TMI Thursday: Phone Sex Phail

I'm not sure how much of an honor it will be, but I would like to dedicate today's post to Bev, because it's her birthday. Can you go wish her many happy returns on the day? I'll be busy taking my clothes off and baking myself in a cake and then mailing it all to New Hampshire. Thanks.

Even though Lilu has taken the constraining leashes off which day TMIs should be told, I've decided to follow through with my somewhat traditionalist predilections and keep it up on Thursdays. I mean, Jesus, I went to Notre Dame--clinging tenaciously to tradition is what we do!

Anyway, we're going to have another story today about the Ex-. You might remember that we were doing some long-distance shit for a while, so we would be forced to have a lot of phone sex and net sex while we were apart.

And if you haven't read those previous entries I've highlighted and linked, then perhaps I would do well to tell you that a lot of our phone sex adventures took place at the bookstore where I worked between college and grad school. The book store had a toll free number that you could call from anywhere in the country, and so she would dial me up after the store closed and we would chat while I was counting down the drawers. If all the other employees had gone and if neither the owner nor his wife were in the store, the conversations would get spicy. Fast.

Here's a slight sampling of a seamless segue between normal, how-was-your-day conversation to phone-sex lead in.

Me: Ah, excellent. All the money's accounted for and only a dime off. Well done, I says. Well done, indeed.

The Ex-: Good, because I've had my fingers in my cunt for the past five minutes.

We were just that awesome. And, yes, that was her favored euphemism for vagina.

[As an aside, I've used the word 'vagina' in a blogpost again; I wonder how many followers I'll lose today!]

This particular night was much the same; work was done, drawers were counted, genitalia were being rubbed.

We were going through our normal routine: me telling her how badly I wanted to be inside her whilst furiously pounding away at myself, she fingering herself and moaning into the phone that she wanted more, more, more. It was the midnight hour, after all.

Finally, I heard her gasping and moaning and a few strokes later I was exploding all over my hand and pants. Phone sex was most excellently accomplished once more. And, as with most sexual encounters late at night, we felt good and relaxed. Yawning soon commenced.

But that night, once was not enough for me. And so we chatted some more for about fifteen minutes when I started in with her again. And she was playing along, too. So, there I am, sitting at my desk, furiously massaging myself while telling her that I wanted to bend her over the side of the bed and come at her from behind. She's moaning and sighing and everything else, as well, telling me how badly she wants it, but she's a lot more quiet than the first time.

I don't care. I'm polishing my wood at my seat until, finally, with a raw, triumphant, carnal roar I ejaculate once more. Panting, breathless, I fall back into the seat, my eyes closed, a warm glow washing over me. I decide to tell her how great that was, how much I loved her, how badly I wished it had been her rather than my hand.

Me: Oh, wow, honey. That was...that was...phenomenal. *heavy breathing*

Ex-: *silence*

Me: Yeah...*panting*...I'm breathless, too.

Ex-: *more silence*

Me: Oh, God, I wish I could go for a third, but my cock feels pretty empty.

Ex-: *not a fucking word*

Me: *suspicious* Ex-? Honey? Darling?

Ex-: *gives me the Bob treatment*

Me: Ex-? Are you there? Hello? EX-!

But my words, like silent raindrops, fell and echoed in the wells of silence.

Confused, a bit hurt, I hung up the phone. I went over to the safe, spun the knob randomly (I did this every night as a "safety precaution"), cleaned myself up and turned out the lights. I made sure everything was locked and out the door I went. I sped home. At that point, I was more awake than asleep and so I ended up staying up playing around on the computer. As I was the youngest manager on the totem pole, I got stuck working every weekend, so I had the next day off. I think it was a Thursday.

I stayed up late with AIM on, hoping that my wonderful and sexalicious fiancee would be on the other end of the chat program. Unfortunately, she wasn't. So, I dicked around, and finally crumbled into bed. I woke up the next morning, ate my lunch, and hopped on the computer.

She was on.

So I sent her a message.

Me: Hey, what happened last night?

Ex-: I'm so embarrassed. I was so tired after the first couple of orgasms that I just sort of...fell asleep.

*sigh*

Nothing kicks you in the ego like your girlfriend admitting that she fell asleep during sex with you...even if it was just the phone sex.

TMI Thursday: Bedclothes

I am, as of right now, very lonely. My wife and the kids are headed to Nashville where they will meet with my mother-in-law all while avoid flooding aftermath and Country Music Awards people. My mother-in-law is then taking the kids on to Oklahoma to visit family out there for a couple of weeks before heading back up to Indiana for two weeks or so. My wife is coming back sometime tomorrow.

That leaves me the run of the house for the next 36 hours or so.

Unfortunately, they make me wear pants at work...

Anyway, remember a couple of weeks ago when I was doing that presentation to my daughter's class? Well, in order to show off the glowing water, I bought a blacklight because it gives off the right wavelengths in order to help certain molecules fluoresce. I figured I'd keep it for the novelty sake, and so I had it in my room but not put away. So, my daughter busts it out and is playing with it, and she shines it on the sheets of my bed.

Heh.

The sheets are solid black...however, certain areas of the sheets...*ahem*...fluoresced. Brightly. She thought this was cool. I, however, forced myself to stifle a laugh. I assume you've seen those exposes on the news where they take blacklights to hotel rooms to show all the residual bodily fluids left on the sheets and blankets and such. Well, this was the same thing, except it was my bed, and therefore (probably) my fluids.

And then the question came: "Why does it do that?"

She does have some idea as to why things fluoresce under a light like that--I mean, I haven't just taught her the important things, like how to read and write and shoot a basketball and what a zone blitz is. I mean, I've taught her some impractical things, too, like science.

I explained it away that it was glowing because there was some protein residue left on the sheets. She accepted it. I'm sure in a couple of years when The Talk is delivered, she'll suddenly be horrified and have to go all Goth in order to deal with the shock to her system. I'm fine with that. It helps a person grow.

