Video requires sound for best enjoyment.

Thanks to Vanessa for passing this along (she’s getting to be a regular)!

Local Copy

This video sheds some light on the hidden dangers of cheerleading:

Next up: carpal tunnel syndrome and other repetitive stress disorders induced by cup-stacking.

From http://www.ubersite.com/m/50268

A typical weekend of mayhem for me, living the high life, partying it up, rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle etc. Friday night was so wild it is untrue a Will & Grace double header and two, count ‘em, two coffees! Before bed!! I mean that is wild enough but I also slept in my socks. I know what you are all thinking -this boy is a mentalist – but I would rather die than live slow.

I had to work Saturday and didn’t finish until late. Some of my friends were out to dinner to celebrate Paul’s birthday. I was rushing to try and meet up but didn’t leave the office until gone nine. Which sucked a big fat one. With suspicious purple botches and a strange cheesy smell. Thats how much it sucked.

Fortunately most of my chums are borderline alcoholics so they wanted to go out and ‘have a quick pint’ first. This gave me time to meet them at the restaurant. I drove like a bat out of hell (blind, eating flies, squeaking and making lavish amounts of guano) and arrived at the place at around nine thirty. They hadn’t arrived as yet so I sat at the bar and had a light aperitif. As I was polishing off the second bottle of vodka my chums arrived.

Pausing to rearrange my trousers I greeted them in the traditional manner.

“Cunts!”

“Cunt!” Came the speedy and well met response.

The waitress informed us politely that our table was ready, if we would care to go to the end of the room, turn left, go through the door marked ‘Disabled Toilet’ and take our seats she would be along shortly.

This was obviously some local dialectic strange use of the word ‘shortly’ that I was previously unaware of – it was a good hour before she returned. By this time we were getting dangerously low on alcohol and I was trying to convince the birthday boy that one can indeed get pissed by drinking vinegar. I would have gotten away with it too if it wasn’t for that pesky waitress confiscating it upon her return.

We were in a Chinese restaurant so naturally I ordered my favourite Chinese dish, I like to experiment widely with my food. When my steak sandwich arrived I tucked in voraciously for I was very hungry. It was good, much better than the steak sandwich I had in that Mexican restaurant the other day or the one from that Indian restaurant and don’t even TALK to me about the sandwich from that Greek place last week.

It was a rectangular table, I was facing away from the door positioned at the edge. We were engaged in the most witty of entre-mange conversation. Bon mots were flying around and the ghost of Wilde himself was holding his sides entreating me to stop for the sake of his very health! Strangely the other diners didn’t seem to share in our mirth, they were clearly unable to appreciate the high art of the conversation. In fact a gentleman across the room made the suggestion that I ‘shut the fuck up’ and his dining partner may have intimated that I was an ‘obnoxious lout’. Philistines.

This weekend was Halloween as I am sure you all know. For most of you it’s the only time you can go out with out being chased by pitch fork wielding locals isn’t it? Halloween is a bit of a non-event where I live, so much so that I had forgotten about it.

So there I am conversing with my chums, minding my own business, when I hear a voice in my ear, I didn’t hear what it had said. I turned my head to see from whence this voice had originated.

Bad move.

At eye level, directly in front of me, no more than two feet away, was this terrible evil face with an eyeball dangling out, blood was smeared on its grotesque visage and its hideous teeth jutted from its swollen purple lips at inventive angles.

“Aaaargh FUCK!” I screamed and lashed out.

This was a reflex action. Honestly. I had no control over it whatsoever.

I suddenly realised what the hideous monster was. It was a small boy with a mask on. He must have said ‘trick or treat’. He was holding a bucket which had several coins in which were now rolling around on the floor on account of him being unconscious. Printed on the bucket was the slogan ‘Cancer Research’. You see, apparently, a six foot three, two hundred pound man is more than a match for a child.

Wimp.

I had knocked out a six year old boy. A six year old boy whom was collecting for charity.

