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.