Archive for the 'Mrs. ACW' Category

His name would be Grinchitlerelzebub

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on July 14, 2008 @ 9:54 am
in Mrs. ACW, devil cat and money
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This past weekend, or the weekend before, or maybe it was just the week before, or jesus christ nevermind let’s just get on with the story, Mrs. ACW and I were talking for some reason about the health of the four-legged shit factories we call our pets.

Despite the magical alchemy that allows them to turn our money into feces, Mrs. ACW said that she couldn’t see paying a lot of money to keep one of the horrible little furballs alive. I, of course, was appalled that she’d suggest harming the tiny little douchebags in any way whatsoever. So I began to probe my wife to try to find out her limits of care for the crap-factories based on monetary values.

“So I guess $3000 for dialysis would be too much for you?”

“Yeah. They’re pets. That’s too much money to spend on a pet.”

“Okay, well what about $1800 bucks for stomach surgery like Charissa’s cat?”

“No. That’s too much money to spend on a cat.”

So basically then I spent the next 30 minutes calling her heartless, and telling her that if the Grinch and Hitler had babies, and then those babies made babies with Satan, those babies would still be nicer than she was. But then I realized I hadn’t figured out what I had intended to figure out. Exactly how much money would it cost to help one of our stupid, idiotic cats before she would simply have them put down. Clearly expensive surgeries lead to the cats getting put to sleep, but what was “expensive”?

“What if Wookie got hit by a truck today, and we take her to the vet and the vet says that she’ll live for another 10 years in perfect health, but it’ll cost $1000 to heal her? What then?”

“I’ll keep my thousand bucks and we can get another cat.”

“You soulless harpy!”

Wookie happened to be walking by, so I picked her up and said, “Do you hear that Wook? Don’t ever go to Mrs. ACW when you’re hurt. She’ll just put you to sleep. Oh, you have a hurt paw? Oh, that’s too bad. I guess Cruella is going to insist we put you to sleep.”

“Whatever jerk.”

I ignored her and went back to talking to Wookie, and as if she knew what I was doing, Wookie sneezed. “Oh no! Wookie, you’re ill! I guess I’ll just have to put you in the trashcan here. You can live on leftovers until the garbage truck comes to pick you up. It’s cheaper than the gas it would take to drive you to the vet to put you down.”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“I haven’t begun to be ridiculous. You hate our cats! You can’t wait until they show some minimal sign of illness so you can kick them to the curb. What, if Wookie voms up a hairball are you going to flush her down the toilet or stuff her in the garbage disposal or something? Like, ‘Oh, well, a hairball was probably just the tip of the iceberg. Wookie was better off getting flushed.’ You’re a barbarian.”

Then I realized all the examples were based on Wookie being sick, so I changed tactics and asked about Sherlock.

“Well of course not. Sherlock is cute, unlock your stupid cat. We’d have to save Sherlock, no matter what it cost.”

And so it finally became clear. This wasn’t about our cats getting sick. This was about MY cat getting sick. See, Mrs. ACW picked out Sherlock from the litter and brought him home. She cared for him at home that summer while I was at work. Sherlock was her cat. Wookie, on the other hand, just showed up on the doorstep, and Wookie picked me as hers because I let her into the house. It’s not official, but we certainly do have our own cats. However, Mrs. ACW has made one critical error. We were once joking about what would happen to the cats if we ever got divorced, and Mrs. ACW asked which cat I would take. After a contemplating for a few seconds I told her that I’d take the front half of Wookie and Sherlock, and that she could have the back half of both.

But after all this, there was still one question nagging me. We know Mrs. ACW would literally drop-kick Wookie out the front door if Wookie ever got even the tiniest bit sick.

But what happens if I get sick?

How’s THAT for blasphemy?

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on June 18, 2008 @ 9:15 am
in Mrs. ACW, awesome, food, jesus is fo' shizzle, money, potty humor, school and work
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If you’ve read this blog for a while, you’d probably think I had quite a schizophrenic relationship with my wife, Mrs. ACW. Sometimes she’s an overbearing nag, sometimes I get a stupid mushy and you throw up in your mouth a little bit, and sometimes she’s just window dressing for a larger theme in a longer post.

In reality, she’s a fantastic wife. Take yesterday for example: she wasted about 8 dollars worth of gas just to drive up to my office and give me dinner before I had to leave for class. A beautiful gesture, certainly, but now I’m 8 dollars poorer and the earth is crying molten tears of cancerous blood.