So, I might need to wash those while the wife is away. You know, to freshen up the bedroom, help get her in the mood...

Although, once, that shit backfired on me. It was shortly after we had moved down here. My wife took Cookie with her down to visit her friend in Athens, Georgia one weekend, thus leaving me to hold down the fort at the apartment. Since I was younger, still as horny, and every bit as sick and twisted, I played around on some sites of ill-repute on the internet. Since no one else was in the house, I also felt the need to sleep naked.

And since I was naked and horny after checking out a lot of internet porn, I took care of business in our bed.

Oh, did I mention that we had white sheets at the time?

I also ate a lot of Mexican food that weekend, because it was cheap and I hate myself. This was all before I had my gall bladder removed, so I wasn't quite as leaky 'round back. All this Mexican food caused me to gas up like a blimp and so I laid in my bed--with the white sheets--and jerked off and farted to my heart's content.

I did put clothes on when a group of my friends came down from Virginia to visit me--four friends that I didn't tell my wife about. Two of them were girls, and one of them decided to shed her dark brown hair on the guest bathroom floor--a hair color which no one in my family possesses. All-in-all, it was a good visit. We sat around, shot the shit, told jokes and stories and all that. I even turned off the Notre Dame game in order to chat with my friends! And then we went and got some dinner--at a Mexican restaurant--and they headed back to Virginia. I had a good time. They had a good time.

After they left, I went back to exploring the internet's depravity and staining the sheets (I don't even know why). When I finally got up on Sunday, I looked at the deplorable state of our bed clothes and decided that I would wash them up so that my wife would be able to come home to fresh linens and a clean apartment.

Except, I didn't sweep the floor in the guest bathroom.

My wife comes home, finds the bed clean and made, the apartment clean, everything in order. And then she finds Kristen's hairs on the floor of the bathroom when we were giving Cookie a bath. So, there was a clean apartment, a bed that had been freshly washed and made, and hair from a strange woman's head on the bathroom floor. Yeah, nothing looks suspicious here!

So, I had to explain that I had some friends over and I had to reassure her that I had penetrated NONE of them. And then I had to explain to her why I had washed the sheets on the bed.

And then we went to dinner. At a Mexican restaurant.

TMI Thursday: Snowball

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TMI Thursday: A Valentine's Story

This is a story not for the faint-of-heart. Thanks to GregoryJ, the Puking Pumpkin should warn those of you with weak constitutions to stay away. For the rest of us, feel free to enjoy the following story. And, if you want more awesome tales of debauchery, check out Lilu's home and read other awesomely bad TMI Thursdays!

I'm not one to hate Valentine's Day. I mean, yeah, there's no proof that any Saint Valentine was in the Roman dungeons marrying Christians (turns out, there were maybe a dozen different dudes named Valentine who could have fit the bill), and I've told you before how St. Valentine's Day was linked to love based pretty much solely on the fact that Valentine's Day and the time when birds started mating coincided. Horny birds, for the win.

But, I like Valentine's Day, a little. Mostly because I can buy chocolate. And then eat it. Well, I can do that any day, but this is a nice excuse.

Plus, I enjoy the sex.

See, my lady is one of those types who, if you ply her with just the right amount of chocolates, coffee, cards with monkeys on them AND gift cards to her favorite stores, will open her thighs just enough for me to have a romping good time for three minutes before the crying and sobbing begins.

This was how I intended to spend my Valentine's Day.

Everything started off just dutchy. The children let me sleep in, my wife made coffee AND cranberry scones (heart-shaped, even), and after breakfast, my wife and I curled up together in bed.

Oh boy I thought, rubbing my hands together mentally, let the sexy time commence!

However, instead of sexy time, we fell into a blissful, exciting "nappy time". And not the kind of nappy that got Don Imus fired, but the kind that, as a parent, you relish whenever you can manage to steal a few minutes here or there.

I felt the mattress shaking, rousting me from my blissful dreams. It was my wife, going to the bathroom.

Huzzah! I told myself, dastardly twirling the ends of a mental handlebar mustache with a finger, she'll come back with no panties on and the sexy time shall commence!

My wife indeed did return to the bed. As she slipped beneath the covers, fully taking advantage of my body heat, she whispered in my ear. As her breath fell upon my flesh, my thighs quivered.

"You'll be happy to know," she said, softly, "that my period started during my nap."

I could almost hear that flushing sound effect played on the Price is Right when someone overbids on a product as the meaning of her words sank through my thick and healthy skull.

I sighed.

But then I brightened.

Hmmmm... I thought, pulling a mental cloak up over my features, hunching to the side and exiting stage right, perhaps this can be salvaged. Yes, perhaps there will be hand jobs, and blow jobs. Oh, and perhaps there will even be some naughty videos watched. Oh, yes, there is still potential. Sexy time has not yet been scuppered. Oh no, it has not!

We continued through the day, going to the library, grocery shopping, even delivering some Girl Scout cookies. All was well. We came home. Dinner was being prepared. And, oh, it was delicious. A nice little pasta dish with some diced chicken breast, some chopped up tomatoes, and some pesto sauce. Oh, it was a culinary delight!

And then, as dinner wound down, my bowels started winding up.

A look of terror struck my face as I felt something drop into my lower intestine, which was followed quickly by the gurgling sounds of a drain pulling a vortex of water into its gaping maw. Excusing myself, I went and sat upon my throne, ruling over the world I saw. I felt the pressure, but nothing was produced. I stood, and suddenly, with the weight of my viscera pressing down upon my bowels, things began to move. I sat back down and delivered a plug as solid and dense as concrete into the bottom of the bowl. I cleaned up, thought nothing more of it, and went about my business.

I went to the other bathroom, used primarily by the children, and began running a bath for my son. As I was shutting off the water, I felt a build-up, as if gas were trying to release itself from my nether regions. As my son was getting into the tub, I eased my backside a bit, thinking to release the tiniest of farts.

