Monday, August 29, 2011

The Test

Springtime's commencement marks the dawn of warm weather, blooming flowers and packing chaws without spitting in a cup. For most, this is a relaxed and pleasant time of year, save for a select group of people. High school juniors nationwide continually dread this season because of a test that will forever live in infamy: The SAT's. Most kids piss their pants thinking about how much weight this five hour endeavor holds on the next few years of their lives. But worry not little fucktards, because shit hit the fan for me and I'm currently living the dream.

Since I probably have the highest IQ on the planet, I didn't really see any point in studying like those pussy poindexters scrambling to memorize the dictionary. I knew I would've aced it given the chance. I was so sure, in fact, that I spent the whole night partying up with my new-found Halo buddies. Packing chaws, drinkin' and gamin' was my recipe for success.

I rolled in pale faced and droopy-eyed, making sure everyone knew how little sleep was necessary. So I moseyed to a seat in the back, chuckling at the worrisome aura surrounding the room. Once seated, however, a rotund butch waddled in bellowing out needless instructions. But alas, I was unable to listen due to her "distractions" (i.e.she wiped snot off her burnt orange mustache every 5 seconds).

Though I was slightly amused and thoroughly disgusted by these shenanigans, the repercussions proved to be drastic. Since I heard exactly zero words that came out of her mouth, I missed some fairly important instructions. Namely that there was an essay portion, and that it was the first part.

When the test began, I sat for a few minutes mulling over the essay question: Why? Why?...I thought it was a fuckin' joke. How is someone supposed to respond to that bullshit? So I raised my hand to ask her for help. She approached me slowly and hovered over close enough for me to smell the shit-flavored burrito she had for dinner last night.

After momentarily gagging, I politely asked her, "How would you respond to this piece of shit essay question? Also, before you start talking, would you mind taking a few steps back? Your breath smells like Ted Bundy's basement." With that, she took my test and pointed at the door without uttering a word.

Puzzled, I stood up for a moment and did all that I could to conceal my desire to slug the butch. So I smiled, thanked her for not opening her mouth and walked to the fan blowing at full blast in the back of the room. I then swiftly dropped my pants, pooed in one, and happily watched faces turn horrified as tiny pieces gave the room a much needed change of color.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

The Battle

One morning, I was engaged in a pleasant breakfast at a fancy, schmancy restaurant accompanied by my three favorite people: me, myself and I. In the midst of enjoying one of the most glutonous of meals (i.e. maple syrup on errything), I felt a familiar rumbling in my stomach. And so I paused, got up, and strolled to the bathroom where I planned to poo for the sake of pooing itself. A rarity for the world's foremost poo deployer.

And so I settled into one of three stalls enclosed in the marble-everything washroom, where I was serenaded by the sweet, hushed sounds of Kenny G's iconic soprano saxophone and the intermittent toots that accompanied my steamy shits.

At the moment, nothing could disturb this most tranquil experience bringing me immeasurable joy. Embellished by the fact I was able to enjoy all the pleasures myself. And so you could understand why my blood boiled when I heard footsteps approach, the adjascent stall door open, and another being settling down on the porcelain throne. This travesty would not stand.

So I did what I've done in similar situations of the past: prompt a game of Battle Shits. For those who've not viewed Harold and Kumar Go To Whitecastle- hailed as the greatest movie of all time by the most reputable of critics, me- one of the most memorable scenes in the movie features two blonde, British bombshells, competing for the most explosive noise/production combo in adjascent stalls. They dubbed this game Battle Shits.

Historically, when I've attempted to initiate this game, I recieve a polite refusal. And after incessantly badgering the victim thereafter, they usually can't take it and leave before they have a chance to deploy. But this bastard threw me for a loop. When I prompted the game, he responded, "Fuck yeah I'll play! I loved that scene in Harold and Kumar. It was the first time I laughed and splooged at the same time." Stunned, I pondered my next move while he struggled to rip ass. Fuggin' Nube.

I had to take things to the next level. So I grabbed an ample supply of toilet paper, took a shit in it, wrapped it and gracefully lobbed it over. Instant gratification overwhelmed me when I heard it land on the flesh of his balding head.

"We play hardcore 'round here mu'fuckah!" I yelled, relishing in my almost certain victory. Once I said this, there was a long pause. Then, a moan that grew louder and louder, followed by sobs and excruciatingly loud wails. He slowly got up and hobbled out of there muttering between heaves of sadness. Before he reached the door, however, I wanted to make sure he knew how little sympathy I had for him.

"Hey bitch!" I exclaimed. With the door half-opened, he paused and stood in momentary silence, bracing for my quib. "Don't hate the player, hate the game!" With that, he slammed the bathroom door and ran out of there crying like a little schoolgirl. Fuggin' Nube.

