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Surrealistic Pillow-Biter

Friday, October 26, 2001

There's a new boy in town... camboy that is. Our very own CrotchCannibal has agreed to become a camslut, and already has the wimmen folk in a lather. CC had a wee bit of trouble setting up his cam, but now that he's up and running expect frequent updates, and tons 'o fur-faced fun. Crotchy is more than just a pretty face, though. The following is the first installment of a series he wrote this summer on a subject very near and dear to his ass.

le Crotch

This Post Is Basically About Farting
by CrotchCannibal

You ever get in one of those situations where you feel about as significant as amoeba snot and about as valuable to society as a fifty mile long asteroid hurtling towards the earth? Ever do or say something that would make God, if God actually existed, give you one of those really disappointed looks, sigh, and go, "Ugh, you fuckin' suck, loser!"? Well, I've been there on occasion, and I just wanted to offer a small tidbit of advice to others about a surefire method I've devised for extracting oneself from such perspiration-inducing, soul-destroying predicaments.

Just fart.

That's right, unleash your ass gas. Toot your own horn. Stoke the fecal wind. Punctuate the moment with a burst of your disgustingly putrid butt emissions. Trust me here, kids, nothing but nothing will remove you from harm's way faster than a generous dosage of poo-vapor. And I'm not just pulling your finger here. I can back this theory up with hard evidence. Hard as a petrified lawn cigar. Believe me. So, without further ado, let's have a whiff, shall we?


Situation #1: The Date Gone Bad

So, I've finally gotten that gorgeous piece-of-ass friend-of-a-friend to agree to go on a date with me. Holy fuckin' peckerpoles, she's hot. I've showered, shaved, dressed in my finest regalia, and screeched to a halt directly in front of her incense-scented, one-bedroom apartment at pre-fuckin-cisely 8:29 PM. In other words, my dick still has a chance of raiding the Ol' Honeysuckle Tomb. If I can stay this consistent for the remainder of the evening, I've got bush. Plus, I remembered to brush my tongue.

Fast forward to the restaurant. A fancy one, of course. It's been great so far, the conversation is fuckin' robust. We're gettin' along like gangbusters, laughing like hyenas, and generally eyeballing each other with big happy faces engraved on our peepers. It's goin' good. But, like everything in my life, it's all been merely a setup for disaster. It's been a fuckin' prelude to ruin. It's been a long drive up a steep mountain in a car with sketchy brakes. Story of my goddam life. 'Cause this little, pleasantly aromatic rose garden we've planted is about to magically transform itself into a rather large pile of rhinoceros excrement. And that, my dear friends, is not good.

! So we're sittin' there enjoying our Filet Mignon, our bottle of cabernet, and our complementary bread sticks, when along comes this fucking SMOKIN' babe from the other side of the joint. She's got it goin' on, and on, and on. Legs, tits, ass, hair, and lips that could suck my soul through a garden hose. A total fuckin' knockout. So, being the nut-noggined jerk-pea that I am, I gawk like a vulture at a lion kill. I mean, I stared HARD. Couldn't help myself. I might've even muttered a quick "hot damn!", thinking it'd go unnoticed. Well, it didn't.

Fuck me.

There's nothing worse you can possibly do when you're out with a girl than to look at another chick. I could've chewed with my mouth open, told her I had genital herpes, even admitted to being a serial killer, and it would've just been water under the bridge. But me gazing stupefied at some bodacious honeymuffin while my poor date sits forgotten is, to put it mildly, a bad move. It's a broomstick in the spokes of romance. It's the squishy sound a body makes when it hits pavement after a four-story fall. In other words, it's all over. No emergency surgery, no CPR, no miracle of modern science for me. I'm fuckin' toast. Sooo...

I stare deep into her hate-filled eyes, lean to one side, wrinkle my nose, and cut a loud fart.

You shoulda seen her face. Fuckin' priceless. She flashes me a look of "I canNOT believe you just did that!" There's so much rage and embarrassment in her expression that I bet, if she'd had a gun, she would've seriously considered murdering me. Well, boo-fuckin-hoo, slut. I'm stifling my laughter, of course, 'cause farts are hilarious. Somehow, she doesn't seem amused. The patrons at the adjacent table, who've been pretending they didn't hear my bomb go off, are nervously picking at their food and rubbernecking. So, being the caustic funny-man that I am, I look over at them and spit a big chunk of chewed meat into their fuckin' Creamed Barley soup. Motherfuckers. Meanwhile, my date is grabbing her purse. She stands up, pours her glass of wine in my lap, and heads out to find a taxi. I motion for the waitress to bring me the check, put it on my Visa Gold card, leave a 25% tip, and exit the fuckin' building. What a disastrous evening.

