Jamie Lynn? I never told you my name."

Shit. I was busted. I pretended that I didn't hear her and I opened the door, jumped in and started the engine.

Jamie Lynn's voice called from behind me, "Steven! You stop right there you son of a bitch! You stop right there, right now, you lying bastard!"

Jamie Lynn started running.

I threw the car into gear, backed up and peeled out, narrowly missing a few stray students. Lucky motherfuckers.

I looked in my rear view mirror and that crazy bitch was chasing my car like a fucking cheetah running down a wounded wildebeest. I kept my eyes on her in the rear view mirror; Jamie Lynn seemed to be gaining on me. What the fuck? What was she, bionic? I gunned the accelerator. I was so focused on watching her chase after me that I didn't notice the curb, which I jumped, scraping metal all the way. Jamie Lynn kept coming. I turned the corner and floored it, laying down rubber and leaving Jamie Lynn in the dust.

I had escaped, but was I safe? I finished the night at work and when I got back to the dorm, I told Mike what happened. He laughed at my plight, but worried that we might be attacked by some crazy southern bitches. Southerners are not known for being reasonable people and you definitely don't want some crazy redneck bitch hunting your ass down; it's not going to end well for you. Mike thought it might be best if I left the state and possibly, the country. I feared for my life. If that girl found me, I was dead meat. Southern girls are a country mile past fucking crazy.

For the next few weeks, I lived the life of a paranoid lunatic. I refused to answer the door and whenever I had to leave my room, I checked to see if the coast was clear. I checked behind every bush and tree, inspected every nook and cranny, and pretty much grew eyes in the back of my fucking head.

It was all for naught. Thankfully, I lead a charmed life and I never saw Jamie Lynn again.

Fuck you, karma.

If you enjoyed this story, please give this one a chance:

They Call It Mellow Yellow

Thanks for stopping by!

Secret Recipe

Guess what?

Chicken butt.

You have to be a little demented, I think, to work in the medical profession. I know quite a few doctors and nurses and they are all pretty fucked in the head. Now that I think about it, all of the police officers, firemen and EMTs that I know are pretty messed up, too. Alright, let’s be honest here; most everyone that I know is fucked in the head and that includes myself. If you've read more than one of my stories, you can count yourself in there, as well.

This is a story that was related to me by someone I know that works in the medical profession. Due to privacy and other concerns, there will be some information that will be left out and I will not be posting any screen captures of our text conversation. I don’t know whom this happened to, I just know someone that was on duty at the time that it happened. I do not know any personally identifiable information about this person. This is not, I repeat, NOT something that happened to me. Oh, and don't try this at home. Or, do try it and email me about your experience. I'll make you famous. Okay, I won't make you famous, but I'll embarrass the fuck out of you in front of several hundred people.
A friend of mine works at the ER in an inner city hospital. He occasionally tells me some hysterically funny stories about what happens during his shift in the emergency room. 

This is one of those…

For the sake of this story, we’ll call my friend, “Paul.”

I got a text from Paul, the other day. A man had come into the ER complaining of extreme discomfort and was very, very embarrassed. As it turns out, there was a very good reason for his discomfort and embarrassment; the man had shoved an entire raw chicken, up his ass.

Now then, before we go any further, let’s explore this salient fact. How, exactly, does one go about shoving an entire chicken in their ass? The logistics of this are almost beyond comprehension and seem to defy both logic and physics. Let’s start with a somewhat edited transcript of our text conversation, which we can explore and discuss.

Paul: Most unusual complaint at triage, today, “I have a raw chicken stuck up my butt.”

Kind of makes you wonder if the guy stated this in a casual way. You know, like it’s an every day kind of thing, to walk around with raw poultry in your ass. It also reminds me of an old joke. What’s the difference between kinky and perverted? Kinky is when you use a feather and perverted is when you use the entire chicken.

Paul: Must check to see if it’s a full moon tonight.

I would definitely say that having a chicken stuck in your ass is something that one could safely refer to as a “full moon”.

Me: I call shenanigans, on that one. Was it the whole chicken?

I don’t believe it and yet, I’m clearly ready to accept it and very much want it to be true.
That’s really fucked up.

Paul: Whole small fryer! Gives new meaning to “chicken in a can”… lol!

Have you ever seen chicken in a can? I have and it’s fucking disgusting. It’s a whole chicken, ensconced in a lovely congealed gelatinous goop of chicken fat and then canned and preserved, for your gastronomic delight. Perfect, with a nice Pinot Grigio. What really grosses me out is that people actually eat this shit.

Whole Chicken in a Can Taste Test:
www.seriouseats.com/2009/04/whole-chicken-in-a-can-taste-test.html

It even has its own Facebook fan page:
www.facebook.com/pages/SWEET-SUE-WHOLE-CHICKEN-IN-A-CAN/126931264690?_rdr

Get some today and stock up now! You never know when civilization might end or you’ll need a new sex toy:
www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B00E3AYVA8/ref=pd_aw_sbs_1?pi=SL500_SS11

Paul: Truly, it is very perplexing. I can’t imagine rummaging thru the fridge looking for something to make for dinner… seeing the chicken and thinking… “Hmmm… I wonder how that chicken would feel up my ass?” Out of all the choices freely available during the course of the day, this guy chooses chicken.

Upon reflection, this last statement makes me wonder how many different “freely available choices” Paul has considered shoving up his own ass, but hey, who am I to judge? Truly, it is very perplexing…

Me: At least it wasn’t alive, when it went in there. Maybe it’s his own special marinade?
And if the chicken had been alive, that might have given new meaning to the term, “hen-pecked”
.
Me: I’m going to pee myself, if I don’t stop laughing. People are already looking at me like I’m insane. I’m used to that, though.