Immediately, I knew product was behind the pressure.

I threw myself upon the stool in the bathroom and proceeded to fountain liquid shit from my backside. The sound was one that I can only describe as a ripe watermelon being tossed into a wood chipper. As I finished up the first salvo, I leaned over to rinse my son's hair, breaking the seal my ass had on the bowl, and releasing some of the foulest, nastiest stink I've ever had the misfortune to experience into the atmosphere. Tears came to my eye, and I quickly replaced my ass on the seat to try and keep the stench held within.

I remained thus, occasionally depositing more liquid shit into the bowl, until my son was finished with his bath. I handed him the towel and helped him dry off. I sent him to his room to find some pajamas.

I quickly cleaned myself up and flushed away my shame.

I knew now that my plans had been dashed not only upon the rocky shores of Monthly Menstruation, but also upon the plains of Persistent Diarrhea Stench. Putting my kids to bed, I kissed their foreheads, wished them sweet dreams, and returned to my own room. I immediately stripped and showered, the hot water cleansing both my body and spirit. Finished, smelling remarkably better, I dressed for the night and crawled into bed, a beaten, sexually frustrated man.

The next day, when people asked me how my Valentine's Day went, I told them, with utmost honesty:

"Shitty".

A Midwinter's Night Tale

Fire up the coffee grinders, Ma, 'cause we're gonna have us a long day.

It all started last night. Partially because I'm too stupid to go to bed at a decent hour, and partially because I was trying really hard to muster the inspiration to finish another chapter in my current manuscript.

Down the hall, the Little Boy was coughing. And coughing some more. He's just getting over a cold, so we didn't think too much of it. But when he coughed and it sounded like product was behind it, then we panicked. Coupled with the crying, we knew we were in for some trouble.

As I went running into his bedroom, urging him to find a toilet into which he should deposit expectorate, I was punched in the face by an odor that came from the very bowels of...well...my son...but it smelled more like Satan himself had been eating kimchi and guacamole before going out on an all-night bender of vodka, everclear and souls. And then he pooped. Satan, not my son.

Well, I dunno. My son could have pooped. After he was done puking, that is. I wouldn't know because I went into action, wherein I started washing his puke-soiled bedclothes and pajamas. Using a plastic bag and a spatula, my wife mucked up the splatter and then scrubbed up the stain.

Let us pause here to remember one Han Solo, who, though he may have been made of plastic, suffered immensely during the Revolution of My Son's Stomach. He's in a better place now...which would be my kitchen sink, where I tossed him AND the spatula on my way past while running puke-sodden fabric articles to the washing machine.

As this was perhaps the foulest smelling thing that I had experienced since my last kimchi-vodka-souls bender, I decided to run the puke-filled bag out to the garbage can where some unknowing sap kind-hearted custodian would cart it away to the town dump in the wee hours of the morning. Hopefully, for his sake, it would have frozen by then.

However, as I was trotting, in my all fatherly glory, to the trash can at the end of the driveway, the herd of deer that live near my house decided to stampede run through my yard. You might remember my Seven Awesome Ways to Die, in which I am terrified of being attacked by a deer caught in mid-coitus. You can imagine that this noise, coupled with the large, bounding creatures in my vicinity, caused my heart to shiver and leap from my chest, abandoning me so that it could run back to the house. Deer: one; me: zero.

Finally, we settled back down, I went back to avoiding hammering away at my manuscript, and finally called it a night around 12:30. I tucked myself into bed and laid there, drifting off to sleep. I was ripped from my restfulness just as sleep was beginning to settle itself onto me by the sound of my wife's my guts churning. Quieting myself over the very normal sound of her my body, I began to drift off again, when I was ripped once more from the clutches of Lord Morpheus by the sound of the shower expunging a few drops of water that had finally slipped down to the faucet. Again, calming myself, I was beginning to slip into the dream world when I heard the boy berfing once more.

Another cycle of getting him to the bathroom, changing his pajamas, washing his covers. Finally, once everything had been settled down and he wasn't erupting forth into fountains of vomit, I settled my brain for another night's worth of nap. Except, now, I had a hard time sleeping because I kept hearing the dryer (you know, the new one), tossing the clothes and such around, and every so often something with a zipper would smack against the side of the drum. *sigh* I finally managed to find some fitful rest. I had maybe slept fifteen minutes when he was up again.

I'm often glad I have a penis. I love you, little guy. I mean, uh, I love you, long, thick, girthy guy! Yeah, that's more like it. I was very glad when the boy was calling for "Mommy" to come and help him. Of course, my wife had to ruin it by asking me if I would go get him some water to help wash the puke taste from his mouth.

Know your role, woman!

That just bought me two months of forced abstinence.

He puked at least two more times, but aside from the first two, he got to the bathroom and made his deposit in the bowl. And who says you get prepared for college only at school? Not my children! Puke in the toilet, or the sink, or in your almost girlfriend's trash basket! Not on yourself or in your own bed!!! All valuable lessons for maximizing your secondary-educational experience!

So finally, with a sum total of four hours sleep (maybe), I'm here. I'm upright. I'm thinking about being productive. As in, "Hey, wouldn't that be nice? To be productive? Right after this short catnap...Zzzzzzzz..."

However, if someone has a cot or a couch or a warm, pillowy bosom I may rest my head upon for fifteen, twenty minutes (or more, depending on how pillowy that bosom is...), let me know. I'll be right over.

Just, please forgive me if I smell a little bit like puke.

TMI Thursday: The Shaking of the Bed

If this does not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories, then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

Today is a friend of mine's birthday. Therefore, I shall tell you the most inappropriate story I think I can get away with. You see, when I was a sophomore in college, I roomed with said individual for a semester. We got along fairly well. We were friends, we kept to ourselves, we didn't annoy one another, and we had vastly different schedules.

Now, I'll preface this by telling reminding you, I jerked off a lot before I landed that sweet piece of redheaded Notre Dame undergraduate ass that I now call a wife. So, it's not like I'm casting the first stone here. I just jerked off when my room mates weren't in the room with me.