Mrs. ACW made enchiladas, a specialty of hers and one of my favorite dishes. Unfortunately, the contents of the dish would make the heartiest guts of intestinal fortitude prone to flatulence, so someone like me is pretty much asking for an express ticket on the Flatus train with stops in Fartburg, Assbusterville, and Tijuanatoiletcracker City. Also unfortunately my class lasts for three hours and my instructor does not look kindly on frequent interruptions, so I figured I had two, or at most three chances to vent excess pressure during class.

Luckily dinner had no effect on my insides until after the first hour of class, but once it hit, it hit hard. I felt like I’d been pressurized for tire inflation or helium balloons. Though now that I think about it, it would have been hilarious to hear tiny squeaky chipmunk farts.

I ducked out of class and into the bathroom with no problem the first and second times. The third time I got up the instructor gave me the stink eye, but didn’t day anything, so I figured I was okay. I rarely leave my seat during class, so I might have been getting a little leniency in that regard. But 30 minutes before class was supposed to end a debate ensued in class and I knew there was no way that I could excuse myself unobtrusively. Plus with 30 minutes left and considering that I’d already been up three times, I think I probably would have gotten more than a few weird looks, and I’m not about trying to draw attention to myself.

So I sat there, my guts cramped, my forehead beginning to sweat, my palms clammy, trying to think of some way to get out of there or release the vapors. I thought about coughing, but what if it was a squeaker? Or what if it lasted longer than I could cough? I tried squeezing it out slowly and blaming it on the old lady sitting next to me, but when I tried that I got the feeling that it was going to force it’s way out loud and proud. So I sat and I ignored the cramps and tried to just make it to the end of class.

When I was finally able to leave I bolted for the door, ran down the steps, and sprinted to my car. I was trying to let go along the way, but I knew after all this time it was going to take some serious concentration. I started the car and began driving home and after a few minutes felt my window of opportunity and took it.

It’s a good thing I didn’t try to let go in class because it came out like the voice of God: long, resonating, deep, and with a hint of regal vibrato, and when it was over I felt much better about the world. Luckily there were no signs of the stigmata.

Scrapple + wine + Guitar Hero = boner

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on June 16, 2008 @ 11:41 am
in Mrs. ACW, awesome, beer, devil cat, family, food, movies and music
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Yesterday Mrs. ACW and I hosted her family for a Father’s Day brunch. There was bacon, eggs, fruit, fried potatoes, and a pound of scrapple. For those of you who don’t live in the mid-Atlantic region of the US, scrapple is concentrated deliciousness. It’s a fried pork orgasm. It’s probably the world’s most awesomest food. Scrapple makes bacon look like a little bitch, and sausage doesn’t even come close. Scrapple is the king of breakfast meats.

Some people may dismiss scrapple as “whatever falls on the floor while they’re making hot-dogs” or they may tell you that the primary ingredient is “pig anus”. Don’t believe the lies. Scrapple is America’s haggis, and haggis is fucking delicious.

I digress.

After Mrs. ACW’s parents and brother left, her sister and sister’s boyfriend stuck around to play a few songs on Guitar Hero.

Nine hours later both wiimotes were almost completely out of battery power, we’d played a million Guitar Hero songs (and I got to watch the boyfriend complete 78% of Through the Fire and Flames on Expert: it was insane), drank all the wine in the world, bowled, boxed, scarfed some pizza and wings, and eventually collapsed on the couches in the living room to await our same-day hangovers while watching Superbad.

All in all, one of the best Father’s Days on record.

This morning there was still some leftover breakfast from the day before (though the scrapple was long gone*) and as I was preparing the eggs some fell on the floor. So I took it over to Sherlock and he was like, “No, I don’t want your dirty floor food you bastard.” So I gave it to Wookie and she was like, “Nom nom nom. That was good. I hope it was food.” And then Sherlock, upon seeing Wookie’s satisfied expression was like, “Hey, I want some food!” but I was like, “Shut up bitch, you had your chance.”

That doesn’t really have anything to do with yesterday, but I thought it was amusing so I included it anyway.

*At one point I offered scrapple to the SIL’s boyfriend and he was like, “Sure”. Then I went Tasmanian Devil on the plate and the rest of the scrapple was gone in about two seconds. He came back in a minute later as I was sheepishly placing the empty plate in the sink. “Sorry man, I, uh, kind of ate the rest of it.” Then I yelled at Mrs. ACW for not letting me purchase two pounds of scrapple as had been my original intention.