Short of ass-raping a nun while simultaneously chanting the bible backwards I am struggling to see how I can more ensure a ticket to hell when I eventually stagger of this mortal coil.

The kerfuffle that ensued was truly horrific, every woman in the place gave me the evil eye, every man pretended not to laugh. As I lifted the boy’s mask from his face he came to his senses.

“Wwwwhat happened?” He said.

“Erm, well, erm you see, you erm caught me by surprise and I accidentally knocked in to you.” I said.

“Punched him.” Corrected the waitress, helpfully.

“Yes ,well, I see very little point in arguing about semantics.” I said, trying haughter as an escape route.

“You are a dickhead.” She replied, unimpressed.

I could see no valid argument against her assertion. I hope they have beer in hell.

NB : *** Only one little boy was harmed in the making of this post. I filled his bucket with lots of sympathy cash. He is expected to make a full recovery.***

This morning there was a knock at my door. When I answered the door I found a well groomed, nicely dressed couple. The man spoke first:

John:
“Hi! I’m John, and this is Mary.”

Mary:
“Hi! We’re here to invite you to come kiss Hank’s ass with us.”

Me:
“Pardon me?! What are you talking about? Who’s Hank, and why would I want to kiss His ass?”

John:
“If you kiss Hank’s ass, He’ll give you a million dollars; and if you don’t, He’ll kick the shit out of you.”

Me:
“What? Is this some sort of bizarre mob shake-down?”

John:
“Hank is a billionaire philanthropist. Hank built this town. Hank owns this town. He can do whatever He wants, and what He wants is to give you a million dollars, but He can’t until you kiss His ass.”

Me:
“That doesn’t make any sense. Why…”

Mary:
“Who are you to question Hank’s gift? Don’t you want a million dollars? Isn’t it worth a little kiss on the ass?”

Me:
“Well maybe, if it’s legit, but…”

John:
“Then come kiss Hank’s ass with us.”

Me:
“Do you kiss Hank’s ass often?”

Mary:
“Oh yes, all the time…”

Me:
“And has He given you a million dollars?”

John:
“Well no. You don’t actually get the money until you leave town.”

Me:
“So why don’t you just leave town now?”

Mary:
“You can’t leave until Hank tells you to, or you don’t get the money, and He kicks the shit out of you.”

Me:
“Do you know anyone who kissed Hank’s ass, left town, and got the million dollars?”

John:
“My mother kissed Hank’s ass for years. She left town last year, and I’m sure she got the money.”

Me:
“Haven’t you talked to her since then?”

John:
“Of course not, Hank doesn’t allow it.”

Me:
“So what makes you think He’ll actually give you the money if you’ve never talked to anyone who got the money?”

Mary:
“Well, He gives you a little bit before you leave. Maybe you’ll get a raise, maybe you’ll win a small lotto, maybe you’ll just find a twenty-dollar bill on the street.”

Me:
“What’s that got to do with Hank?”

John:
“Hank has certain ‘connections.’”

Me:
“I’m sorry, but this sounds like some sort of bizarre con game.”

John:
“But it’s a million dollars, can you really take the chance? And remember, if you don’t kiss Hank’s ass He’ll kick the shit of you.”

Me:
“Maybe if I could see Hank, talk to Him, get the details straight from Him…”

Mary:
“No one sees Hank, no one talks to Hank.”

Me:
“Then how do you kiss His ass?”

John:
“Sometimes we just blow Him a kiss, and think of His ass. Other times we kiss Karl’s ass, and he passes it on.”

Me:
“Who’s Karl?”

Mary:
“A friend of ours. He’s the one who taught us all about kissing Hank’s ass. All we had to do was take him out to dinner a few times.”

Me:
“And you just took his word for it when he said there was a Hank, that Hank wanted you to kiss His ass, and that Hank would reward you?”

John:
“Oh no! Karl has a letter he got from Hank years ago explaining the whole thing. Here’s a copy; see for yourself.”

