Check Yourself, Wreck Yourself

Technology is like the most bestest thing, ever.

When it works properly, technology is all sorts of gee whiz wonderful. The magic of technology enhances our mundane, everyday lives by eliminating the need for most physical interactions. No longer are we tied to the arcane physical world that surrounds us, not when we have our farms, our Facebook (please stop sending me game requests), Snap Chat, Candy Crush, Instagram, Blogger, Mafia Wars, to name just a bit of the bevy of bullshit that keeps us occupied and isolated. Almost gone are the days of having to deal with actual people.

You can get anything you need, want or desire online. Food, clothing, medicine, sex, whatever; it's there, just whip out your dick debit card. At most, you might have to deal with the delivery guy. You can pay all of your bills online, work from home, do your personal banking, pay traffic fines without having to go to court, schedule services, go to church, order a Russian bride, watch movies and television, regulate our smart homes; the list goes on and on. And you can do it all without having to get out of bed. As for personal interaction such as phone calls, you can always ignore those and answer back immediately with a text. That really annoys the shit out of people and it's fun, too. That salient little fact makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Even when you do go out in public, you can manage to avoid most interactions with people if you try hard enough, at the very least, you can try to minimize them. So, we can all agree that technology is this great, life enhancing wonder bestowed upon us, right? Maybe. It's all fine and well when things work the way that they're supposed to, but technology doesn't always work the way that it"s supposed to and when technology doesn't work properly, well, it's just so much shit.

We've all been there, stuck at the grocery store with just a few things while the place is going insane; long lines are everywhere, the Express Lanes are miles long, people are ramming carts into each other, screaming kids are everywhere, panicked New Yorkers are fighting over the last of the kale and you're thinking, "Dude, I just want to be able to wipe my ass and eat some ice cream (just not at the same time). Wtf?"

And that's when you see it. The heavens part and that gleaming shaft (heh - I said shaft) of light falls from the sky and illuminates the self check out area where there are only a few people in line. There's a reason for that. Those people are stupid and I'm about to show you a prime example of why that is using the principles of Darwinian evolution and the idea of thinning out the herd.

You see, the smarter beasts know to avoid the self check out at all costs, but you're not one of them. It's okay, I'm not either. We can commiserate together, like besties having a tea party. Be sure to bring some fucking ice cream.

However, since you're not my bestie just yet, I'm going to switch over to the first person because that's what works best for me, but you can still tag along.

Okay, so the heavens part and the light falls and all of that dramatic epiphany bullshit is happening and now I hear the seductress call of the short line, even though I should know better than to fall for the Siren's lure. She whispers to me, lies to me. "Come and give it to me baby," she says, "Come on, baby, it will be fast and fun."

I know better than to believe that bullshit. I do, I do.

Tell me more.

"Come on, baby. A quickie. Just a little in and out," the Siren whispers sweetly.

The thought of that self check out was giving me full on wood. My pulse had increased, my palms were sweaty and my breathing was heavy.

It's like being offered a free blowjob at Hooters while you eat their shitty wings. Although, in my case, it's usually something more like this:

Or this:

Nothing says love like clowns, puppies and free candy!

How many times do you think I'm going to fall for that, Mister?

It's tempting, oh so tempting, even though I know it's not going to work out, like that time that I had sex with the woman who had a bad case of the seriously fucking crazies and then I fucked her again and again. I even had sex with her one more time after that. Hey, the sex was unbelievable, but she was clinically and violently insane (I'm saving that story). I know that I'm going to give into temptation and do it anyway. I'm going to give in to the crazy, take the tour, climb in the van, listen to Grandpa, nail the psycho chick and use the self check out even though I know that I shouldn't. How could I even dream of saying no? I'm a man; I'm genetically predisposed to doing stupid things. I can't help myself. It's not my fault. I feel like such a monster.

I was ashamed, but I did it anyway; I walked over to the self check out line. In my mind, I could hear the other customers laughing and snickering at me as I slowly shuffled toward my fate, but there were only two people ahead of me, so I actually thought it would be a quick "in and out."