Anyway, in the room I shared with my friend, I had the bottom bunk, mostly because I had the room first and I'm somewhere around six four. With size fourteen shoes.

*ahem* Ladies. *tips cap*

Not to get off on too long and girthy of a tangent, I woke up one morning and something didn't seem right. Mostly because it seemed like the world was trembling. Not living in a fault zone, I wondered just what the fuck was happening when suddenly I realized that only the bed was shaking, and not the entire world.

And the mattress above me was the source of the shake.

My eyes grew wide as realization set in as to what was going on above me. I closed my eyes and willed myself to fall back asleep. However, try as I might, there was no return to dreamy happy land in the cards for me. So, I lay there during the entire event. At one point, someone next door opened a door, and my friend sat bolt upright in bed, because it sounded as if someone had opened our door. It was at that point that it was confirmed in my mind as to what was happening in the bed above.

Finally, he finished up, and only then did my mind allow me to fall back asleep. So, I slept fretfully for another hour until my alarm went off and away I went on my morning routine. My room mate was still in bed, now asleep.

The day passes and finally, it's the evening. I decide that I cannot keep this secret to myself anymore, so I head over to Scooter's room, where he and Young Bob are watching a movie.

"Guess what happened in my room this morning?" I said, only after hastily shutting the door behind me.

"What?" they both asked.

"I woke up, and the bed was shaking." I put a meaningful look into the last word. For a second, comprehension was lost on both of them. It was kind of cool because I could almost see the lightbulb turn on above their heads at the same time.

"Ooooooooooooooohhhhh!" they said in unison.

"Are you going to call him on it?" Young Bob asked me.

I shook my head. "I jerk off plenty. Just usually when he's not there."

Scooter thought that this was the mature thing to do. So, I dropped it, kind of put it out of my mind.

That is, until the next morning. And the morning after that. And the morning after that.

For a solid week, I woke up earlier than normal only to find the bed shaking. Toward the end of the week, it just became amusing. I tried not to giggle. I did think about kicking the mattress once and yelling out "hurry it up". I didn't, though. I'm classy like that.

And then, I never woke up to that again. It was all very odd.

Fast forward about a year. Young Bob is hanging out in Scooter's room again (it was a common place to convene in the evenings) and my friend slips into the room. And, for some reason, he's in full-on confession mode. So, he starts telling them about all of his masturbatory habits. How often, whom he thinks about, which hand he uses...pretty much everything. But then, here's the clincher: my friend then tells Young Bob and Scooter about how he's amazed that he's never been caught.

Young Bob and Scooter lose it. They just start laughing right there. I think they covered it by telling him "Good job, good job. That's a lot of work to not get caught."

But they knew. And, as soon as I came by after working in the computer labs, they needed to divulge this little tidbit of information to me, as well. We all had a hearty laugh over that. None of us admitted to my friend, however, that I woke up several mornings with the bed shaking and just never said anything to him.

The one thing that we still wonder about, though: where did he keep it after he was done and presumably messy?

TMI Thursday: The Towering Poo-ferno

If this does not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories, then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

So, be honest. How many of you thought that I only had two days' worth of material after coming back from Thanksgiving with my wife's family? No, friends, lovers, co-workers and various other internet folk, two days was not enough. The third day, in fact, is a TMI post. That's three days worth of material.

Speaking of three days worth of material...Nah, let's just get on with the story.

I have decided to dedicate this post to becky's friend Bruin, the poop-eating dog. Follow the link and you'll understand why.

I was warned before we got there that my wife' aunt and uncle had a special kind of sewage system in their subdivision. Essentially, what I was warned, was that it wasn't very powerful, and could get clogged easily. My wife said "You'll have to be careful about how much you put down the toilet at one time." I heard "I don't care how tightly you have to clench, don't use the crapper."

This was my plan. I mean, we were going to show up Wednesday night and leave sometime on Friday so that my wife could get back at a decent time for work on Saturday morning. No problem. Sure, I'm a man what likes to poo and all, but I can hold out for a little under 48 hours, right?

Plus, I have this issue that, when I travel, I usually have a little problem making when I first show up in my habitat. Most likely, it's because I don't drink enough water while driving from Point A to Point B. I think we know why.

So, there we were. Wednesday night, no problem. Sure, my body is missing my special quiet stinky time, but I don't need to poo. Time to sleep and, since I've never had an issue where I shit the bed, Fred, there should still be no problem.

Thursday rolls around and, yeah, sure, my pants are feeling a little tight around the waist, but I'm good. I got this. I don't care how much cold ham I'm throwing in on top of this. I can handle it. I can do it. Half a roll? I'm good. Teaspoon of mashed potatoes? Bring it on.

As the day moved along on Thursday, I had rehydrated enough that I could feel some movement, but nothing too bad. I could make it through the day. Whoops. There's a little pooter. But that's alright. Nothing behind it. Hell, it didn't even stink too badly. *cough*cough*eyes watering* Yep. Doesn't smell too bad at all.

Friday morning and, hey, we're leaving in a few hours! Good thing, because I've got a pretty solid heavy feeling down below and the poots are coming a little more often now. No problem! We'll just get on the road and I'll stop somewhere for drinks and to fire off a Paul Bunyan-esque log. Babe the Blue Ox will be so proud! I got this. No problem.

Hmmm...this French toast thing isn't sitting too well. It's pressing down on the load beneath it. Not much to worry about, though. We'll be on the road soon.

Wait? What's that, dear wife? We're taking the kids to the park in a little bit? But, I've got the car packed. Everything's ready to go. Okay, okay, fine. We can go to the park. It's a lovely day. It'll be fun. Yeah. No problem. I'll just go when we're on the road.

*shifting uncomfortably in my seat*

Hey, uh, are we going to the park soon?

Oh.