But, the point is, I got out of it.

By farting.


Farty McToot Situation #2: You Fucked Up Bad At Work

Let's just imagine for a second that you've gone and done something really, really horrible at your place of employment. Y'know, your job? You've missed the all-important meeting, you've botched the quarterly earnings report, you never received that super-urgent memo from the CEO. You. Broke. The. Coffee. Machine.

In other words, you're totally fucked.

Whatever it is you've done, the boss is pissed. Everyone's avoiding you like the plague. So, your boss calls you into the office, closes the door, tells you to "have a seat", and -- this is an important detail -- doesn't sit behind the desk, but just sort've leans against the front of it, towering over you.

Oh shit.

Well, before your boss starts in with the inevitable tirade, before they open their big fuckin' yapper to chastise you for some pointless bullshit, before you get reprimanded because you've made a couple insignificant "policy breaches"...try this:

Yelp in pain, grab your jaw gingerly with both hands, scream out "TOOTHACHE!!! TOOTHACHE!!!", and cut the most thunderous, bellowing fart you've ever attempted in your life. Then, dash out of the office, jump in your car, and speed away -- making sure to cradle your jaw and look pained throughout the whole charade.

That's it. That's all you've gotta do. Problem solved, stressful situation avoided, and boring lecture nullified in one fell swoop. Your boss and coworkers will be too stunned to say anything and too shell-shocked to try 'n stop you. If they try calling you at home, just don't answer. And if they try calling you at the dentist, well, believe me...they ain't gonna call the fuckin' dentist. You're off scot-free. So enjoy the rest of your day.

When you wake up, you'll have forgotten all about it. Then, the only thing you'll need to worry about is finding a new job in a totally unrelated field. But, c'mon, how hard can that be? I mean, even if you do find a new job and, for some reason, it doesn't work out...hey, at least you've got an escape plan.

Another one of life's sticky situations solved with gas power.


Situation #3: You've been kidnapped by Islamic Fundamentalists

OK, I admit it, those first two examples are some pretty far-fetched scenarios. I mean, would you ever really have a bad date or fuck up at work? Nah, I didn't think so. Never gonna happen. You need a more realistic situation where my "Fart Your Way To Freedom" hypothesis might actually come into play, where you might actually benefit from the expulsion of your malodorous hind-cloud. A situation that could potentially mean the difference between life and death, with life hinging on whether or not you can deliver a resounding butt-boomer and death resulting from an unfortunate, untimely indication that you are "Temporarily Out Of Gas".

The kidnapping possibility.

Let's say you've decided to take a well-deserved vacation. You've passed on the "usual" destinations: Hawaii, The Caribbean, Paris, Disneyland. Yawn. You want an adventure this time, a real change of pace, a breath of fresh air in your otherwise droll existence. You're off to picturesque...

Afghanistan.

Stinky Pants Now, maybe you didn't exactly read all of the paragraphs in that vacation pamphlet you checked out at the travel agency. Maybe you weren't exactly "listening" when the travel guy begged you to reconsider. Maybe you haven't exactly been "following world events" too closely for, oh...I don't know...the last twenty, twenty-five years or so. You figured, "Ah, who cares, it's just another slice of the world, right?" You figured, "Hey, I get along with cab drivers all right." You figured, "What the Hell, let's do it honey! Grab the kids 'n let's go!" Well, you my friend are a dumbass. 'Cause Afghanistan is one fucked up piece of real estate. It ain't no friggin' Jellystone National Park. They don't have Yogi and Booboo and picnic baskets. They don't have Ranger Smith. They don't have "smarter than your average bears".

They have wars. Violent, bloody, unrelenting wars. With real guns. In other words...it's kinda dangerous.

So, when you find yourself smack dab in the middle of some bombed-out, rubble-filled, bullet-riddled alleyway in deepest Kabul, don't be surprised if you and your family get nabbed by a gang of hooded thugs carrying AK-47's and shouting "funny language" at you. That's what happens to Americans (and don't go pinning maple leafs on your backpack to try 'n avoid controversy, either -- they kill Canadians by the truckload over there). Don't argue, resist, or run away. Just shut the fuck up and get in the van. Then, when they've taken you back to their rundown headquarters to "interrogate" you, remember this valuable token of advice:

Fart up a storm.