God damn I want some scrapple right now.

Avoiding the obvious joke title

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on June 3, 2008 @ 10:36 am
in Mrs. ACW, house, i am so fucking awesome, music and sex
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Mrs. ACW and I are in the process of painting our guest room, the very last room in our house that still retains the original color from the previous owner. The last owner had a panties-around-ankles infatuation with horrible pastel colors and violently repulsive stenciling in every room. It’s like the rooms were painted with the blood of an easter egg massacre and then Strawberry Shortcake rode in on My Little Pony to paint Satanic symbols around the room with the multicolored blood of various Care Bears. It was really hideous, and I’m glad we’ll never have to see those colors in our house again.

So last night we moved all the stuff out of the room, taped up all the doors and windows and ceilings and floors and whatever other shit I’m forgetting, and removed the light switch cover plates from the switches.

And since I had the plate covers off anyway, I decided to take a closer look at the switch that had never worked. It doesn’t operate the light, and it doesn’t operate the ceiling fan, and as far as I can tell, doesn’t operate any of the outlets.

As I’m peering into the housing area of the switch I senselessly and idiotically reach my hand up to the exposed switch and extremely stupidly grab onto it with two fingers. I’m still not sure what made my brain think, “Yes, you should touch electricity. It will be awesome. I promise.”

Of course I immediately squealed/shrieked upon having about 100 volts pass through my hand and up my arm, but once the initial shock had passed, I actually started laughing. I didn’t really hurt so much as scare the bejesus out of me, and too be honest, the shock felt kind of cool.

Yeah, so there’s another weird thing you know about me now. I’m not so into being shocked that I’m an estim enthusiast, it’s just that I’ve always been, um, how to best put this… unafraid of being shocked.

I remember as a little kid spending a few minutes shocking myself on the tongue with a 9-volt battery. And later, at camp that kept livestock, touching the electric fence first with a long piece of grass for a minor shock, and then with my bare hand for a much more significant shock. In high school or early college I strapped an dog collar that works with an invisible fence onto my hand and kept waving it back and forth across the fence area while my friends laughed at my reactions. And now this. I hope I don’t get addicted to “jacking on“.

On a completely unrelated note, here’s a song that’s been stuck in my head for a few days. I thought I would share.

I’m your private dancer, a dancer for money, I’ll do what you want me to do

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on May 27, 2008 @ 11:03 am
in Mrs. ACW, awesome, beer, food, music, sex and travel
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This weekend Mrs. ACW and I drove up to Long Island for a wedding, which was totally awesome (the wedding, not the Island), and while I still maintain a special seething hatred for Long Island that burns like syphilis on my soul, I must admit that the location for the wedding was really effing cool, as was the wedding itself.

I’ll spare you the details about the decor and the food and jump right into the one story I’ve managed to pull out of the whole weekend. Because that’s what you’re here for, right? If you wanted to read a wedding review you’d go to my other website, www.yourweddingreviewedbyaninternetpottymouth.com.

The cocktail hour featured heavy hors d’oeuvres (whores d’ovaries) so by the time we sat down for dinner, most people weren’t particularly hungry, so as we waited for the food to be served the only logical course of action was to get boozed up and jump on the dance floor, and that’s exactly what we did.

Since most of you have never seen me dance, and because most of you never will, I should explain my style. It’s mostly generic bebopping with only a slight handicap for whiteness smattered with goofy dances from The Fresh Prince of Belair, old SNL skits, and modern interpretations of Soul Train performances. Essentially, I dance to make people laugh.

Apparently it worked because when I went up to the bar to get more dancing fuel the bartender said, in a very thick Long Island accent, “Dude, you gotta tell me: do you really dance like that, or are you goofing around?”

“Uh, a little of both, actually.”

“That is awesome. I’m just standing back here watching you and you’re killin’ me. Every time I look over there you’re doing something different and it’s just ridiculous.”

“Thanks?”

So he introduced himself, and I introduced myself, and he asked for my drink order, and suddenly my mind went blank. So I told him I’d have whatever he felt like making me, and a few moments later he handed me a big cup of liquor with some juice splashed on top for color. I took a sip, and it was awesome.

He was so funny that I kept getting up to get drinks for people just to chat with him for a minute or two, and each time he’d get me a new cup full of liquor. I finally asked him what was in it and he said he had no idea, he was just making it up as he went along.

By the end of the night he would come out on the dance floor to find me and give me a new drink. Then he started pouring us shots even though he was expressly forbidden by his manager from doing so.