** From the desk of Karl **

Kiss Hank’s ass and He’ll give you a million dollars when you leave town.
Use alcohol in moderation.
Kick the shit out of people who aren’t like you.
Eat right.
Hank dictated this list Himself.
The moon is made of green cheese.
Everything Hank says is right.
Wash your hands after going to the bathroom.
Don’t use alcohol.
Eat your wieners on buns, no condiments.
Kiss Hank’s ass or He’ll kick the shit out of you.

Me:
“This appears to be written on Karl’s letterhead.”

Mary:
“Hank didn’t have any paper.”

Me:
“I have a hunch that if we checked we’d find this is Karl’s handwriting.”

John:
“Of course, Hank dictated it.”

Me:
“I thought you said no one gets to see Hank?”

Mary:
“Not now, but years ago He would talk to some people.”

Me:
“I thought you said He was a philanthropist. What sort of philanthropist kicks the shit out of people just because they’re different?”

Mary:
“It’s what Hank wants, and Hank’s always right.”

Me:
“How do you figure that?”

Mary:
“Item 7 says ‘Everything Hank says is right.’ That’s good enough for me!”

Me:
“Maybe your friend Karl just made the whole thing up.”

John:
“No way! Item 5 says ‘Hank dictated this list himself.’ Besides, item 2 says ‘Use alcohol in moderation,’ Item 4 says ‘Eat right,’ and item 8 says ‘Wash your hands after going to the bathroom.’ Everyone knows those things are right, so the rest must be true, too.”

Me:
“But 9 says ‘Don’t use alcohol.’ which doesn’t quite go with item 2, and 6 says ‘The moon is made of green cheese,’ which is just plain wrong.”

John:
“There’s no contradiction between 9 and 2, 9 just clarifies 2. As far as 6 goes, you’ve never been to the moon, so you can’t say for sure.”

Me:
“Scientists have pretty firmly established that the moon is made of rock…”

Mary:
“But they don’t know if the rock came from the Earth, or from out of space, so it could just as easily be green cheese.”

Me:
“I’m not really an expert, but I think the theory that the Moon was somehow ‘captured’ by the Earth has been discounted*. Besides, not knowing where the rock came from doesn’t make it cheese.”

John:
“Ha! You just admitted that scientists make mistakes, but we know Hank is always right!”

Me:
“We do?”

Mary:
“Of course we do, Item 7 says so.”

Me:
“You’re saying Hank’s always right because the list says so, the list is right because Hank dictated it, and we know that Hank dictated it because the list says so. That’s circular logic, no different than saying ‘Hank’s right because He says He’s right.’”

John:
“Now you’re getting it! It’s so rewarding to see someone come around to Hank’s way of thinking.”

Me:
“But…oh, never mind. What’s the deal with wieners?”

Mary:
She blushes.

John:
“Wieners, in buns, no condiments. It’s Hank’s way. Anything else is wrong.”

Me:
“What if I don’t have a bun?”

John:
“No bun, no wiener. A wiener without a bun is wrong.”

Me:
“No relish? No Mustard?”

Mary:
She looks positively stricken.

John:
He’s shouting. “There’s no need for such language! Condiments of any kind are wrong!”

Me:
“So a big pile of sauerkraut with some wieners chopped up in it would be out of the question?”

Mary:
Sticks her fingers in her ears. “I am not listening to this. La la la, la la, la la la.”

John:
“That’s disgusting. Only some sort of evil deviant would eat that…”

Me:
“It’s good! I eat it all the time.”

Mary:
She faints.

John:
He catches Mary. “Well, if I’d known you were one of those I wouldn’t have wasted my time. When Hank kicks the shit out of you I’ll be there, counting my money and laughing. I’ll kiss Hank’s ass for you, you bunless cut-wienered kraut-eater.”

With this, John dragged Mary to their waiting car, and sped off.