I'm patiently waiting in line and as I mentioned previously, it shouldn't be a long wait and I'm known for my patience, but now I'm taking notice of the people who are standing in front of me, The first person is a man with three items, but the woman that is directly in front of me has one of those mini shopping carts that appears to be pretty full and just because I'm bored, I start counting her items. I stopped counting after I hit twenty, not because I couldn't count higher with my pants on, but because the signs clearly state twelve items or less and I was getting pissed off by someone who either couldn't count or just didn't give enough of a fuck AND had absolutely no common courtesy, you know, just like when you're stuck in traffic and some asshole is in such a fucking hurry that he has to drive on the shoulder and then wants to squeeze back into traffic, directly ahead of you. Now, I don't know about you, but I learned to count when I was two years old, but the self checkout and express lanes seem to be a freaking black hole that sucks in people that either can't count or are just complete douchebags. Fer fucks sake, it's basic math, people.

To make matters worse, this woman still had her kids roaming the aisles and coming back with more items. Really? I hate that shit; it's incredibly rude. So I did what any self-respecting dickhead would do and I blocked the aisle to keep her snotty little kids from getting past me.

The little bastards pushed past me anyway. I wanted to trip them. I didn't. I think I'm entirely too nice. I'm a fucking saint, I am.

That guy at the head of the line? He moved on up, scanned his stuff, paid for it and got the hell out of Dodge. He got his in and out. This was starting to be more and more like my sex life, all promise and no delivery. I usually end up at the self checkout there too, only it's a lot more satisfying.

Those little bastards are asking their mother for candy and gum. Sure, why not? Go ahead, add some more shit to your shit. She tells them to grab some drinks, too. Mountain Dew. Of course. That's exactly what those hyper little shits need. "Are you fucking kidding me?" I screamed it at her. No, not really, but I thought it right to her face.

Finally, the bitch and her bastard brood step up to the register and she starts taking the items out of her cart. I'm wondering if she can move any slower. But then...

"We forgot to get the eggs," she says. "Can one of you boys run and get a dozen?"

Holy Mother of God, you have got to be fucking kidding me. To make matters worse, we all know where the eggs are, they're at the back of the damn store and on the other side. Her kids take off running and she continues unloading her cart, as slow as molasses. After what seemed like an excruciating lifetime of waiting, they show back up with the eggs and a package of cookies, running like hell for the register. Cookies? Really? They had to stop for fucking cookies? How could this little sideshow of horrors possibly get any better?

Wait, it gets better.

The little fucker carrying the eggs trips over his brother and loses his grip on the carton. The eggs go flying through the air and explode all over the floor. She sends them back for more eggs. I'm now frantically looking around for where they keep the fire axe. It was probably for the best that I couldn't find one.

They're back. I'm still the paragon of patience. Patience is a virtue and I'm a fucking virtuous guy. Really.

Believe it or not, she still hasn't scanned a single item. Apparently, that's what she had children for. The kids start fighting over who gets to scan what. Unfuckingbelievable. Mom decides she will scan instead. It's okay, take your time, bitch, because my time isn't valuable. You're the only one here that matters.

Sometimes I think that the world would be a better place if some people would have been a backseat blowjob or trapped in a condom, but that's just my opinion.

The bitch can't even manage to scan her shit right.

I look around and notice that if I had been in any of the regular lines, I'd be gone by now and stuffing my face with ice cream, but I'm not. I'm still here and my ice cream is melting. If I only had a shiv.

I've started mentally murdering the woman in front of me. I came up with some really inventive ideas, but there were entirely too many witnesses.  If I can't kill the bitch, I might as well kill some time. This goes on and on and on. How fucking hard is it to scan a fucking item and put it in a fucking bag? It's not exactly rocket science, you fucking nincompoop.

The cashier that supervises the self checkout area comes over and scans her order for her.

She starts fumbling through her purse and pulls out... her checkbook.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

The cashier comes over and starts going through the process of accepting her check. The bitch starts looking for her id. All of this time wasted and you're still unprepared? Fuck the witnesses, I'm about to murder a motherfucker.

After more than twenty minutes of shenanigans, my ordeal is over. The bitch and her bratty brood are on their way out and it's my turn to step up to the plate. I'll show you bitches how it's done.

I scan my first item and the machine tells me to place it in the bag..