I found him packing up his bar at the end of the night so I went over to thank him one last time.

“Thanks again man. If I was a chick I’d think you were hitting on me.”

“Well…”

I was floored! I’d introduced him to Mrs. ACW. He knew not only that I was straight, but that I was married. I had no idea what to say.

“I’m just fuckin’ with you buddy. You kept me entertained all night, I just wanted to return the favor.”

We both laughed, and shortly thereafter the wedding was over. Which is a shame for him, because a few more drinks and I totally would have blown him.

Blood, books, and uh blacation

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on May 21, 2008 @ 9:16 am
in Mrs. ACW, bitches, meta blogging, travel and work
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- The other night as I was settling down to go to sleep, my nose started bleeding. This happens frequently enough that I’m pretty calm about the whole process. Tilt head back, rush to the bathroom, let nose bleed into sink while I wad up some toilet paper, stuff the toilet paper into my nose, go back to whatever I was doing. Unfortunately, this time around, I nearly died.

Mrs. ACW had earlier been cleaning off her fingernail polish and left a rag soaked with acetone laying in the sink. So when I stuffed my face into the sink so the blood wouldn’t go all over the bathroom, I immediately took a breath that was mostly fingernail polish remover. Then I made a noise like a cough got stuck in my throat, wandered down a dark alley, and was assaulted by a burp and a fart from out of town. This, of course, caused me to need to take another deep breath, so I huffed another huge acetone hit, coughed again, et cetera.

So there I was, bleeding all over the place, coughing my guts out, starved for oxygen, and getting nauseous from the acetone fumes, while just a few feet away Mrs. ACW sat doing nothing. NOTHING. I don’t know anyone who has ever had a nosebleed and reacted with caustic, body-wracking coughs and gasps, but apparently Mrs. ACW has, because she reacted like I was brushing my teeth: total apathy.

Finally between gasps and coughs I was able to bark, “Comegetthesefuckinragsouttathesink!” before going back to the dizzy wonderland known as the onset of asphyxiation.

To her credit she responded pretty quickly (finally) and helped me staunch the bleeding once the rags were moved out from under my face. However, in the spirit of retaliation, I have reconsidered my policy on dutch ovens.

- You may have noticed that I’m pimping Jess’s book pretty hardcore. I just got it last night, and I’m already three chapters in, and I can honestly say that I’ve laughed out loud at least once on each page. I’m looking forward to the rest of the book.

In the meantime, you should buy it.

amazon, Powells, Barnes & Noble, Target, Booksense, or Random House

- Finally, I’ll be out of the office until next Tuesday, so blogging will resume then. I might throw something up here quickly while I’m gone, but probably won’t.

I’ll stop talking about my wiiner when I’m good and ready

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on May 6, 2008 @ 1:16 pm
in Mrs. ACW, awesome, beer, games, music, nerd stuff, ocd and sex
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Because I’m thrilled that Mrs. ACW doesn’t look with scorn upon the Wii, the only video game system I’m aware of to have accomplished that feat, I am constantly encouraged to buy more games and accessories for our Wiiner.

So we bought Guitar Hero.

This has introduced a number of interesting behaviors that I’m sure will become full-blown OCD tendencies in no time.

1) It is impossible for me to not rock out while I am playing. I’m constantly dancing around and bopping along with the music, even if it’s The (remarkably shitty) Killers and the horrendous douchebag among douchebags, Brandon Flowers, he of the “ironic” pedophile mustache, is singing. I’m glad I got five stars on that song, because I’d hate to have to play it again. Seriously, does he realize that when he sings he sounds like a whiny baby with a poopy diaper? What a knob. If I have one wish it’s that The Killers and Fallout Boy eventually get into a rumble and they all die.

2) It is impossible for me to not drink while I am playing. Granted, I’ve only played twice so far, but finishing each song to take a swig from that fantastic, long-necked, brown-glass teat of diminishing fine-motor skills is about as close as I’ve come to paradise. I only wish that I could play and drink at the same time, sort of using the bottle like a slide guitar, but I’m not that good yet. And the game doesn’t really work that way. And I would probably break something. Shut up.

