Archive for April, 2007

Do you think he got that name on Ellis Island?

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on April 5, 2007 @ 10:25 am
in happy hour and sex
. 20 Comments

A while ago my brother Mokie was at a bar to see a friend’s band, and while in the bathroom he noticed this:

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I’m pretty sure that Glen Burnie is one of the last places in Maryland that still provides condom machines. Which is ironic because you can’t swing an abandoned baby by its umbilical cord around here without hitting a pregnant teenager who’s smoking and drinking a beer out of a paper-bag. You may recall that I found a condom machine in The Wharf Rat at the last blogger happy hour. But that machine just dispensed condoms. Sure, one of the condoms was a French Tickler, but it was just condoms. You have to come to Glen Burnie to find a condom machine that also dispenses “novelties”.

It was only a year ago that I got this “Rubber Check” novelty from a dingy bar in the Dirty Burnie, and at this point, you may see a pattern developing. Apparently my brother and I have a penchant for finding out what type of horrible crap we can get to fall out of the condom machines. In this most recent case, it was “Porn O’ Plenty”.

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Can you imagine if some poor Irish bastard was actually named Porn O’ Plenty? He would be the greatest Irish porn star after Colin Farrel. The name is just so meta. He could be in a movie called Porn O’ Plenty, about himself, Porn O’ Plenty, and what would the movie feature? Well Porn O’ Plenty of course, and by that I mean a veritable human mountain of slithering, sweaty copulation. It’s so meta!

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Anyway, you can tell the porn is going to be fresh because it was packaged in 1981. That means that the woman on the cover has probably already had the “I was young and needed the drugs” talk with her children. Starlets can’t live on booze alone. They need coke to get that glazed-over, dead-eyed look that the men love. Also, what the hell is a “Federal Pharmacal”? It’s not quite a pharmacy, and it’s not quite a pharmaceutical, but it’s federal, so you’ll probably wake up with an aching orifice and a case of the clap.

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The whole thing then unfolds to reveal a little pink piece of paper. Little pink pieces of paper typically don’t provide the proper medium for portraying pornography, so you’ve got to wonder at this point what the hell is actually inside this so-called Porn O’ Plenty.

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Oh, hooray! It’s a horrible chain letter! If you can’t read the letter, I’ll reproduce it for you here:

-CHAIN LETTER-

Dear Friend,

This chain letter started with the hope of bringing relief and happiness to all tired husbands.
Unlike most chain letters, this does not cost money.
Simply send a copy of this letter to six of your married friends who are equally tired.
Then bundle up your wife and send her to the man on the top of the list and add your name to the bottom of the list.
When your name comes to the top of the list you will receive 16,487 women and some dandies.
Have faith in the letter- ONE MAN BROKE THE CHAIN AND GOT HIS OLD LADY BACK.
Don’t let this happen to you!
Sincerely,
A GOOD FRIEND

P.S. At this time of writing, a friend of mine had received 356 women. They buried him yesterday and it took seven undertakers 36 hours to get the smile off his face. AGAIN, I SAY, HAVE FAITH.

Ignoring the misogyny inherent in suggesting that women and wives can be treated as a commodity that can be shared and traded without any regard to their health or well-being for the benefit of some lecherous old man’s dream of booting his wife and getting a nubile young bride with all the perkiness of a candy-striper sent to satisfy his lascivious and salacious urges, this is still one of the unfunniest things I have ever read. Off the top of my head I can think of about a dozen things that would be funnier than that chain-letter, the stupidest of which would just be the word “BONER” printed in all caps with an exclamation point and no explanation whatsoever to the poor sap who bought the thing.

I just can’t wrap my mind around how stupidly bad it is, and on top of it, I have no idea what they’re talking about when they say “and some dandies”. Do they mean that some of the women will be quite good looking, suggesting that the bulk of women would be horrible old hags? If that’s the case, then why the smiling dead guy? By dandies do they mean gay men? I just can’t figure it out, and it hurts my brain that something so utterly devoid of humorous content would be able to dominate as much of my time as it already has.

Something to cleanse the palate

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on April 4, 2007 @ 9:49 am
in uncategorized
. 14 Comments


Tiny meows at 1:00 and 1:20!

Speaking of poo

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on April 4, 2007 @ 8:59 am
in food and potty humor
. 9 Comments

- On Sunday Mrs. ACW and I were tempted to try a bottle of Pepsi Jazz Strawberries and Cream. There was a coupon stuck to the front of the soda case, so we thought, “What the crap?” and gave it a try. Her first reaction, “Hmm. It’s hard to say what this tastes like.”