Hmmm. That one stinks. Oh, and, hey. Turtling! We're sticking around for lunch, too? After the park?

Dammit.

Hold my calls. I'll be back.

So, I head off to the restroom that's right beside the room where my mother- and father-in-law are sleeping that's nearest at hand. I can deny this no more. I've got two and a half days of shit that needs to be released, and it's not waiting anymore.

I drop trou. I sit. I see the little placard that is required, by law, to be in every bathroom in the house. Ah, they have an effluent sewage system. Okay. Nothing other than solid waste and toilet paper can go down the toilet. Fine. I'll try not to drop my tampons or my cigarette butts down the toilet. Heh. They say I can't flush condoms down the drain. Guess my wife will have to swallow. Heh. I'm so fucking funny.

Okay. This is serious business now. The fury is about to be unleashed.

My friends, have you ever taken a shit so massive that you feel empty afterwards? Maybe not empty, but hollow? You know, the kind where you swear you can feel something moving up under your arms as you're feeding poo slowly into the awaiting mouth of the deuce-gobbler? That's what I felt that Friday afternoon. Well, that and sweet, blessed relief. I might have started singing hymns I was so happy to be rid of that turdlog. I'm pretty sure my toes curled as I let it go.

The curious thing though? I heard no splashing. No plopping. No dropping. No spray on my ass as solid hit water. Apparently, I force-fed a mighty, unbroken leg of lamb down the toilet.

Finally, relieved, I stood to clean myself. Looking back, I saw something that, frankly, frightened me. Not only was it long, as I had surmised, but it was multi-colored! Worse, it was girthy.

As I stood, transfixed by the incredible mass of shit that had just left my body, it began to move. No, don't worry. There was nothing living inside of it. I stood there and watched as it collapsed under its own weight!!! Impressed, I gave it a golf clap. And then I flushed.

And then I flushed again.

And then I began to clean myself up.

And I flushed again.

And I finished cleaning myself up.

And I flushed again.

And then I gave everyone a courtesy flush.

It was a first for me, dear friends (well, those of you who made it this far, anyway): a five-flusher.

I'm not sure what an effluent sewage system is, but I'm fairly certain that, if it has any sort of sentience about it, it's demanding I be banned from the neighborhood ever again.

The best part? My pants fit better. And that was important, just in time for lunch and all. Yes, indeed, did I feel better.

And then, to spite them all, I heated the ham up in the microwave.

TMI Thursday: What, I'm Three Again?

If this does not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories, then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!


You might have heard me mention that I did my graduate studies at the University of Notre Dame. Heard of it? It's a little Catholic institution situated in the midst of the Great Lakes basin. I hear they've won a football game or two? Something like that. Anyway, the coach is involved in some sort of imbroglio here of late, involving something about inept defenses or something. I don't know of these things.

Anyway, whilst a fresh-faced chemist, still hellbent on making the world a better place, one sp3-hybridized orbital at a time, I met an equally fresh-faced (and large-breasted) redheaded lass hellbent on making the world a better place, one Latin declension at a time. We met for some coffee and a little talk, sipped the coffe on the bench outside her dorm, and then parted ways. A few nights later, we met again for some scintillating discussion of middle Gaelic, a lecture which captivated my attention like no other, causing me to cling to the edge of my seat, wondering how that man was going to roll his r's and elide his l's this time. I was so captivated, I believe I snored.

A few months later, we married. A few months after that, she burst forth with child. Roughly a year after that, she left to live with her mother and father while I worked diligently on the final few reactions and molecules and the requisite characterizations of these compounds. Oh, how I adored the HPLC then, my friends.

But this isn't a tale of love between a man and a highly-efficient purification machine. No, this is a story about a trip.

So, my wife and daughter, when she was 11 months old, moved to Charlotte, NC with my mother- and father-in-law. As the days continued to drag on and on, and I was busy throwing beautiful samples of my highly-unstable and difficult-to-purify aldehyde on the floor of the NMR room, depression set in. I was living with my friend, Dr. Assy (who was just Candidate Assy at that time), and despite the fact that we would get a coffee every morning, he didn't much care for spooning. Nor for me gently cupping a breast during a chilly autumn evening.

This caused me to, one weekend, decide that, dammit, I wanted some sex I should go see my family. So, I loaded myself into my car (a Ford Contour, the Pantie-Liner of Sedans) shortly after noon and jumped onto the interstate that runs just north of Notre Dame's campus. On the way to the on-ramp, I fueled up at the world's slowest gas pump, which caused me to wander into the store to buy chocolaty comestibles. As I was wandering toward the counter to pay up for my provisioning, I thought I'd buy a bottle of water and a diet cola to slake my thirst while I drove. It was, after all, a ten-hour trip...at least. Since it was a long trip, I decided to buy the 32 ounce bottle of water. Makes sense, right? Sort of.

So, I paid for my food and I paid for my gas and I paid for my drinks. I got in my car and I got onto the Indiana Toll Road and I headed east. Four and a half hours later, I was in Cleveland, turning south onto I-77, which would take me to Charlotte. I had made this drive a few times, so I knew where my favorite places to stop were: New Philadelphia, OH (the home of legendary Ohio State football coach, Woody Hayes!) and Fancy Gap, VA (Smack in the middle of Frank Beamer Country...And Don't You Fucking Forget It!).

New Philadelphia is a fantastic little burgh clinging to the interstate in eastern Ohio where I could fuel up fairly cheaply, and right next door to the gas station was a Taco Bell, so I could gas up there, too. And then right across from the Taco Bell was a store promising to service all of my adult needs. In my book, that's a win-win-win situation.

So, as usual, I got off at New Philadelphia (heh) and I gassed up at the BP and then I gassed up again at the Taco Bell and then I somehow managed to avoid the Sirens' song offered by the lovely ladies of New Philadelphia, OH. How I did it without pouring wax into my ears, I'll never know. But, I managed to get back onto the interstate and continue to hurtle myself south toward West Virginia at break neck speed (I assume 75 mph to be break neck speed).