3) I have yet to master the “Star Power” usage. On the 360 it seemed to be a lot easier. Just pop the guitar neck up a little bit and viola: star power. With the Wii it can get a little temperamental, so the chance of you seeing me successfully execute star power is lesser than the chance of you seeing me successfully jerk the controller up and down like I’m some sort of spastic freak living in a fantasy world of tiny guitars that are attacking me for some reason and I’m trying to kill them. Also, I’ve yet to successfully pull off a star power activation combined with a Pete Townshend-esque guitar move, so until that day comes, I’m going to keep jumping and swinging my arm until I wind up hurting myself, which is the most likely outcome.

4) This is probably the worst one of all. Now that I’ve played a video game about playing a guitar, I totally feel like I can hang with people who actually know how to play guitar and talk about hammer ons, pull offs, harmonics, and fingering techniques. Double entendres aside, that is, which is what I would normally talk about if I heard those terms.

5) The best thing about Guitar Hero is that I can finally put into practice all the awesome band names that I’ve ever come up with. Seriously, I’m a band-naming machine. Need a band name? Just call me, I’ll do it for cheap. Ready? Here are 10 off the top of my head:

The Crap Monkeys
Flinger
The Gravymaker Express
The Rooster Pothole
Disco School
Satan’s Daycare
Forget the Alamo!
Windsock
Dreampickles
A Bucket Full of Pudding

It’s really frustrating to not pick up the spare

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on May 2, 2008 @ 9:15 am
in Mrs. ACW, awesome, happy hour, nerd stuff, ocd, potty humor, sex, suhmuhmuh bitch and the worldwide information super-tubeterwebs
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The happy hour last night was pretty cool. As usual, there’s never enough time to get to really talk to everybody, so there are some folks that I would have liked to talk to that I didn’t really get a chance to talk to. To those people I say: your loss.

Also to those people who ridiculed me for having to leave early to feed my cats, I’ll have you know that since Wookie was starving she ate so fast that when she threw up a few minutes later I could see that she hadn’t even chewed any of her food. Her vomit is on YOUR hands.

Finally, Charissa wanted me to tell a story about how I saw a little kid with poop on his face jump out of a car or something. This is what she thinks my blog is about. Well, besides it being a lie, because everyone knows I would NEVER lie, the thought of a kid with poop on his face actually kind of grosses me out. Apparently Charissa is into that short sort of thing.

Let’s commence with the narcissism!

My favorite event on Wii sports is bowling. But like everything in my life that I enjoy, once I begin to enjoy it I also try to start finding a way to measure it. Unluckily for me the Wii measures how good/bad I am at bowling for me, so I’m constantly playing games as fast as I can just to see if I’ve improved rather than slowing down and enjoying the game for what it is: a distraction from the restraining order issued by Zack Efron and the entire cast of High School Musical that keeps me out of New York. Wait. What? That’s not even close to accurate. What I meant to say is that the stats distract me from playing the game as a game.

So I’ll try to keep that in mind as I slow down and try to have more fun with game until I don’t get a strike and find myself screaming at the remaining pin, “Go down you fucking slut! FUCK YOU!” and then angrily mumbling to myself about how the game cheats.

Then I usually switch to boxing so I can punch the bejesus out of a goofy looking cartoon boxer and alleviate some frustration. It’s a nice healthy workout.

Because I thought “Wiit Power” was too inappropriate

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on May 1, 2008 @ 9:34 am
in Mrs. ACW, awesome, beer, devil cat, food, happy hour, money, movies, potty humor and suhmuhmuh bitch
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Before we get to the moist, throbbing awesomeness that is my post for the day, there’s some business we have to attend to:

blah blah blah happy hour blah blah tonight blah blah 6pm blah blah

Dougherty’s Irish Pub
223 W Chase St
Baltimore, MD 2120
(410) 752-4059

blah blah blah blah whatever blah be there, or be somewhere else: I know I will.

Anyway, on to the nonsense!

The night of the bachelor party I was actually hemorrhaging man points because I wasn’t actively engaged in the act of pickling my liver with as much alcohol as possible. In fact, I unfortunately spent the entire night maintaining a fine balance on the line between sobriety and mild buzz.

“Why,” you ask rhetorically because actually speaking to the computer is more than a little crazy, “would you deprive yourself of the sweet inebriating nectar that the gods themselves saw fit to excrete from their magical alcohol-producing organs so many Tuesdays ago for the benefit of all humankind?”

Because I was waking up early the next morning to go wait in line to buy a Wii. There. I said it. Are you happy?