Fuck me...

This machine is not going to beat me. I can do this at least I think I can. You know, just like the little fucking train that could.

I scan my next item. It won't scan.

The machine is laughing at me. I'm going to kill it.

The cashier comes over and works her magic. I feel like a complete fucktard, but the rest of my shit scans properly. All I need to do is pay and get the fuck out. I swipe my card and... nothing. Nada, zilch, bubkiss. Fuck me.

The cashier comes back over and works her magic, but this time she looks at me like I'm a moron, because the card scans for her on the first try.

Of course it does. Fuck me once and fuck me twice and fuck me, once again as the old song goes.

I'm done! Hip fucking hooray! I can get me ass home, take a dump and then eat some fucking ice cream. I race to my car, throw my bags in and haul ass for home and start unpacking my groceries.

In my rush to get out of the store, I left the bag with the toilet paper at the register. I found some paper napkins and a half paper towel and ran for the bathroom. It wasn't pretty. 

At least I still had my ice cream, right?

Wrong. It had completely melted and looked more like what I had just left in the toilet. 

I fucking give up...

If you enjoyed reading this story, please give this one a chance:
It's The Simple Things That Kill

Peanut Butter and Bacon Cookies (Gluten Free)

I'd happily roll myself in this while attempting to eat every bite.

Face it, bacon makes everything better and there is nothing quite like that salty, crispy manna from heaven to punch up the most mundane of flavors. When bacon collides with peanut butter, the results are unbelievable.

Today, I am starting a new public service, because, well, that's just the kind of guy that I am. You know little old me, I've always got your best interests at heart, just so long as they coincide with mine And so, without further ado, I bring you recipes that are simple, quick and easy; perfect for singles, students, stoners and lazy fucks like me. I know that f bomb was totally unnecessary, but that's okay, we (meaning me) talk a lot of shit  around here. 

My very first recipe for you is simple, easy and gluten free. The fact that it's beyond good is amazing and best of all, you'll only need six ingredients that virtually every single student, stoner and lazy fuck has lying around in their kitchen.

Peanut Butter and Bacon Cookies (Gluten Free)

Preheat your oven to 350

Ingredients

1 cup gluten free peanut butter (I like Skippy, it's damn Skippy!)

1 cup sugar or equivalent 

1 large egg

1 tsp vanilla extract (don't cheap out, use the real stuff; the flavor makes a huge difference)

12 oz bacon, cooked crisp and crumbled (I usually use a pound, but I eat some of it) 

2 tbsp bacon grease (just recycle some from the bacon pan)

That's it, six ingredients. No flour. There's absolutely nothing else to get between you and your bacon and peanut butter fix.

You can also add other variations, such as chocolate chips, peanut butter chips or whatever else your little heart desires, princess.

Now, mix that shit up. Mix it. Mix it real good.

You're going to need a cookie sheet. Do you even know where it is? Stoners, now is a good time to try and find one. ;)

Drop the dough, by rounded teaspoonfuls onto the cookie tray about two inches apart and then mash the cookies down with a fork, making the pound sign #.

Put the tray in the oven. Don't forget to close the door. Set the timer for ten minutes, pull out the tray and let them cool. 

Repeat, as necessary.

If you want to be all extra fancy, you can dip the cookies in melted chocolate and/or garnish them with mini strips of bacon.  Good stuff.

I had some pics of the process, but can't seem to find them anywhere. Oh, well. Next time I make some of these, I'll take some new pics and update this.

And now for some important stuff (I was going to type shit, but I didn't. You should be really fucking proud of me) that you really need to know about bacon:

Bacon is supposed to be unhealthy:

Yet somehow it's nourishing. I like that explanation better.