Sound required for optimal enjoyment. Lyrics rated PG-13.

Thanks go to Jason Neidleman for passing the link along!

FLIGHT COMMANDER?S HIGH RISK BRIEFING CHECKLIST FOR SKYDIVING

1. Do you understand the risks involved in the sport of skydiving ?
2. Did you receive your initial skydiving training at a USPA group member Skydiving Center?
3. Each time you skydive, are you sure that the equipment that you are using is compatible and within your experience limitations?

When checking your equipment, it may be wise to consider things omitted from standard checklists, as demonstrated here.

Requires movie player, but not sound. No gore.

Enjoy!

Though he made a decent showing on HBO a few months back, the best of Ali G remains in England. This guy has pulled off amazing interviews with Butros-Butros Ghali, Newt Gingrich, and Jenna Jameson. One of his best is with Victoria (Posh Spice) and David (bend it like) Beckham.

Ali: What about that picture of her in the black pants with the slit in
her dress that come up well high?
Apparently that picture if you look really close you can actually see a
tiny bit of camel tuft?

More shows available on Bit Torrent and google.

Note: No disrespect to your bitch…Local Copy

One of the better movies I’ve come across in the last few months. Requires sound and 10 minutes of your time. The first minute is really all that is necessary, after that it’s just an excercise in film making. Enjoy!

Home Base

Editor’s Note: Looks like the mirror broke, here’s a link to the original on ifilm.com

If you guys don’t know what ninja’s are really about, go here. (Caution: annoying music)

I found the following textlogs on the Best of Craigslist. I searched around and found a few more, and have condensed the funniest ones into the following compendium. Enjoy, and be sure to read the rest in the Extended Entry!