Break wind like a goddam hurricane. Blast the walls with your Hi Fi anal stereo. You'll be on a plane to a neutral country faster than you can whistle 'Dixie' outta yer ass. It's a bona fide guarantee of freedom. Just think about it. Would you really want to blindfold, torture, starve, and butt-rape a putrid, stinky, foulness-emitting American farter and his innocent family just for some meager political gain? Ask a hundred Afghani terrorist factions and they'll all tell you the exact same thing: "Hay-ell No!"


Conclusion:

So you see, simply by farting the situation is resolved. The stench of life hangs over you like a happy, little cloud and the world is a better-yet-smellier place. It's easy when you toot your troubles away. Life's a gas, so live it like there's no tomorrow. Let the winds of good fortune break across your freshly-sliced cheddar. Reek the day!

"And in the end,
the rips you take,
are equal to
the smell you make." - Paul McFartney


THE (rear) END

Bastard Sons of Scums, I'll tell ya!

Monday, October 22, 2001

Ooooh, Mama.  What the hell happened to my car?This weekend, someone stole my son's car, which I bought for his last birthday. My kid is only two years old! He cherished that car.

That Cozy Coupe was the only thing he got from us for his second birthday, and he played in it everyday. The neighbourhood kids, who are all several years older, would push him up a hill in the car, and then run with him down the hill. Suddenly it was gone from our front yard.

I was furious. I wanted someone dead. I didn't care if the thief was a kid, a teenager or an adult. I wanted to hunt them down.

Normally, I'm a pretty calm person. But someone stole something belonging to my child. My boy, who I take care of every breathing moment of my life. I wanted to see blood and gore and guts and veins in my teeth. Eat dead burnt bodies. I wanted to get that car back.

My baby's father informed me he'd already done a search of the neighbourhood, including a nearby park. The only car he saw which fit the description was parked in the yard of people who live a block away. He didn't think it was the same car.

Little Benji offers Rover the keys, after a hard day of drinking. I pulled on some jeans and we all went to the house. From my first sight of the car, I knew it had to be it. I checked it close-up. Same licence plate sticker torn off, same sticky door.

We just picked the car up, and took it home. No scene, no confrontation. How could I start a fight with someone, for allowing their kids to come home with someone else's toy, in front of my son?

I just had to suck it up, and enjoy the huge grin on the boy's face. He was so happy to get the car back, that he pushed it into the living room as soon as we brought it inside the house. Then he turned on the cartoon network and sat in the car, watching Johnny Bravo. We had to say to him, "We're going out again, sweetie. Get your coat back on."

He gave the car roof a little pat before he turned to walk out the front door.

Later that night, I remembered why I'd been keeping the car outside. The boy took a full glass of juice, and poured it in the trunk. Ah well, my son's a maniac, but he's no thief.

More Border Bullshit

Friday, October 19, 2001

I spent 17 torturous hours in my car on Monday. Left my house in Toronto at 6:30 a.m. and didn't arrive at Eigh's place until just before 12 a.m. Tuesday.

It took me over an hour to get across the Ambassador Bridge in Detroit, only to be turned back to Canada because I am unemployed.

I couldn't believe it when the bastard of a U.S. border guard (whose fucking face would have cracked if he actually knew how to smile) put a big red sticker on my passport, placed it under one of my windshield wipers, told me to pull my car over for "a more extnesive search," and then asked me to head into the immigration office. In the office, a customs official proceeded to search my entire wallet, taking out personal lists and reading them. I felt so violated. Then I was given a sheet that stated: At this point in time, you do not appear to be clearly admissable to enter the United States as a temporary visitor for pleasure.

I wasn't quite sure what to do. Our fucking immigration offices were keeping us apart. Eigh didn't get into Canada last month because of a DWI conviction two years ago and now I couldn't get into the U.S.

The prick told me to go through the toll, then turn the car around and head back to the Canadian side, where my passport would be returned. What I did instead, however, was take the westbound Detroit exit, gunned the gas, and headed towards Wisconsin. I kept looking in my rearview mirror, expecting to see flashing police lights behind me. After about 15 minutes of driving like an hysterical madwoman, I decided I didn't really feel like being a fugitive on the run in the U.S. Not to mention the fact that I really wanted my passport back...