There are all kinds of wonderful things that you can do with bacon. Some wonderful examples include apple pie:

Apple Pie recipe is excerpted from Desserts from the Famous Loveless Cafe cookbook and is available here: http://www.lovelesscafe.com/recipes/bacon-apple-pie/

Baby Formula:

http://www.jdfoods.net/

Breakfast:

The Bacon Weave Breakfast Taco

http://dudefoods.com/the-bacon-weave-breakfast-taco/

Bacon Guinness Chocolate Pancakes

Recipe: http://geekslovebacon.com/bacon-guinness-chocolate-pancakes/

Bacon and Egg Cupcakes

Recipe: http://kirbiecravings.com/2011/09/bacon-egg-breakfast-cups.html

Burgers:

The 'Merica Burger

https://slaters5050.com/

Candles:

http://www.yankeecandle.com/

Mac & Cheese:

Mac And Cheese BaconWeave Taco

http://dudefoods.com/the-double-decker-mac-cheese-stuffed-bacon-weave-taco/

Mouthwash:

http://www.scopemouthwash.com/bacon/

Pie:

Chocolate Bacon Pecan Pie with Chocolate Whipped Cream

http://bacontoday.com/chocolate-bacon-pecan-pie-with-chocolate-whipped-cream/

Potato Chips:

I have yet to find these in any store and have no idea what they taste like. I don't think they really exist.

A limited time offering that is only available at Wal-Mart. A can full of true deliciousness.

S'mores:

Bacon S'mores? Yes, Please!

http://dudefoods.com/smores-bacon/

Soap:

Soda:

As if the idea of a bacon soda wasn't weird enough, they also feature flavors such as Buffalo Wing, Sweet Corn, Coffee, Peanut Butter & Jelly, Pumpkin Pie and Ranch Dressing (shudders)

http://www.rocketfizz.com/lesters/

And finally, Tacos:

The Bacon Weave Taco

http://dudefoods.com/bacon-weave-taco/

It's bacon, ffs, how can you go wrong?

They Call It Mellow Yellow

The flow of information at our fingertips today is almost beyond comprehension. You can find anything you want or desire on the Internet. And when I say anything, I do mean anything. There are no limits.

It wasn't always like this.

Back when I was a kid, if you wanted information, you became a human search engine. While it was still possible to conduct your search without leaving home, your search was generally limited to antiquated options such as three to five channel television (yes, there really was such a thing), newspapers, magazines and books, usually old-fashioned things once known as encyclopedias. If you needed more than just basic information, you would actually have to leave the house and go to a book store, where you could buy books or you'd have to walk uphill, both ways, barefoot in the snow, to a magical wonderland called the library, where you could find the information that you needed, sometimes involving pre-computer technology such as card catalogs (shudders) and microfilm (pretty cool, actually). Does all of this sound like a giant pain in the ass to you? Let me assure you, it sure as shit was.

In the modern era, having all of this information at your fingertips could enable you to do some great and amazing things.

At the very least, it could keep you from doing some incredibly stupid shit...

It was during the great weed drought of 1983 and it was drier than a ninety year old woman's vagina. No matter how hard you tried, cried, or begged; no matter how much you were willing to spend, there was no pot to be found. It was heartbreaking and cruel; stoners were begging in the streets and selling themselves for seeds and stems. Dealers wouldn't even bother to answer their pagers and you knew, you just fucking knew that those motherfuckers were holding out on you. You could just picture them in your mind's eye, toking away and laughing while their pagers blew up. Everyone was crying the blues, even my first string, all star pot dealer was asking me if I could hook him up. My second string guy was all hustle with no bustle (I'll bet he's still waiting for that fucking phone call) and even my dealer of last resort, the guy who was such an asshole that he was tolerated only in the most desperate of times. You know the guy I'm talking about, the super-sized sleazy dirtball who overcharges, under delivers and always comes up short. The douchebag that leaves you feeling soiled. That motherfucker. The city had become a barren wasteland; it was like pot had completely ceased to exist.

Luckily, my friend Luke and I believed in leaving no stone unturned in our quest for pharmacological relief. I searched hither and yon,while Luke turned the city upside down and inside out in our holy quest for the Lord's herb. I don't recall how or why it came to be, but Luke caught wind of a book titled, "The Anarchist Cookbook," written by a man named William Powell.

"The Anarchist Cookbook," is chock full of fun ideas, directions, instructions and recipes for useful and practical things, such as weapons, booby traps, explosives and homemade drugs, including lsd.