Mrs. ACW and I have wanted to buy a Wii for some time now, but due to their relative scarcity we’ve been unable to procure one. Actually, we would have been able to get one a long time ago for about $600 on ebay, but Mrs. ACW refuses to sell her body on the street, and I just can’t bear to do another half-dozen equine-related porn movies. (I’m half-proud and half-nauseated to say I was second-assistant director on an official Harry Potter porn spinoff- More than a Man: Fisted by Firenze) Plus, let’s all finally admit that ebay is pretty much the squalid back alley of the internet, and that we want as little to do with it as possible.

The guy at Target told me to get there about an hour early because they expected there to be a line, and at 7am I was the only person waiting in line. And at 7:20am, I was the only person waiting in line. Thanks, Target guy, you unmitigated doucheface.

So I went home, fed the cats, jettisoned the previous evening’s mountain of snack food, had something to eat, and then went back to Target at about 7:45am to find myself the second person in line. Not too bad. A cold and boring quarter of an hour later and I was on my way home, not at all hungover but so exhausted that I may as well have been.

It wasn’t until many hours later that I was awake enough to actually set it up, and once I did I was immediately happy with our decision. It’s simply a fun gaming system. One of the things that surprised me is that you can even give your Wii a nickname, so I’ve dubbed ours, “The Wiiner”, which leads to hilarious conversations like this, “Have you played with the wiiner yet tonight?”
“No, not yet. I plan on working up quite a sweat later with the wiiner.”
“Excellent. The wiiner will definitely get you sweaty.”

And so on. For that reason alone I think everyone should get one.

For a title, see May 26, 2005. Yes, this is the second time I’ve done this.

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on April 15, 2008 @ 9:02 am
in Glen Burnie, Mrs. ACW, food, movies, people are idiots, potty humor, school and suhmuhmuh bitch
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Let’s see, what else did I do this weekend? Oh yeah, I threw out some of my clothes. Sounds boring, right? Not the way I tell it.

Mrs. ACW and I live the life many people dream about. We get home at about 5pm on Friday, cook turkey burgers and asparagus, eat them, and then do homework. Yes, many people are out, spending heaps of disposable income on drinks, food, drugs, and whatever genitalia makes their upper lip sweat and quiver (hey, I’m not here to judge; whatever tickles your pickle or frosts your cookie is fine by me), but none of them have the wrist-slitting joy of staying home and doing homework for four hours at the start of the weekend while not drinking or seeing any genitalia or putting any coke up our noses.

And the cherry on top of all of it? Mrs. ACW is on a diet, so she’s not eating any sugar, and since we don’t have any sugar free candy in the house, we had to go out the grocery store to insert ourselves amongst the other social superstars that can be found wandering the grocery aisles at 9pm on a Friday; frozen pizza in one hand, pint of ice cream in the other, bunny slippers on the feet and a loosely tied robe that leaves so little to the imagination that I may as well have his lumpy, asymmetrical baby-maker tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.

Less than thirty minutes later we’re home, have given up on homework, and are each a few pieces of sugar free candy deep into Hot Fuzz. An amusing hour and thirty minutes passes with nary to mar the occasion except a sudden onset of gas on my part that’s so violently offensive that I think I can feel hairs being singed off of my dangerous but exquisite backside.

After one particularly boisterous expulsion Mrs. ACW remarked that it sounded “hearty” or something along those lines. I had to agree. It was if I’d been grabbed around the torso and squeezed by the hand of a giant. It was as if I was completely out of control of my own body and it was venting pressure of its own accord. I learned a few seconds later what little control I actually had.

After a mad dash to the bathroom to learn that yes, I had in fact shat myself, I realized I was a twenty-seven year old man with no apparent control of his bowels. I immediately threw away my underwear and shorts, much to the bewilderment of everyone who has already heard this story.

“Why didn’t you just wash the clothes?” they ask, puzzlement clouding their faces.

Look, if I ever become so cavalier and casual with shit that I can look upon a beshatted object and think, “Hey, it’s just poop I guess,” please kill me, because I don’t want to live a life so well acquainted with the substance that our bodies forcibly eject on a daily basis.

I also jumped in the shower and gave the entire lower half of my body a complete surgical scrub down, because, once again, shit is gross.

Then I spent the rest of the weekend completely gun-shy because I didn’t want to fart and have to check and make sure my socks were still dry, so every time I felt a little pressure I had to get up, go to the bathroom, and make sure that the “football” didn’t make it into the “end zone” on a “quarterback sneak”, if you may allow me a football metaphor.

Lesson learned: not only does beef wreck me, but so does sugar free candy.

Bad Behavior has blocked 306 access attempts in the last 7 days.