Did I mention that I got a large Mountain Dew at Taco Bell in New Philadelphia? Yes. I figured I could use the caffeine to stay awake and, thusly, alive while I drove through the Virginias. Hi-oh! This train wasn't stopping until Fancy Gap. Punch in the coordinates for light speed and we're off, Chewy.

A few hours later, and I was beginning to feel the unmistakable sensation of my bladder filling up. You know the feeling. The one that tells your brain "Hey, gotta take a piss." Yes, well, I ignored it. I was in West Virginia when the urge first hit and, well, West Virginia is a beautiful state. I wouldn't want to sully it with my urine. So, onward I pressed.

The urge began to grow more pressing the further south I went. It didn't help that the lap belt was stretched across that area just north of my Howdoyoudo, applying extra pressure on my rapidly filling bladder. You know what else didn't help? I kept drinking the fucking 32 ounce bottle of water.

Finally, just south of Wytheville, VA, I'm really feeling it. You know, that urge to piss so badly that you think your bladder is about to pop like a child's balloon or that dream bubble in which you're having hot monkey sex with Melissa Joan Hart? Yes, well, that's the feelings my bladder was sending to my brain.

Actually, it was telling me, "Listen, asshole, either empty me or I'm gonna 'splode all over your insides. Do you really want piss on your intestines? No? Then pull the fuck over!" My bladder tends to have a piss-poor attitude when it's rapidly filling.

It's not as shitty as my colon when I get backed up, though.

God, I'm punny.

"Hold on, Little Buddy," I kept telling my bladder as I read the mile markers, "It's only 23 more miles and then I'll empty you out."

It got to the point where I was shifting back and forth in my seat to relieve the pressure on my distended bladder. Finally--blessedly!--the sign telling me Fancy Gap was a mere mile away hove into view. Relief was a scant five thousand, two hundred and eight feet away!

I exit at the fanciest gap in all of Virginia and make my way over to the BP, a glowing green-and-gold oasis offering me the promise of gasoline, flushable toilets, a rather surly-looking attendant behind the counter wearing a faded Virginia Tech hat, and more chocolaty goodness for the last 100 miles of my journey. I pull up to the station, arching my back because I have to pee so badly and I think that this particular way of holding my body will offer the most relief.

Now, when it comes to using public facilities, I'm one of those people who hates using their somewhat clean toilets without offering a little restitution. So, I get out of the car, stretch, feel the cool night air upon my flesh, and simply soak in the fact that I'm not crammed into the pilot's seat of a Ford Contour (the Pantie-Liner of Sedans). I decide that my first purchase shall be approximately ten and a half gallons of gasoline. I slide my card into the reader, insert the nozzle into the gas tank, and pull the lever. A rush of gasoline cascades into the car's interior tanks.

At this point, I'm doing a little shuffle back-and-forth from one leg to the other, the whole time clenching those muscles in my groin that both make my dick dance back and forth and also keep me from pissing. I'm about halfway done filling my tank when the inevitable happens.

My bladder rebels. The muscles used to clench my urethra closed fail. And once the seal has been broken, the diet soda, the Mountain Dew, and the water all come rushing out. At once. While I'm still filling my car up.

Yes, like a three-year-old learning to use the potty, I had an accident.

You know, kind of like if the Hoover Dam suddenly, catastrophically fails, you could call that an "accident".

Of course, I wasn't wearing jeans or something dark colored that could hide my shame. No, as I stood there in my piss-soaked shorts, the faded green khaki color turned a very noticeable forest green. And I pissed so much and so hard that it soaked through my boxer-briefs and shorts and actually made a cascade onto the concrete.

Finished, and with as much dignity as I could muster, I replaced the hose for the gas line. I put the gas cap back in the tank. I closed the cover over the gas cap. I went to the trunk and pulled out a pair of fresh boxer-briefs and shorts and, holding them so that they hovered over my soiled crotch, I made my way into the BP. Thank whatever deity you believe in, the BP at Fancy Gap, VA is not nearly as swinging a joint as you might imagine at 10 pm on a Friday night. Only the surly-looking attendant at the counter and someone talking to him about bass boats saw me. They barely acknowledged me as I went back to the restroom, relieved whatever else had built up in my bladder after shaming myself at the pump station, and dropped my pants onto the floor. I changed quickly, rolling the soiled shorts and underwear up, and made my way back out to the car. I threw them in the trunk. I tried my best to forget the whole thing ever happened.

Then here's a curious thing: I went back into the service station and bought another drink!!! And, of course, some more chocolaty goodness for the ride down to Charlotte. I told you I'm one of those people who feels compelled to purchase something when I piss in someone's parking lot public restroom.

The rest of the trip to Charlotte was without urinary incident. I found my way to my in-law's house and my wife was very happy to see me. She met me at the door, and hugged me, and was very happy to have me back in her possession for a couple of days. I then went back out to the car to get my things. I gathered up my bag and some writing material and...I left the piss-soaked clothing in the car. I figured it better not to bring that up in the presence of my in-laws.

And then, as I was walking back into the house, the dog from up the street mauled me.

Fucking asshole dog.

TMI Thursday: Me and Mr. Wodka Don't Hang around Where We're Not Wanted

Let's head back in time to that magical era I called my sophomore year of college. It was early spring of 1996, and for some reason, I had not been involved in the theatre production that had just wrapped up. I think it had something to do with my work schedule.

Despite having missed the show, I was invited to one of the cast parties because I was a regular. Being that I felt like throwing caution to the wind and actually having a little fun, I decided to head on down to the party. Accompanying me was the other two legs of my Unholy Triangle, Scooter and Young Bob. You might remember them from the infamous "White Chair Incident". And Young Bob was the camera operator for Sparkle Belly. Rub my nipples.

We finally roll into the shindig there on second Justin West, and immediately I grab a beer and start drinking. What fun is college with alcohol-fueled shenanigans? Alright, alright, it can be fun without the booze, I know. But, seriously, I'm not one to pass up free booze. This could be downfall, as we'll soon see.