bloodninja: Baby, I been havin a tough night so treat me nice aight?
BritneySpears14: Aight.
bloodninja: Slip out of those pants baby, yeah.
BritneySpears14: I slip out of my pants, just for you, bloodninja.
bloodninja: Oh yeah, aight. Aight, I put on my robe and wizard hat.
BritneySpears14: Oh, I like to play dress up.
bloodninja: Me too baby.
BritneySpears14: I kiss you softly on your chest.
bloodninja: I cast Lvl 3 Eroticism. You turn into a real beautiful woman.
BritneySpears14: Hey…
bloodninja: I meditate to regain my mana, before casting Lvl 8 Penis of the Infinite.
BritneySpears14: Funny I still don’t see it.
bloodninja: I spend my mana reserves to cast Mighty of the Beyondness.
BritneySpears14: You are the worst cyber partner ever. This is ridiculous.
bloodninja: Don’t **** with me biznitch, I’m the mightiest sorcerer of the lands.
bloodninja: I steal yo soul and cast Lightning Lvl 1,000,000 Your body explodes into a fine bloody mist, because you are only a Lvl 2 Druid.
BritneySpears14: Don’t ever message me again you piece.
bloodninja: Robots are trying to drill my brain but my lightning shield inflicts DOA attack, leaving the robots as flaming piles of metal.
bloodninja: King Arthur congratulates me for destroying Dr. Robotnik’s evil army of Robot Socialist Republics. The cold war ends. Reagan steals my accomplishments and makes like it was cause of him.
bloodninja: You still there baby? I think it’s getting hard now.
bloodninja: Baby?
——————-
bloodninja: Ok baby, we got to hurry, I don’t know how long I can keep it ready for you.
j_gurli3: thats ok. ok i’m a japanese schoolgirl, what r u.
bloodninja: A Rhinocerus. Well, hung like one, thats for sure.
j_gurli3: haha, ok lets go.
j_gurli3: i put my hand through ur hair, and kiss u on the neck.
bloodninja: I stomp the ground, and snort, to alert you that you are in my breeding territory.
j_gurli3: haha, ok, u know that turns me on.
j_gurli3: i start unbuttoning ur shirt.
bloodninja: Rhinoceruses don’t wear shirts.
j_gurli3: No, ur not really a Rhinocerus silly, it’s just part of the game.
bloodninja: Rhinoceruses don’t play games. They ******* charge your ***.
j_gurli3: stop, cmon be serious.
bloodninja: It doesn’t get any more serious than a Rhinocerus about to charge your ***.
bloodninja: I stomp my feet, the dust stirs around my tough skinned feet.
j_gurli3: thats it.
bloodninja: Nostrils flaring, I lower my head. My horn, like some phallic symbol of my potent virility, is the last thing you see as skulls collide and mine remains the victor. You are now a bloody red ragdoll suspended in the air on my mighty horn.
bloodninja: **** am I hard now.————————Bloodninja: I lick your earlobe, and undo your watch.
Sarah19fca: mmmm, okay.
Bloodninja: I take yo pants off, grunting like a troll.
Sarah19fca: Yeah I like it rough.
Bloodninja: I smack you thick booty.
Sarah19fca: Oh yeah, that feels good.
Bloodninja: Smack, Smack, yeeeaahhh.
Bloodninja: I make some toast and eat it off your ass. Land O’ Lakes butter all in your crack. Mmmm.
Sarah19fca: you like that?
Bloodninja: I peel some bananas.
Sarah19fca: Oh, what are you gonna do with those?
Bloodninja: get me peanuts. Peanuts from the ballpark.
Sarah19fca: Peanuts?
Bloodninja: Ken Griffey Jr. Yeaaaaahhh.
Sarah19fca: What are you talking about?
Bloodninja: I’m spent, I jump down into the alley and smoke a fatty. I throw rocks at the cats.
Sarah19fca: This is stupid.
Bloodninja: Stone Cold Steve Austin gives me some beer.
Bloodninja: Wanna Wrestle Stone Cold?
Bloodninja: Yeeaahhhh.
Sarah19fca: /ignore
Bloodninja: Its cool stone cold she was a ***** anyway.
Bloodninja: We get on harleys and ride into the sunset.———————-
BritneySpears14: Ok, are you ready?
eminemBNJA: Aight, yeah I’m ready.
BritneySpears14: I like your music Em… Tee hee.
eminemBNJA: huh huh, yeah, I make it for the ladies.
BritneySpears14: Mmm, we like it a lot. Let me show you.
BritneySpears14: I take off your pants, slowly, and massage your muscular physique.
eminemBNJA: Oh I like that Baby. I put on my robe and wizard hat.
BritneySpears14: What the ****, I told you not to message me again.
eminemBNJA:
BritneySpears14: I swear if you do it one more time I’m gonna report your ISP and say you were sending me kiddie porn you **** up.
eminemBNJA: OheminemBNJA: damn I gotta write down your names or something——————Bloodninja:Wanna cyber?
DirtyKateK, but don’t tell anybody
DirtyKate:Who are you?
Bloodninja: I’ve got blond hair, blue eyes, I work out a lot
Bloodninja:And I have a part time job delivering for Papa John’s in my Geo Storm.
DirtyKate:You sound sexy.. I bet you want me in the back of your car..
Bloodninja:Maybe some other time. You should call up Papa John’s and make an order
DirtyKate: Haha! OK
DirtyKate:Hello! I’d like an extra-EXTRA large pizza just dripping with sauce.