The book actually has an FBI file. Check it out:

The Anarchist Cookbook - FBI Files

Let me state for the record that we never, ever, ever made any of the explosives, or blew up tons of shit in Luke's backyard and we certainly never made napalm, nope, not us, although I'm sure that it would have been a lot of fun. I'd swear my innocence on a stack of fucking Bibles.

However, we did maybe, kind of, sort of, might have tried a few of the drug recipes.

Hell, what we did was pretty tame, compared to some of the lengths that people will go to in order to catch a buzz.

***WARNING - THE FOLLOWING EXPERIMENTS WERE CONDUCTED BY TWO COMPLETELY UNTRAINED MORONS. KIDS, DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME!!!

No, we didn't try to get high from scorpions. Maybe if we had seen this.

Dude, hold my nuts.

The plan was very simple. Luke's parents were out of town for the weekend and we were going to engineer our own little designer drug factory. The very first thing that we tried to do was to get high from smoking peanut skins (it's a very simple recipe, but very time consuming, cracking and peeling all of the peanuts). I know that sounds stupid and it was. Incredibly stupid. No, that still doesn't do it justice. How about incredibly fucking stupid? Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? I can't tell you how incredibly fucking stupid we felt while doing this, but we tried it anyway, mostly because we were incredibly fucking stupid. We were desperate and I wasn't about to sell my body for a buzz. I'm not that cheap of a whore. Cheap? Yes. Whore? Yes again, but I usually hold out for at least a fucking Happy Meal.

Irrefutable Evidence

Getting high with the psychedelic peanut: 

1. Take 1 pound of raw peanuts (not roasted). 

2. Shell them, saving the skins and discarding the shells. 

3. Eat the nuts. 

4. Grind up the skins and smoke them.

We cracked the nuts, shed the skins, ate a bunch of fucking peanuts and then ground the skins, rolling up about eight joints of peanut skins. I fired up the first joint, inhaled and almost immediately coughed a lung across the fucking room. I can still hear the disgustingly wet sound that it made when it hit the wall, or maybe I just shit my pants. It was a loud "splat," okay? With tears streaming down my face and my lungs on fire, I passed the doobie over to Luke, who immediately hacked up his entire respiratory system. It was pretty fucking gross. I still couldn't even form words, but after catching our collective breath, we both agreed it was a pretty smooth smoke. Please watch the video below for a more accurate description of the experience.

Nothing beats a little lung butter...

Somehow, we managed to smoke all eight joints of peanut skins and lived to tell the tale. It was like an endurance contest to see who was the biggest dipshit, neither one of us willing to give up or give in, in front of the other. We waited to see what the effects would be like. We waited and waited and then we fucking waited some more. We tried to convince ourselves that we were stoned. We tried to talk ourselves into being stoned and at one point, Luke even claimed to see a few happy trails, but all that I could see through my still watering eyes was disappointment and a large fucking pile of raw peanut skins.

Being the intrepid drug pioneers (that sounds much nicer than calling ourselves complete fucking morons, doesn't it?) that we were, we smoked the rest of the skins, too. Still nothing. 

You know what they say though, if at first you don't succeed, try something even more incredibly fucking stupid. And so we did. It was almost like we had to. The Lord works in mysterious ways.

The gloves were now off as we moved straight to the hard stuff on our fast and furious road trip to Hell and let me tell you, it wasn't paved with any good fucking intentions, either. Banana peels. No, it wasn't paved with fucking banana peels, you fuckwad, pay attention. In our crazed lust for drugs, we tried the ultimate horror of horrors, one of the most addictive and dangerous substances on Earth. I'm almost ashamed to admit it, but yes, yes, fucking yes, we tried to smoke banana peels. I'm even more ashamed to admit the things I've done for a Klondike bar, in the back of an ice cream truck, but let's not go there, the memories are still too fresh and painful. Oh, and don't approach me with a sugar cone, either, it gets bad, very bad. Don't judge me, I was young and incredibly fucking stupid, but now I'm a lot older. I'm still incredibly fucking stupid, but I have a lot more experience at it. It takes a lot of dedication and hard fucking work to be this incredibly fucking stupid. I almost broke into a sweat once, because I had to concentrate really hard and come up with an answer to a yes or no question. Potato is always a handy word to use in situations like that. People and their fucking questions.