Foreshadowing aside, I down the first beer rather quickly. Not feeling anything, I get a second. Again, it's gone painfully fast. Time for a third. What the hell is this I'm drinking? Water? Oh, Miller Lite. Same fucking thing. But, it's college. I give myself a pass. Plus, hello, free beer = good beer. Not always true, but in college, it's a 90% win rate.

When it comes time for my kids to go to college, I'm going to teach them a few rules. The first one will be "Liquor before beer, in the clear; beer before liquor, sicker quicker." This is a talk I wish my father had had with me, but since my mother threatened me with bodily harm if I even so much as touched alcohol in college, I left for Rensselaer, IN with a wide, innocent-eyed view of my future. You have to remember that in high school, I was a much different person than I am now. Alcohol? Me? Never!

Back to the party. Not only did I head off to this party with my good friends Scooter and Young Bob, I also arrived with a healthy lust for a Croatian honey that we'll call Amy. We'll call her Amy because she's in the army now and I'm pretty sure she could kill me with a look if I used her real name. So, Amy it is!

Anyway, Amy was this beautiful first-generation Croatian girl that I had been sprouting wood for since we both arrived at St. Joe in fall of 1994. As I was in one of the "off again" periods with the Ex-, I felt that anything and everything was fair game. Did I ever mention that I have a thing for Slavic people? They are a beautiful race of individuals, in my opinion. Amy had dark hair, gorgeous, big, round brown eyes, and a singing voice that would make the gods themselves weep. Plus, she had big tits.

Amy showed up at the party, but didn't stay long. She came in, got a drink, and mingled for a moment or two and then left. I had waded about four or five beers deep into the Sea of Debauchery when I saw Amy show up. I sauntered over to the bar, struck up a feeble attempt at conversation, and then asked what she was drinking. It was a college party, so it wasn't like I was going to go all captain smooth here and try to buy her a drink. She was having a screwdriver, medium vodka.

'Fuck,' I thought--though hazy my mind may have been--'if she can handle a medium vodka screwdriver, I can handle a heavy vodka screwdriver.'

"Can I get one, too?" I asked the lovely Mandy, who was manning the bar and hosting the party. "Heavy on the vodka."

I'm pretty sure that the lovely Mandy upended the bottle of vodka into my cup and whispered the words "orange juice" over the top of it. When this young woman made a drink heavy on the vodka, the stock price of Smirnoff shot through the roof. Like an idiot, I drank it.

Up to this point, I was largely a vodka virgin. I knew what it was, that it made an excellent drink, and that it largely had no flavor. I also knew that it was a bit tricksy when it came to you feeling drunk. You drink it, and then you don't feel all that drunk. However, suddenly--WHAM-O!--you're fucking blotto and quoting lines from Crime and Punishment. What? I love me some Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov.

So, here I am, stumbling mingling about the party with my half-consumed bucket of vodka and I'm not feeling drunk. In hindsight, I'm acting drunk, but not feeling it. Case in point. Remember, I came to the party with Scooter and Young Bob. Now, Young Bob was not one to drink. He didn't like the flavor of alcohol and he was one of those who enjoyed staying sober and laughing at the stupid antics of us drunk motherfuckers. Scooter was a bit more of a casual drinker. He got a drink, nursed it through most of the night, and usually left a party feeling buzzed but not drunk.

Me? I'm Barney Gumble.

Early on, we had met this cat named Robert. He was a friend of the lovely Mandy's (host of the party), and Scooter was chatting him up all night long. Robert was pretty cool. I came over and asked them, "Hey, how you guys doing?" and Scooter responds with "We're good. We're talking about comics." I think he was trying to lure me into the conversation, maybe to play wingman. I dunno. Things have gotten a little hazy at this point.

I stare at Scooter and Robert with a very serious look on my face. "Awesome," I say, "Comics RULE!" *insert requisite fist pump to accentuate the word 'RULE'*

Having finished the screwdriver, I decided I wasn't nearly drunk enough. So, I head back up to the bar. Now my friend Kurt is manning the bar.

"What can I do you for, my good man?" Kurt asked.

"I think I need something to drink. I'm not nearly drunk enough," I respond.

"Shot of vodka it is."

Kurt pours me a shot of vodka.

I down the shot of vodka.

"Nope, not drunk enough."

"Shot of vodka it is."

Kurt pours me a shot of vodka.

I down the shot of vodka.

"Nope, not drunk enough."

"Shot of vodka it is."

Kurt pours me a shot of vodka.

I down the shot of vodka.

"I think we're getting there." I say. I put my arm around a talking zebra that I befriended somewhere between the second and third shot and we stagger away from the bar.

(In case you couldn't tell, there was no zebra.)

I find Young Bob.

"You're drunk," Young Bob says. He has a mastery of the obvious.

"Yesh," I slur. At this moment, It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine) by R.E.M. is queued into the stereo.

"Oh my God," I say, wide-eyed. "Thish ish the besht shong! I know all the wordsh." I try to sing along, muttering and mumbling everything except for Leonard Bernstein (naturally).

Young Bob shakes his head. "Bitch, you couldn't do that sober. You're just embarrassing yourself, drunky."

"I got 'em all," I insist. "I jusht shang too fasht for you to hear."

What happened after this, I'm unsure. However, I know that Amy the Croatian Honey had left the party. At this point, I'm drunk AND horny. I start hitting on something close by. Now, when I say I'm drunk, I mean really fucking drunk. People, I started hitting on one of the Stankus girls. Swear to anything and everything I know that's holy, Stankus was their last name. I'm pretty sure Stankus is Latin for "disease-ridden sulfurous pit". Yes, I'm referring to that particular pit.