Monday, August 1, 2011

The Class

Columbia blows. The girls look like chewed up lunch meat, the guys aren't sophisticated enough for my advanced sense of humor and these professors expect me to sit through hour and a half long lectures without packing a lip. Are you fucking kidding me? I'd rather be in Auschwitz doing whatever it is they had to do there. With a full supply of lippers of course... Otherwise it would probably be a toss-up.

One day, while sitting in my History of Contemporary Art course (might as well be called Intro to Blowing Your Mind...With a Gun), my anxiety overwhelmed me. I felt trapped in my fully cushioned chair that might as well have been made out of a bed of rusty nails. I couldn't endure another minute, after only a minute in.

So I farted. And though the grimacing faces of the people sitting around me kept me mildly amused for a few moments, it was not enough. First of all, the gas that passed out my ass was a weakling (a low blow for my self-esteem) and second, there was still a dreadful amount of time left in class. Needless to say, I had to tap into my reserves.

I reached into my poop colored backpack for the bag of peppers, pulling out a jalapeno and three habaneros. Putting on my most brave face, I downed that shit in one gulp like a Kenyan being introduced to water. The effects were immediate-sweats and a burning sensation were present both inside and out of my body. I could feel the heat coarse down my esophagus into the innards of my gut, rounding up every missed bit of poo-to-be and transporting it into my colon. Upon its arrival into the most prized of organs, I got up and swaggered to the front of the room, feigning a bathroom break. Well, not exactly... I just didn't use a toilet.

As Professor Cockmunch paused to chuckle at his shitty art joke, I stopped in front of him and pulled down my trousers to paint his face brown. He staggered backwards, then tripped over the front side of his desk, eventually falling to the other side, body sprawled on the floor and chair in disarray. But before he could comprehend the situation, I walked over to the blackboard and in white chalk boldly wrote "All Art is Shitty". With my work just about complete, I put down the chalk, and slowly turned around to gaze at all the jaws that had just dropped to the floor. And as Cockmunch slowly brought himself to his feet, I walked out of the room with my hands silently telling everyone to go fuck themselves.

Monday, July 25, 2011

The Bad News

You can imagine my surprise when, after commiting such a heinous deed, I  recieved a warm welcome home from my mother. She was frolicking around like a little fucking preschooler yelling, "I'm so pwoud of my wittle boy! He's going to COLLEGE!" Flabergasted, I was almost too speechless to tell her to shut the fuck up. But I did.

"What the fuck has made you so extra delusional today. The only way I could have gotten in was if his bombshell secretary offered him a blowjob on the condition that I be accepted." I said nervously, thinking that she may be uttering the truth. And, seemingly unable to hear or comprehend my worried state, she said, "I received the call just minutes before you walked through the door. I am in disbelief. You must have nailed it! He was so funny. He said that he could tell you 'don't take shit from anyone, only give it. A most admirable character trait.' How whimsical! And I thought, 'that's my boy!' Golly, I'm so proud of you!"

I examined her wide smile (something I hadn't seen in years) and ogling eyes in disgust. I stood there horrified, realizing that for the first time in my life my rearend had failed me. My confidence was shot and my incomrehensible anger was excacerbated by bitch ma's prancing around all happy and shit. So I slapped her and headed to my lair to down my sorrows in a tin of grizzly. Four years of livin' the dream down the toilet.

Friday, July 22, 2011

The Interview

Even though I'm the most intelligent human being on the planet, bitch ma is incessantly insisting I attend college. Though I'm able to cast off her first few requests with a despondent "fuck you" or a condescending "Ya I'll go to college! Right after I pork a pig on the moon", the mild annoyance turns into an itch between the shoulder blades; one that I am unable to scratch.

To exact revenge, I decide I have to get a bit more creative by entertaining her request to fill her heart with joy, then crushing it by tarnishing the family name. No means no, ho. Since my father is on the board at Columbia, the only requirement for me to get in would be to nail the interview with the dean. And believe me, this is one interview he would never forget.

On judgment day I am more excited than a little boy whose been offered candy by a stranger driving an off-white minivan complete with fully tinted windows. Scratch that, I'm more excited than the fucking driver. Anyway, I awoke to the sunlight beaming through my windows in a mood that was uncharacteristically chipper. Especially pre-dingleberry. And I headed to my wardrobe to pick out the most dashing ensemble I could assemble.

I arrived a bit early to my destination, heading to the nearest restroom to produce a creation that would make John Crapper turn in his porcelain coffin. I concealed it tightly in a brown paper bag to mask the aroma and proceed to the room.

I opened the door slowly, taking in my surroundings. Wood-paneled floors evoked the scent of rich mahogany and walls covered with degrees evoked the stench of smugness. Though, I pretended to marvel at these pieces of paper by contorting my face in a look of awe.