Bloodninja:Well, first they would say, “Hello, this is Papa John’s, how may I help you”, then they tell you the specials, and then you would make your order. So that’s an X-Large. What toppings do you want?
DirtyKate:I want everything, baby!
Bloodninja:Is this a delivery?
DirtyKate:Umm…Yes
DirtyKate:So you’re bringing the pizza to my house now? Cause I’m home alone… and I think I’ll take a shower…
Bloodninja:Good. It will take about fifteen minutes to cook, and then I’ll drive to your house.
pause
DirtyKate:I’m almost finished with my shower… Hurry up!
Bloodninja:You can’t hurry good pizza.
Bloodninja:I’m on my way now though
pause
DirtyKate:So you’re at my front door now.
Bloodninja:How did you know?
Bloodninja:I knock but you can’t hear me cause you’re in the shower. So I let myself in, and walk inside. I put the pizza down on your coffee table.
Bloodninja:Are you ready to get nasty, baby? I’m as hot as a pizza oven
DirtyKateooohh yeah. I step out of the shower and I’m all wet and cold. Warm me up baby
Bloodninja:So you’re still in the bathroom?
DirtyKate:Yeah, I’m wrapping a towel around myself.
Bloodninja:I can no longer resist the pizza. I open the box and unzip my pants with my other hand. As I penetrate the gooey cheese, I moan in ecstacy. The mushrooms and Italian sausage are rough, but the sauce is deliciously soothing. I blow my load in seconds. As you leave the bathroom, I exit through the front door….
DirtyKate:What the f**k?
DirtyKate:You perverted piece of s**t
DirtyKate:F**k—————————Bloodninja: Wanna cyber?
MommyMelissa: Sure, you into vegetables?
Bloodninja: What like gardening an ****?
MommyMelissa: Yeah, something like that.
Bloodninja: Nuthin turns me on more, check this out
Bloodninja: You bend over to harvest your radishes.
(pause)
MommyMelissa: is that it?
Bloodninja: You water your tomato patch.
Bloodninja: Are you ready for my fresh produce?
MommyMelissa: I was thinking of like, sexual acts INVOLVING vegetables… Can you make it a little more sexy for me?
(pause)
Bloodninja: I touch you on your lettuce, you massage my spinach… Sexily.
Bloodninja: I ride your buttocks, like they were amber waves of grains.
MommyMelissa: Grain doesn’t really turn me on… I was thinking more along the lines of carrots and zucchinis.
Bloodninja: my zucchinis carresses your carrots.
Bloodninja: Damn baby your right, this s**t is HOT.
MommyMelissa: ...
Bloodninja: My turnips listen for the soft cry of your love. My insides turn to celery as I unleash my warm and sticky cauliflower of love.
MommyMelissa: What the f**k is this madlibs? I’m outta here.
Bloodninja: Yah, well I already unleashed my cauliflower, all over your olives, and up in your eyes. Now you can’t see. *****.
MommyMelissa: whatever.———
sweet17: Hi
bloodninja: hello
bloodninja: who is this?
sweet17: just a someone?
bloodninja: A someone I know?
sweet17: nope
bloodninja: Then why the hell are you bothering me?
sweet17: well sorrrrrry
sweet17: I just wanted to chat with you
bloodninja: why?
sweet17: nevermind your an jerk
bloodninja: Hey wait a minute
sweet17: yes?
bloodninja: look I’m sorry. I’m just a little paranoid
sweet17: paranoid?
bloodninja: yes
sweet17: of what?
sweet17: me?
bloodninja: No. I’m in hiding.
sweet17: LOL
bloodninja: Don’t ******* laugh at me!
bloodninja: This **** is serious!
sweet17: What are you hiding from?
bloodninja: The cops.
sweet17: gimme a ******* break
bloodninja: I’m serious.
sweet17: I don’t get it
bloodninja: The cops are after me.
sweet17: For what?
bloodninja: I’m wanted in three states
sweet17: For???
bloodninja: It’s kindof embarrasing.
bloodninja: I had sex with a turkey.
bloodninja: Hello?
sweet17: You are ******* sick.
bloodninja: Send me your picture.
sweet17: why?
bloodninja: so I know you aren’t one of them.
sweet17: One of what?
bloodninja: The cops.
sweet17: I’m not a cop i told you
bloodninja: Then send me your picture.
sweet17: hold on
bloodninja: Hurry up.
bloodninja: Are you there?
bloodninja: **** you, cop!
sweet17: Hey sorry
sweet17: I had to do something for my mom.
bloodninja: I thought you were trying to find a picture to send to me.
bloodninja: When really you were notifying the authorities.
bloodninja: Weren’t you!?
sweet17: thats not it
bloodninja: Then what?
sweet17: I don’t want to send you the picture cause I’m not pretty
bloodninja: Most cops aren’t
sweet17: IM NOT A ******* COP YOU ********!
bloodninja: Then send me the picture.
sweet17: fine. What’s your e-mail?
bloodninja: Just send it through here.
sweet17: alright PIC
sweet17: Did you get it?
bloodninja: Hold on. I’m looking.
sweet17: That was me back in may
sweet17: I’ve lost weight since then.
bloodninja: I hope so
sweet17: what?!?
sweet17: that hurt my feelings.
bloodninja: Did it?
sweet17: Yes. I’m not that much smaller than that now.
bloodninja: Will it make you feel better if I send you my picture?