Finally, I end up out in the hallway. It's well past midnight, but it's before quiet hours (which started at 2 am), and I'm beginning to feel the copious amounts of vodka that are now coursing through my veins. As the Bolshevik Revolution was playing out in my liver, I felt the need to escape the pounding music and the close quarters. The hallway was a great place to do this.

Young Bob accompanied me. We were standing there, talking. Well, he was talking, I was slurring shit together into incohesive incoherency. There was a lull in the conversation, and as the Russian army continued pounding through my vasculature, my stomach suddenly turned into the Romanovs. They needed to get out of the country, and they needed to get out NOW!

Being that I'm a polite drunk, I simply walk away from Young Bob. He turns to tell me something, and I'm gone. I'm down the hall. A trashcan is in my sites. I walk over to it, stare at it, and then I fountain into it. And by fountain, I mean a raging torrent of alcohol-tinged vomit comes rushing out of my piehole, splattering noisily against the back of the trashcan, and landing in the bottom. I can identify dinner. I think I can identify lunch. It was brown. It was chunky. I remember it tasted like pasta sauce and vodka. The flavor clings to my palate to this day.

Not all of it went into the trash can. When I puke this violently, it comes out my nose, too, and so there was some left-overs on my upper lip. I needed help. I looked up. The only person around me was my nemesis: Vanzetti. Yes, he was related to that Vanzetti. For some reason, we strongly disliked each other.

But, I was desperate.

"Oh my God, Vanzetti, could you get me some paper towels?" I asked in my most pathetic voice. Vanzetti's girlfriend at the time lived on the same floor as the party, and he had walked down the hall to use the bathroom. I saw him as he was headed into the toilets. A few seconds later, he re-emerged, carrying some paper towels. I thanked him, wiped up, and proceeded to puke some more.

I heard Young Bob at the end of the hallway ask Vanzetti, "Is he throwing up." Later, Young Bob related to me that Vanzetti paused and then said with a look of horror on his face: "Oh. God. Yes."

Having emptied my stomach of everything, I was feeling better, but still drunk. I return to standing in the hall with Young Bob. The world is spinning. It's almost 2 am.

"We should get going," Young Bob says. I think he's more worried about the fact that I just puked up my internal organs than it being late.

"Just a sec," I said. I stopped the Stankus girl in the hallway. "315 Gallagher. It's almost 2 am. Come by before they lock the doors."

Young Bob and I wander back across the quad. Together, we mount the stairs to the third floor. All is silent. I pour myself into my room and strip because, hey, there's a Stankus on her way, right? I'm still powerfully drunk. I lay down in just a pair of red Indiana shorts. Sleep claims me immediately.

If there was a knock at the door, I'll never know. However, I do know that the fucking fire alarm went off at 3:15 am. And there I was, wearing only a pair of Indiana shorts that are indecently too short. I pull myself from the alcohol-fueled reveries and fall down the three flights of stairs to the safety of the outside. It is fucking freezing outside. I am wearing just a short pair of shorts. I am still drunk.

Finally, after fifteen minutes, we are allowed back in. I am cold. I am drunk. I am so cold and drunk, I cannot sleep. Finally, after an hour, I fall asleep. The next morning, I woke up sick. And hungover. And with a healthy distaste for vodka.


If this does not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories, then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

Concerning 102

Did you hear? I hit 100 Followers last week! Oh, right, I dedicated two posts to it. I guess you have heard.

Anyway, I acknowledged number 101, which was Jeney, last week. However, I've kind of neglected number 102. Well, I mean, aside from making fun of him some. See, I can do that. I know him.

Number 102 is my cousin, Napoleon. We first met Napoleon back when I told you about my made up girlfriend, Sarah Klein. He's the one who told my mom that my made-up girlfriend and I were going to be having the sex, and I got in trouble for it. He certainly made my childhood interesting.

So, a couple of weeks ago, Napoleon sent me an email detailing about how he was preparing for a tour of duty in Iraq. He's part of the Indiana National Guard, and he's already spent a year in Afghanistan. In the email, he added a link to his blog where he was detailing his latest adventures in the Middle East. However, the link in the email was broken.

Feeling like a dutiful person, I reported back to him that it was broken. He said he'd look into it, and then I told him that he might want to use Blogspot or Wordpress (I think he was using blog.com or something). I was pretty happy to see that he was writing a blog because that would keep me in touch with him, plus, since he's dyslexic, I thought that writing could only be a good thing for him.

A couple of days later, I got an email from him saying he now used Blogspot. A couple of days after that, and I picked up my 102nd follower.

Now, you know I can't leave the story off there, right?

One fine summer day, while we were at The Lake, my cousin Napoleon and I were hanging out on our shaded lot along with our friend Tammy. We were probably around twelve or so at the time. Napoleon had gotten himself a big bag of M&Ms from somewhere, and since he has a heart of gold, he was sharing his M&Ms with us. Tammy and I, however, kind of decided to play a bit of a prank on Napoleon.

You know how, when you're about that age, you titter and tee-hee about how eating green M&Ms will make you horny? Well, we shared this information with Napoleon, and just sort of rolled his eyes. That's when we decided to append the different colors of M&Ms to different afflictions. We told him the red ones would make him mad, and that the orange ones would make him shy and cause him to blush. We then told him that the yellow ones would make him pee a lot, and that the brown ones would give him terrible diarrhea. He scoffed at our childish attempts at humor, took his M&Ms, and went home.

Fast forward by one day, and my father is walking by the bathroom window down at the other cottage. We didn't have air conditioning at our lake cottages, and so the windows had to be open all the time. My father hears Napoleon in the bathroom, moaning in pain.

"Napoleon!" my father calls through the window, "What's wrong?"

"I've got diarrhea," he moaned. "Badly."

"You okay?" my father asks.

"Yeah," Napoleon yelled back, "I just need to stop eating the brown M&Ms!"

"Eating the brown M&Ms? Where the hell did you get a silly notion like that?"

"Matt and Tammy told me yesterday when I was eating all my M&Ms. And today I have diarrhea."

Behold, the power of suggestion.