My first reaction, “This tastes exactly like the multi-purpose cleaner we used to clean the toilets at the pool smelled.”

We put it in the fridge and forgot about it until that night. We both had only had a few sips, so I mixed the remainder with a little pineapple juice, orange juice, lemonade, and some banana rum to kill the horrible flavor. Even with all the other things mixed in the flavor of chemically created strawberries and lab-manufactured cream were the only flavors coming through. So I forced it down and went back to watching Planet Earth on the Discovery Channel.

Yesterday, the first day of this unfortunate bathroom apocalypse, I was driven to use a different bathroom upstairs for my morning constitutional, and while seated I pondered the horror that I had just witnessed on the floor below until I was again struck with the smell of the multi-purpose cleaner I used at the pool in my younger days. The Pepsi Jazz flavoring was so overpowering that it rendered the typically horrible smell of human excrement even horribler by virtue of it now also smelling vaguely like strawberries and cream. Consider this as close as I’ll ever get to positively endorsing Pepsi Jazz.

- In middle-school and high-school my brothers and parents and I shared two bathrooms, and more frequently than I would like to recall, I would find one of the two toilets violated by a recent deposit whose previous owner hadn’t taken the two seconds and four ounces of pressure it would have taken to depress the lever to flush the motherfucking toilet. Rather than flush it myself, or use the other bathroom I would track down the culprit (always one of my brothers) and force them to flush the toilet. Most of the time they would comply while grumbling about how I should have just done it myself, not realizing how simple it would have been for THEM to do it THEMSELVES and how their video game or television program wouldn’t have been interrupted had they any decency, manners, or general hygiene resembling that of a human being. Occasionally they would balk and take umbrage at my request that they not behave like giant babies, content to roll around in their own filth, but I was irritating and annoying enough to get them to eventually relent and flush the toilet. I’m happy that I don’t have to deal with this anymore, but I feel sorry for their wives.

Yes, seriously, higher than the rim: UPDATED

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on April 3, 2007 @ 10:11 am
in bitches, potty humor and work
. 32 Comments

UPDATE: The undershirt is now flopped over the rim of the trashcan. The odor is present in the hallway. Flushing does nothing.

Dear Internet, sorry I wasn’t around yesterday. I realize that you build your day around the content found on this site, and when there’s nothing new you recede into a corner, naked and crying, every now and then peeking through your fingers to see if the site has been updated, and as the hours go on and nothing changes, you begin stewing in your own bodily fluids. Just buy a diaper or something, okay? I can’t constantly be around to tell you jokes. Sheesh.

Anyway, somebody’s ass exploded in our bathroom. I walked in there yesterday and was immediately smacked in the face with the odor. “Gee,” I thought to myself, “Somebody treated this bathroom like Hitler treated the Jews.” (And I don’t think it’s said enough, because Hitler is this larger-than-life type guy where he’s more myth than man, but he was a man, and more than that, he was a douchebag. I mean, can YOU think of a bigger douchebag than Hitler? No. I didn’t think so. And yet, I don’t hear people calling Hitler a douchebag nearly often enough. I think every time you mention Hitler, there should be a little asterisk after his name, and when you follow that asterisk down to the bottom of the page, there should be another little asterisk, and then in italics: Douchebag. That should be his legacy. He should be inexorably and inextricably linked with the word “douchebag”.) I fought my way through an odor so thick you could beat it into pancakes with a sack full of kittens puppies kittens and puppies, and arrived at a stall. I pushed the door open and my brain was immediately challenged with what I saw.

“Is that a undershirt? With poop on it? Did somebody poop in their undershirt? Why is there poop on an undershirt? Was somebody using their undershirt as underwear? That’s a lot of poop for one shirt. Did they use the undershirt as toilet paper? No, there’s toilet paper right there. Why would somebody poop in their shirt?”

My eyes were drifting as I was thinking, and they eventually settled on the full toilet in front of me. Full. Filled. Cresting the invisible plane of the top of the seat. An inhuman amount of poo.

I have no idea what happened, and I don’t really want to know, but I can’t possibly conceive of a situation other than an entire football team descending like a swarm of locusts on a Taco Bell (America’s only fast-food/laxative restaurant), only to stop in our bathroom 30 minutes later to deposit the end result and then deciding to run an unholy feces-train on the poor toilet, and at some point an innocent white undershirt must have gotten caught in the melee. And I feel bad for the janitor, but that shit has been there for at least 24 hours now, and it needs to go.

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