The peanut skins turned out to be just another gateway drug. A gateway to broken promises and a life unfulfilled. A one-way trip to a skid row destination. Living in a van down by the river was just a short hop, skip and a jump away.

The night after the great peanut skin doobie debacle, we decided to try the recipe for Bananadine.

Getting Buzzed with Bananas:

1. Obtain 15 pounds of ripe yellow bananas. 

2. Peel all and eat the fruit. Save the peelings. 

3. Scrape all the insides of the peels with a sharp knife. 

4. Put all the scraped material in a large pot and add water. 

5. Boil 3 or 4 hours until it has attained a solid paste consistency.

6. Spread paste onto cookie sheets and dry in oven for about 20 minutes. 

This will result in fine black powder. 

Usually one will feel the effects after smoking three to four cigarettes.

We should have waited for the Internet.

Fifteen fucking pounds of bananas. Seriously? Just a normal, everyday purchase that definitely wouldn't raise any eyebrows, right? We were off to the grocery store like two dumbasses running from the bulls at Pamplona. You know, the ones you see on television or YouTube and you just know they're going to take it in the nuts. Hell, at least it wasn't Jenkem. You might not want to click that...

There was a small issue, it was well after midnight and all of the regular grocery stores were long closed, but not too far away was an XTRA, which is/was a 24 hour grocery store that was only slightly out of the way, meaning that it was way, way out of the way, but we were going to get our fifteen fucking pounds of bananas, like it was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbows that I shit out of my ass. 

We get to the store and throw a quarter in the cart. I've always thought that was a crock of shit. Like I'm really going to walk all the way back to the fucking store to retrieve my quarter. Fucking thieves. I call it the lazy motherfucker tax, with me being the lazy motherfucker.

We walk into the store and are immediately in the produce section, which is a good thing, because that's where we needed to be. It's just a few feet to the display of bananas.

There's another small issue. There are no scales. How the fuck are we supposed to know when we have fifteen fucking pounds of bananas? No matter, we've got visions of banana skins dancing in our heads.

We decided to just pile the cart up with bananas. At twenty-five cents a pound, it's not like we were going to break the bank. We bought every single fucking banana that they had and nothing else. Just a cart full of fucking bananas. No worries, it's normal behavior, right?. Time to check out.

When we first got to the store it was around one am and the place was empty, but somehow in the two minutes that it took for us to load up the cart, every asshole and their brother had decided to go grocery shopping in the middle of the night and of course, there was only one cashier on duty and the line stretched all the way down the fucking aisle. I mean, who the fuck besides a pothead would go grocery shopping in the middle of the night? Apparently, every asshole and their fucking brother, that's who.

People are starting to notice us. For some reason, we're getting some really odd looks from people. For the life of me, I can't imagine why. It's just a few bananas. Can't a person go to the store and buy a few bananas to smoke? Apparently fucking not.

People started asking questions. We told them it was for a fraternity prank. There were no universities anywhere near us, but people will believe anything. They just shook their heads and smiled. People are fucking morons. Looking back, we should have told them it was for some weird monkey buttsex cosplay, but I'm not sure if that was even a thing back then. Cosplay, I mean. I'm pretty sure there's been plenty of monkey buttsex over the years.

It took us an hour to get to the register, where we had to endure more questions from the cashier, with the same, by now, tired old answer of it being a fraternity prank. Turns out we had misjudged a little bit on the weight. We didn't have fifteen pounds of bananas, we had twenty-seven pounds of fucking bananas. Fuck me running. Better safe than sorry, I guess.

We left the store and headed back to Luke's. It was starting to get very late, but we decided to forge ahead. 

We hadn't driven more than two blocks before we were pulled over by the cops. How do you explain twenty-seven pounds of fucking bananas to the cops?

Two officers walked around the car, trying to decide whether they were going to shoot us or not, I guess. They shined their flashlights all around the car and in our eyes, just being general dickheads, when one of them approached the driver's side window and asked Luke for his drivers license, insurance and registration. The other cop came up to my window and asked for my id, shining the flashlight into the backseat and settling its beam upon the bags of bananas.

"What's in the bags?" asked Officer Friendly #2.

"Groceries," I replied.