So I returned to the border, got the passport without a problem and headed for an alternate border. Although it took me five hours and about 500 km out of my way, I didn't particularly care when I was given the green light to proceed into the U.S. at the other border crossing.

Once I got out of earshot, I yelled "WOO HOO" several times at the top of my lungs and proceeded to the closest telephone booth to inform Eigh of my success.

My only worry, once it got dark when I was still about 150 miles outside of Chicago, was that I might fall asleep in the car. I remedied that by opening my car window, sucking back as much caffeine as possible and smoking like a fiend.

When I finally pulled up in front of Eigh's place, I almost passed out when I got out of the car. But I made it here once again and here I will stay, for at least another week...


Sunday, October 14, 2001

Hello Wisconsin! Once again, I’m off to visit my man in the land of milk and cheese. I’m very excited, as usual, but I always feel bad about leaving my cat. Every time I get a suitcase and start packing it to go away somewhere, Mokie knows. She starts hanging around me a lot more and she walks around my bedroom crying.

I leave tomorrow morning for my fourth visit to see Eigh. I like going to see him, but the drive is a bitch. Ten to twelve hours in my car and ALWAYS, ALWAYS some sort of delay in Chicago. Every single time I go through that city I am cursing it.

I mentioned to Eigh last time I was in Wisconsin, that when I first got my car, I would get into it and feel a sort of mad glee. After five long years, I finally had a car again. I used to drive around mindlessly on my lunch hours at work. Why? Because I could! I now look at it as a sort of medieval torture chamber. Obviously, I do it to myself but, I admit, when I finally arrive, it's worth it…

Home Sweet Home

Wednesday, October 10, 2001

Life can kick you in the teeth sometimes but then again, it can also be like a soft pillow, waiting to catch you if you’ve fallen. Well, shit, I think everything just tends to balance itself out actually.

I don’t mean to brag, well actually I do, but the house my roommate and I moved into a month ago is fucking fantastic. Besides our landlord being a complete fuctard (he’s constantly telling the two of us that he can’t believe there is no MAN living here) we got quite a steal.

It’s huge. It has a family room, living room, huge kitchen, four bedrooms, washer/dryer, dishwasher AND a fireplace. My roomie was also generous enough to offer me the master bedroom, which has it’s own little two-piece bathroom.

Unfortunately, the landlord is a nosy, sexist, bastard. One day, he asked me if I had any children and I said no. Then he asked me if I wanted any. I said I didn’t know. And he kept on prying until finally I just walked away from him. The best, though, was last week, when he saw I was home again and said: “Don’t you ever work?” I should have told him, no, that in fact I was on my way to the unemployment office, but instead I lied and said I had the week off. It's none of his bloody business!

All in all, however, I am very happy with the place. Life kicked me in the teeth last week but my consolation prize is getting to hang around a beautiful, big house all day long. Not a bad trade-off, in my estimation.

You can check out My New Digs by clicking on the link.

Jobless Again

Tuesday, October 02, 2001

Yes, that's right. This is the third time I have been unemployed. It's weird because each time it happens it gets easier and easier to handle. The first time I lost a job, I was a lifestyle/entertainment reporter. My boss brought me across the street to the publisher's office, where I was told they would no longer need my services. I sat there like a stone, I was in such shock. It wasn't until I got home, grabbed a beer out of the fridge, stepped into the bath and phoned my mom that I started to bawl my eyes out.

The second time, I worked for my boyfriend, he called me into his office and asked me to shut the door. I knew what was happening and immediately proceeded to stomp my feet, scream, and cry at the same time. It was quite the performance. Maybe I should have sued the bastard...

Yesterday, my boss called me into his office and told me there is no more work for me to do and he was laying me off. He looked like he was going to cry. I almost rolled my eyes at him. I just said: "Oh, OK." I hated that job anyway. The money was good but the job itself was truly one of the most boring I've ever had. I felt like he was almost doing me a favour. After I left the office, I drove to the liquor store and bought a bottle of champagne, which my room mate and I enjoyed last night.

Today, I slept until 11:30, woke up a little hungover and I'm currently sitting here in my bathrobe, enjoying my third cup of coffee. My immediate plan is to live off my unemployment cheques for at least a month. I really needed a vacation...

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