sweet17: yes
bloodninja: Alright let me find it.
sweet17: kks
bloodninja: Okay here it is. PIC
sweet17: this isn’t you.
bloodninja: I’ll be damned if it ain’t!
sweet17: You don’t look like that.
bloodninja: How the hell do you know?
sweet17: cause your profile has another picture.
bloodninja: The profile pic is a fake.
bloodninja: I use it to hide from the cops.
sweet17: You look like the Farm Fresh guy lol
bloodninja: Well, you look like you ATE the Farm Fresh guy….
bloodninja: Not to mention all the groceries.
sweet17: Go **** yourself
bloodninja: I was going to until I saw that picture
bloodninja: Now my unit won’t get hard for a week.
sweet17: I shouldn’t have sent you that picture.
sweet17: You’ve done nothing but slam me.
sweet17: you hurt me.
bloodninja: And calling me the Farm Fresh guy doesn’t hurt me?
sweet17: I thought you were bullcrapping me!
bloodninja: Why would I do that?
sweet17: I can’t believe that cops are after you
bloodninja: I can’t believe Santa lets you sit on his lap..
sweet17: **** YOU
bloodninja: You’d break both of his legs.
sweet17: You’re a ******* *******!
sweet17: I’ve been teased my whole life because of my weight
sweet17: and you make fun of me when you don’t even know me
bloodninja: Ok. I’m sorry.
sweet17: No you aren’t
bloodninja: You’re right. I’m not.
bloodninja: HAARRRRR!
sweet17: I’m done with you
bloodninja: Aww. I’m sorry.
sweet17: I’m putting you on ignore
bloodninja: Wait a sec
bloodninja: We got off on the wrong foot.
bloodninja: Wanna start over?
sweet17: No
bloodninja: I’ll eat your kitty
sweet17: You’ll what?
bloodninja: You heard me.
bloodninja: I said I’d eat your kitty.
sweet17: I thought you said you couldn’t get it hard after seeing my picture
bloodninja: Do I need a hard-on to eat your kitty?
sweet17: I’d like to know that the man eating me out is excited yes
bloodninja: Well I’m not like most men.
bloodninja: I get excited in different ways.
sweet17: Like what?
bloodninja: Do you really wanna know?
sweet17: I don’t know
bloodninja: You have to tell me yes or no.
sweet17: I’m afraid to
bloodninja: Why?
sweet17: cause
bloodninja: cause why?
sweet17: well lets see
sweet17: you say you have sex with turkeys. You call me fat. then you wanna eat me out
sweet17: doesn’t that seem strange to you?
bloodninja: Nope
sweet17: well its strange to me
bloodninja: Fine. I won’t do it if you don’t want me to
sweet17: I didn’t say that
bloodninja: So is that a yes?
sweet17: I guess so.
bloodninja: Ok. I need your help getting excited though.
bloodninja: Are you willing?
sweet17: What do you need me to do?
bloodninja: I need you talk like a pirate.
sweet17: ???
bloodninja: When I start to go limp… you say “HARRRR”
bloodninja: ok?
bloodninja: Hello?
sweet17: You can’t be serious
bloodninja: Oh yes I am!
bloodninja: It’s my fantasy.
sweet17: this is retarded
bloodninja: Do you want it or not?
sweet17: Yes I want it.
bloodninja: Then you’ll do it for me?
sweet17: sure
bloodninja: Ok. Here we go.
bloodninja: I gently remove your panties and being to massage your thighs.
bloodninja: You get really juicy thinking about my tounge brushing up against them
bloodninja: I softly begin to tounge your wet kitty.
bloodninja: I run my tounge up and down your smooth ****.
sweet17: mmmm yeah
bloodninja: uh oh …going limp.
sweet17: Har
bloodninja: You gotta do better than that!
bloodninja: Your picture was really bad.
sweet17: HARRRRRRRRRRRR
bloodninja: Ahhhh. Much better. I feel your kitty get more moist with every stroke.
bloodninja: I softly suck on your **** bringing it in and out of my mouth.
bloodninja: Your juices run down my chin as your scent makes its way to my nose.
bloodninja: I begin to feel empowered by your femininity.
sweet17: mmmmmm you are good
bloodninja: I feel your thighs tighten as I **** harder
bloodninja: going limp
sweet17: HARRRRRRR
bloodninja: Mmmm I grab your swelling buttocks in my hands.
bloodninja: You begin to sway back and forth.
bloodninja: going limp
sweet17: this is stupid
bloodninja: ...still limp
bloodninja: Do it!
sweet17: HARRRRRRRRRRRRR
bloodninja: I turn you around to lick your *******.
bloodninja: I pry apart that battleship you call your ass.
bloodninja: I see poo nuggets hanging from the hair around your ass.
sweet17: WTF??
bloodninja: They stink really bad.
sweet17: OMG STOP
bloodninja: I start to get fed up with your ugly ass
bloodninja: I tear off your wooden peg leg.
bloodninja: I ram it up your ass.
sweet17: YOURE A ******* PYSCHO!!
bloodninja: Then I pour hot carmel over your head.
bloodninja: And turn you into a ******* candy apple…
bloodninja: I kick you in the face!
sweet17: **** YOU *******!!
bloodninja: The celluloid from your cheeks hits the side of the cabin…
bloodninja: Your parrot flys away.
bloodninja: ...going limp again.
bloodninja: Hello?
bloodninja: Say it!
bloodninja: HAARRRRRR!!