Officer Friendly #1, "Do you have any illegal drugs or weapons in your possession?"

"No," Luke answered.

"Mind if we take a look inside the car and and make sure there aren't any? We just want to check for everyone's safety."

Luke asked why we were pulled over and the cop mumbled some lame ass excuse. I'll bet they figured they were about to make a nice drug bust. Good luck with that, dumbass.

The cop again asked for permission to search the car, asking if we had something to hide. Luke smirked and told him to go ahead. The cops rifled through the car, making a mess and just being general assholes while leaving the bags of bananas for last. They searched through the bags finding nothing but twenty-seven pounds of fucking bananas.

"I thought you said there were groceries in the bags?" Officer Friendly #2 said.

"There are," I said. "We just bought them at the grocery store."

"But these are bananas," he replied.

Oh, we're talking genius level IQ's, with these two. How special.

"Why yes, they are. Last time I checked, bananas were considered groceries."

"What do you need so many bananas for?" said #2.

"To feed the fucking monkeys," I answered.

"Don't be an asshole," said the asshole cop. "This might still take a while. We need to run your id's and make sure there are no warrants for either of you."

I shut my big fucking mouth.

After harassing us for a few more minutes, the cops sullenly stalked back to their car and we drove off to Luke's house, giggling the entire way.

At least we had step one covered and we were able to move on to step two.

Peel and eat the fruit. Save the peelings.

Yeah, fuck that. Neither one of us was about to go through all of that, but we did consume a few, with the rest of the fruit tossed in the trash.

Step three! Woo-hoo!

Scrape all the insides of the peels with a sharp knife.

Surprisingly, this wasn't as much fun as it sounds. Surprisingly, no emergency room visit was involved. It was very time consuming. Can you imagine the fun and camaraderie that you'll share peeling and scraping twenty-seven pounds of fucking bananas? It was pure fucking bliss, let me tell you.

Step four - Put all the scraped material in a large pot and add water.

That part was pretty painless but the hour was growing late, very late. 

Step five!

Boil 3 or 4 hours until it has attained a solid paste consistency.

Wait... What? No fucking way. I guess we forgot about that part. We watched a movie on VHS and we watched a lot of water boiling. It was a shit ton of fun.

We boiled that shit for three hours and it was good and pasty. Meanwhile, the sun was peeking over the rooftops of the adjacent houses. We had been up all night for no sane reason and we still hadn't attained any result, but there was only one last step to go.

Yippee-ky-yay motherfucker.

Step Six

Spread the paste onto cookie sheets and dry in the oven for about 20 minutes. Twenty minutes. What's another twenty fucking minutes when you've already invested an entire goddamn night to a stupid fucking endeavor?

We spread the shit out onto the cookie sheets and pop them into the oven. By now, it was getting close to 7:00 am and we were both bone ass tired. Of course, Mr. Murphy had to pop his head in the door one more time before calling it a night, so of course, it took a lot longer than twenty fucking minutes to dry that shit out. It was more like forty-five fucking minutes, but who's keeping track? After the shit was dry enough, I pulled the dried peel scrapings out of the oven and put them aside to cool. I think we were both falling asleep at this point. We decided to get some rest and then take our banana peels for a test drive.

Luke went to his room and I crashed out on the bed in his sister's room. We both woke up around one o'clock and we wandered into the kitchen, prepared to smoke some Mellow Yellow.

If ever there was a WTF? moment, this certainly qualified as one of them.

Our shit was gone. All traces of criminal activity had been erased.

WTF? WTF? WTF?

No, seriously, WTF?

Our yellow gold was gone. The sick baby that I had nursed throughout the night had disappeared without a trace. What could I do? It's not like I could call the cops and report that my bananadine was missing. 

I looked at Luke and as long as I live, I'll never forget the words that I said to him, "What the fuck, dude?"

Just as I'll never forget his fucking reply, "Oh shit, dude, I forgot that the maid was coming today and I guess she cleaned everything up. Sorry."