Yeah, definitely not a text conversation that I should be having at work. Fuck it.

Paul: Insanity is shoving raw poultry up your butt. And waiting three days to seek medical attention.

Holy shit! Three days. This guy had a chicken in his ass, for three fucking days. WTF? No, seriously. WTF??? How in the fucking fuck, do you manage to function with a chicken in your ass to begin with, but to hold out for three days? I’d imagine you might feel a little bloated. Just a tad. Another thing; did he think that he was just going to pass it? I’ve heard of shitting a brick, but a bird? Shouldn’t he have left a drumstick out, you know, just to keep a handle on things?

Wait, it gets better…

Paul: The poor guy now has salmonella and has to go to the OR (operating room/surgery).

Well, no shit (bad pun intended). He wrecked his rectum.

Me: Three days? Not exactly the intellectual type, is he?

Paul: I feel bad for him. He was so embarrassed.

Not to mention fucking stupid. And no, I don’t even feel anything even remotely resembling sympathy, for that dumbass.

Paul: Just think… if he had not come in, he could have died from embarrassment. 
I have to disagree. The guy would have died from stupidity, not embarrassment. The embarrassing part is having come so close to winning a coveted Darwin award, only to have it snatched away at the last second by the fickle fingers of fate.

A short while later and I’ve got picture mail. It’s an x-ray that shows someone with a chicken, shoved up their ass. It’s depraved, demented and disgusting. It’s fucking awesome.

Two days later…

Me: I wish that I could write about the chicken man. I’m still giggling over that one and still trying to figure out how he got it in there.

Paul: I would be interested to know how much lube it took to accomplish that monumental task.

Dude, don’t do it! Please! Use one of those “freely available choices” instead.

Paul: And you could certainly write about it w/out it being a HIPAA violation… but none of us knowing all the details, it would be difficult to make a story out of it.

Me: I don’t need the whole story, lol. The text convo and the x-ray work just fine. I just won’t include any screen shots of the texts.

The next day…

Paul: Cornish game hen according to the OR report.

Me: Any explanation of why?

Paul: He told the psych nurse he tried navel oranges, cukes (cucumbers) and baking potatoes before, but the chicken was the biggest food item he’d accomplished. He said it made him cum harder and several times.

Kids, DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME!!! Not only is it dangerous, but it is just so wrong, on so many levels. Plus, it’s not a very balanced diet. I’ll bet this guy is a chef.
Paul: Btw… he is a chef.

Of course he's a fucking chef, I didn’t think he was a fucking rocket scientist. I know one restaurant that I won't be eating at anytime soon and chicken is definitely off of the menu.

Me: What restaurant was it?

Paul: Do you remember XXX XXXXX? We ate there when you came to visit.

Me: Get the fuck out! GET. THE. FUCK. OUT. There's no fucking way!

Paul: You're right. There's no way. I'm just messing with you. Maybe...

Me: You're such a dick.

Me: Anyway, I’m sure he was feeling quite accomplished. Was he planning on roasting the bird, after marinating it in his own special blend of secret herbs and spices?

Me: You are demented, btw.

Paul: That is definitely the pot calling the kettle black.

Me: Me? Perish the thought. Besides, it’s an admirable quality.

Paul: A good writer understands his material. If you’re gonna write a story about him, you really should know firsthand what you’re writing about. I don’t want to know the details and don’t come crying to me if it doesn't work out for ya!

Me: Well, there is a turkey in the freezer…

Paul: Call the Butterball hotline first… the defrosting instructions might be different if it’s going in the ass instead of the oven.

Me: Good idea. Defrosting it, I mean. Wouldn't want a brain freeze.

Me: Clearly, I wasn't thinking.

Paul: I may be overstating the obvious here… but anyone who contemplates shoving a large piece of poultry up their keister already has a brain freeze.

Why, thank you, Colonel Obvious. Hey, the fucker got a promotion.

Paul: I’m not judging.

That’s good. Judge not, as the Bible says.

Paul: The heart wants what the heart wants.

Me: Does that mean you’re okay, with small poultry? Would you like me to send you some quail?

Paul: That is so thoughtful. I do not like quail though.

Tried it before, eh? How much lube did that take? Truly, it is very perplexing…

Me: It’s the thought that counts.

Paul: A true friend.

We started chatting about other things and then got on to the subject of raising teenagers and helping to guide them towards making the correct life choices.

Me: Do this, don’t do that. Never shove a chicken up your ass. Need to prepare them for the world.

Teach your children well, as the song says and never miss an opportunity to turn a life lesson into a true learning experience.

Paul: Never shove a chicken up your ass should be ingrained in them from an early age. Important life lesson, I say!!

Obviously, you don’t consider it that important, if you only gave it two exclamation points. Everyone knows that the really important shit gets three exclamation points. Three, motherfucker, three!!! One, two, fucking three!!! My work is never done.

At that point, I had to call my son, to talk to him about the inappropriate cover photo that he had just posted to Facebook, so that was the end of our text conversation. When/If I find out what became of Chicken Man, I’ll post an update.

Let’s take away some important life lessons from this little story. While fresh fruits and vegetables are certainly delicious and I’m sure they can be lots of fun, they are not very hygienic and should not be used as sex toys, even if you plan on eating them after playtime is over. The same goes for animals. I know that food is sexy and all, but please refrain from shoving it up your ass.

No chickens were harmed in the writing of this story.

If you enjoyed reading this story, please give this one a chance:

Check yourself, Wreck yourself.