In the process of writing this email, an old story entitled “The Move” occurred to me, and I have ressurected it here. This story will induce uncontrolable laughter in those who apreciate corporal humor. The file needs to be formatted for easier reading, any help out there?

Editor’s Note: Formatted, but not for the faint of heart…attached below

Now, I know that there is a lot of embellishment that occurs in this group and I am aware that a small number of things are perhaps sheer fabrication, but I have a story to tell that is the absolute truth.

Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me. A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan’s Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid’s night at Ryan’s, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards. It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment. We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar.

Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you—in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly.

I was sated.

Perhaps a bit too much, however. I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been passed in batches right at the table without too much concern.

Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It’s amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress…

I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good shit, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shit. I went to the normal stall. In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical proportions.

I began “The Move.” For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain “The Move.” Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position one’s ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of shit at the exact same second that ones ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.

I was about half-way into “The Move” when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch. What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can. In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crouched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over shit no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since shitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted. At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a wake… you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of “30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi” or something similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of shit the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass.

But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The shit wave was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down. Recall that when that event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you’re going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the shit wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of shit remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed up on.

Now, back to the vomit… While all the shitting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly-opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles? In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants—on the inside—with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet.

In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in shit that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid shit. All while thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.

And there was no fucking toilet paper.

What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.

About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to bring the car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I’m sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankle thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing . She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. She left.

The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan’s making minimum wage or just slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation.

Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose. Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, where upon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.

When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door.

The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan’s Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.