Sorry? He was fucking sorry? That's some fucked up shit, right there. I had spent the entire fucking night laboring relentlessly toward the goal line, my eye on the prize, only to be cheated out of my moment of fucking glory and he was fucking sorry? FUCK! Luke, when you read this I want you to understand something, that is the one and only time that you came close to death at my hands. Admittedly, it wasn't very close, I mean, I'd have had to dig a hole, clean up the evidence and all that fucking jazz. Not to mention the fact that I'd be suspect numero uno and I know that I'd crack and my ass was just too pretty for prison. Besides there's a whole set of rules for that shit (Read - The Rules). Even more importantly, we all know that I'm much too lazy to be bothered with that shit. 

Luke looked at me and I swear to God, he actually asked me, "Do you want to try it again?"

Are you fucking kidding me? I shook my head no. Violently so.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

"Who? Me? I'll just sit in the fucking corner and smoke my fucking disappointment."

At least I can console myself with this fun fact!

If you like this story, please try this one. Thanks!

Don't Hiss Yourself

It's The Simple Things That Kill

“It's all very simple. But maybe because it's so simple, it's also hard.” 
― Natsuki Takaya

'They' tell us to appreciate the simple things.

Let's stop right there.

Who the fuck are 'they' and what exactly do 'they' know? Might as well tell me that you're from the government and how you're here to help me. I call bullshit; I've had enough of 'their' fuckery.

It's the simple things that will kill you. Trust me on this, I know better than you do. Seriously.

My shower tried to assassinate me, today. I know, it seems crazy, but it's true. It was like a crazed psycho ninja all hopped up on meth and lsd. I'd swear on a stack of bibles, if I believed in that shit. 

Let me start at the beginning.

I woke to the sound of rain. That sounds pretty ominous, or maybe it was just raining out. Whatever.

How about this? I woke to the sound of rain. I was wet, I was cold and more than a little disoriented. Slowly, memory returned...

Better?

Little did I know that death had been waiting for me, but I managed to escape from that fucker. Eloquent, even. I should write a fucking novel.

I had been in the shower, I knew this much. Pffft... It barely rates being called a shower. I'm a pretty average sized guy, but this thing is so small, I am constantly bumping and banging this or that in my efforts to maintain personal hygiene. It's more like a telephone booth that shoots water at you in an extreme of two temperatures; shrinkage fucking cold or burn your fucking balls off hot. So, I'm in the shower (which is trying to kill me; let's not lose sight of that small detail) and I accidentally knocked down one of my girlfriend's potions and lotions. No big deal, right? I bend down, pick it up and put it back where it belongs.

Simple, right?

Not exactly.

Here's where things go slightly awry and attempted murder ensues.

I bend down to pick up whatever bottle of bullshit that I had knocked over, accidentally hitting the faucet handle and sending the temperature setting of the water to nuclear reactor coolant hot. Fuck me, that shit was hot. As the skin was starting to peel off of my back and ass, I blindly reached my hand up to turn the water temperature back down only to succeed in somehow knocking an entire shelf of shampoo, conditioner and other crap on my cranium. It was like a fucking avalanche of bottles, one right after another, bouncing off my bald ass head. Meanwhile, my hand did manage to connect with the faucet handle and suddenly the water temperature was so cold that icicles were hanging from my balls like stalactites. Not cool. Even better, in my vain attempt to dodge the cascade of conditioner, I lost my balance and stumbled in to the shower door. No fucking bueno. Nope, no fucking bueno at all.

As the door gave way and I became airborne, I had the following thought...

No bueno.

It's a stall shower, but you get my point.

Just like Peter Fucking Pan.

Except... There was no fucking Tinker Bell, no fucking Wendy, no fucking Lost Boys and certainly, no fucking Indians. Fuck, I always had a thing for Tiger Lily.

Muy bueno,

No pirates, no pirate ship and no Captain Hook. There was a second star to the right, however. As a matter of fact, there were a lot of fucking stars that I saw when my head slammed into the bathroom counter. Come to think of it, I think I saw some Heffalumps and Woozles, too.

And that, my friends, is the last thing I remember before waking to the sound of rain.

Fucking glorious, but at least no one found me dead and naked. Thank goodness, for the little things.

Oh wait, those fucking things kill too...

Balls.

If you enjoyed this story, please give this one a chance:
Someone's Been Sleeping In My Bed