"Impressive, isn't it?" he mutters with the most smug of expressions. "It certainly is sir. I hope I can achieve merely a fraction of what you have by the time I'm your age." I respond most pussily. He chuckled, and I feigned a smile as he called me over. As he reached out his hand, I walked over and very casually brought the dump filled bag into plain sight. "A present? For me?" The sucker remarked while I quickly flashed a conniving grin. "Oh yes. I made something very special. Just for you." But before he had a chance to say anything more, I whipped the bag across his face causing him to  fall to the floor with a thud, unconscious. I moseyed over to examine his poo covered face and stood over him, feeling like Tyson after he had his way with Holyfield. And to make sure he knew how much of an asshole I really am, I leaned over and whispered, "hope your day doesn't get any shittier." Then showed myself the door.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

The War

I enlisted to fight Bin Laden and his Koreans in Iraq. Upon arrival, however, they tell me the war is over and they're just spreading democracy. Cocksuckers. The only reason I joined this shit was because I got sick of Call of Duty and wanted a fo'real war...not some pussy policy implementation. So I wandered.

After a couple of days baking in the sun, getting super tan for those Afghani chicks, I saw a billboard that said, "Welcome to Afghanistan! Home of the world's finest poppy." I was ecstatic! So ecstatic, infact, that I packed a celebratory chaw and skipped my way into God's kingdom.

I have to admit, I wasn't exactly sure of what poppy was but I always heard latinas bellowing it in pornos- so I knew it had to be awesome. As I made my way to the marketplace, however, it became clear that these Afghanis did not share my enthusiasm. I received glares of disgust from the local males and though I couldn't decipher the faces of the women due to their latest weirdo fashion, I could tell they wanted my cock.

Anyway, as I gaily moseyed through the town, the crowds slowly dissipated, telling me something was up. Not thinking much of it at the time, I kept on my way seeking that elusive poppy. My mood shifted as I sensed that my presence was not welcome and that I could be in grave danger. And so I tried seeking refuge in a hospitable-looking mansion. When I was greeted at the door, however, my smile vanished and was replaced by sheer terror (similar to bitch ma's expression when she found the going away present I left in her pillow). I became transfixed by the man staring me in the face: Osama fuggin' Bin Laden.

I was fucked. He was locked and loaded and I was, let's say, a little disadvantaged. My only weapon was my God-given talent of rippin' ass and shootin' shits at the drop of a hat. I had to buy some time.
"I understand that you are going to blow me into oblivion," I start, "but I wish to ask you if I could have one last meal." He nods in approval while lowering his gun slightly. I take out the celebratory tin and shove the remains into my mouth, noticing Bin Fuckhead grimacing in horror.

"Ughhh...that must taste worse than camelshit!" As he says this, I swung my body and pulled down my trousers in one swift motion. And before he could fire a shot, I fire some ammo of my own. I catch a glimpse of the flying nuggets soaring through the air at awe-inspiring speeds. And within moments, the sandqueen lay perished on the house's welcome mat. I ran over to check for signs of life. To my relief, there was nothing but smeared poo across his face and a throat filled with some raucous nugs. Asphyxiation by shit was the apparent cause of death.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

The Mother

Looking back on my time in the womb, I can remember being so super, duper excited to enter this world. But immediately after I was pushed through the cunt (literally), I became aware that the grass is never greener on the other side. Especially within an earshot of my fucking no-good, dirty, rotten bitch ma. It was apparent at the onset when the doc handed me over to be cradled by her disgusting, mutany arms. At first glance I could not believe my eyes, but after about ten seconds it sunk in. And so I turned to the doctors and simply said, "You have got to be shitting me."

And it probably comes as no surprise that things have gone more downhill than Ricky Williams' football career. During the toddler years, it was only her face that made me want to fill my diapers on the hour, every hour. But once I entered early childhood, and her intolerable voice became a fucking screeching nag, I knew I had to up the ante.

At the tender age of 7, after learning that nicotine and caffeine are essentially laxatives, I consumed coffee, cigs and dippers by the pound. At first I would clog her toilet, leaving post-it notes saying, "Oops I did it agian" and "Sucks to suck shit-for-vag, have fun scooping this out with a spoon." But she quickly acclimated and started using my toilet without flushing.

After her retaliation, I dedicated my life to erase any bit of happiness the good-for-nothing cuntmuffin claimed. And so for a few years, I trained myself to produce any variety of dump imaginable on a moment's notice. Giant floaters,  hershey squirts, green goblins and heaps-a-nuggets consumed my every thought and behavior. I didn't care- the bitch should've had throat and face surgery and maybe I would have pooed a little less. Maybe...

The years I have dedicated to mastering this art has reaped immense benefits. Besides making my bitch ma incapable of happiness-it has fulfilled my own happiness; something many people spend their whole lives struggling to find. So kids, I will leave you with some final thoughts: "Deuces are useless unless put to use. Try saying that five times's really hard."