The Fisher of Stories - The Fishero Stories

I’m sure by now you’ve heard of LiLu over at LivitLuvit getting the job offer of a lifetime.

Then being told she had to kill, burn, maim, fuck up, beat 19 other contestants to get that job.

I won’t go into boring detail here, but you can check out her site by clicking on her name, and she will tell you how to vote for her. Near as I can tell, it’s going to go down on July 7th, and it’s all on Facebook.

The job? She’s going to be a Twitter Jockey. And since our darlin LiLu spends more time on Twitter than she does on her boyfriend, I think she’d be perfect for the job.

Here are my top ten reasons why.

1. She’s going to tweet anyway. And I’m sick to death of hearing about her fucking cats. I’d much rather hear about Megan Fox.
2. She’s promised to use “Suck it, bitches.” as her very first official tweet.
3. See picture below.
4. She has a friend named Maxie that I am almost entirely sure will kick your ass if you don’t vote for her.
5. Because if LiLu gets hired by MTV, it will give me a reason to give a flying fuck about anything MTV has done since the mid 90’s. (submitted by Jeff at Badly Drawn Monsters
6. I have it on good authority that even though she graduated from UNC, she actually loves Duke more.
7. Seriously y’all. Her cats have been on the internet more than that Pamela Anderson’s boobs. Help those cats out.
8. She created TMI Thursdays, in which I’ve admitted to some pretty gross stuff, but nothing like pulling shit out of a toilet with my bare hands. That one was all hers.
9. She may have mentioned to me in passing that she was going to get MTV to change its programming schedule. 12 hours of music, 12 hours of Jersey Shore.
10. I’m pretty sure she’s offered to show us a picture of her boobs covered with money if she wins. At least I HOPE I read that tweet right.

There you have it, folks. Stay tuned for details on voting! Folks, it’s TMI Thursday time with the one and only Lilu over at LivitLuvit. She wants me to do something “wholly unclassy” every Thursday, and I do my best to oblige her. If my contribution doesn’t question your faith in humanity, then click that picture of those two old people having way more fun than you did last night.

Today’s story is about poop, because I know you sick bastards love poop stories the most.
A lot of you don’t know, but I used to work with some special education students. It was not a fun job, but it wasn’t because of the students. It was the teachers I worked with. They were double crossing, back biting little rumor spreaders, and they hid it all under the guise of being exuberant, bible thumpin, pray over the kids everyday and speak in some tongues and try to see who can “outpray” the other others Pentecostals.
The schedule worked on a rotation. Each day, each person would get a rather tough kid to deal with, and a relatively easy kid to deal with. You did things like take them to lunch, get them ready for naps, play games with them, annnnnnnnnnd………..bathroom time.
If I told you to guess my least favorite time, it wouldn’t take very long before one of you raised your hand and said, “Mr. Sloat? I think it’s bathroom time.”
And then I’d put a gold star next to your name, pat you on the back, and send a report card home to your parents telling them that you liked to participate in class.
One day, we all smelled something.
That’s right. THAT something.
We had a shitter. A search was made around the room, and come to find out, the shitter was MINE.
He hadn’t just taken a normal sized dump in his pants, he had something the texture and color of really loose chocolate gravy running all the way down his legs, into his shoes, and into a sort of poop puddle around him.
I told him not to move as I e Coli proofed myself. Gloves, mask, the works.
Luckily the kid kept a spare set of clothes with him at all times. I walked him to the bathroom, sat him down on the toilet, told him to finish up, and I started working on cleanup. A couple minutes later, I was done, I walked back in the bathroom, had him get up, observed that there was NOTHING in the toilet, and started cleaning up the kid.
I got him all cleaned up, and we put his new, clean and fresh pair of whitey tighties on. As I stood there, looking at his clothes trying to figure out how best to get him dressed, I see it.
A little tendril of brown winding it’s way down his leg like a muddy tributary finding it’s way towards a river.
Then another tendril.
Then the assplosion.
Folks, shit went EVERYWHERE. I had no idea this could come from such a little kid. I was dancing around in the bathroom, trying to dodge little shit tributaries, and cursing the name of the person who decided that the bathroom floor should run DOWNFUCKINGHILL.
In the end, his mother was called.
But not before the ladies told me that I had to clean him again, dress him again, and clean and sanitize this bathroom, which looked like a damn crime scene, only brown instead of red. Shit was in every last corner of that room. I was in there, and I don’t know how I didn’t get shit on me.
Cleaning that up was one of the most humbling experiences of my life, and I’ll never forget it. And the whole time I was doing it, each lady would take a turn walking by the bathroom, cluck her tongue, and say, “Oh this ain’t nothin. This one time, I had a kid shit from the CEILING.”
I would call them all kinds of names in this post, but one of them is dead. The sad thing is, out of all three of them, she was the kindest and the least bitchy.
There you go, folks. The story of how I cleaned up the Mississippi river of shit storms. Folks, it’s TMI Thursday time with the one and only Lilu over at LivitLuvit. She wants me to do something “wholly unclassy” every Thursday, and I do my best to oblige her. If my contribution doesn’t question your faith in humanity, then click that picture of those two old people having way more fun than you did last night.

Some of you are saying, “There is no way he can mean that title literally.” To those I say…read on.

I’m not one of those innocent guys whose never rubbed one out whilst looking at Japanese kittens cakes beef naked ladies on the internets.

I have done this. Many times. Only sometimes I change the prefix from “Japanese” to “redhead.”

Shine and Mandy, you can keep reading. It’s okay.

Anyspanking, this is a story about the one time my wife “caught” me, and it’s also a story about how I almost broke both of my legs.

I’m sure you’ve all seen a keyboard bench. Here’s a picture for those who haven’t.

When The Missus and I tied the knot, that’s what we had as our first computer chair. I was still a respectable kind of fat back in those days, and didn’t weigh the approximate metric ton that I weigh now. A large part of my weight gain can be attributed to the fact that The Missus can deep fry ANYTHING, as well as the fact that I don’t have to chase sex down anymore, it comes home to me.
However, back in those days when the testosterone ran rampant and the urge could strike anytime, I used to wander back to the computer room, look up some pictures of big beautiful blond blowjobs on bad boys by the backyard (porn alliteration, FTW), grab a tissue and some lotion, and go to town.
One day, The Missus left for work, and I got the notion. I was watching CMT or some shit, either way, one of the Dixie Chicks came on, (not the ugly one) and I felt a little twitch, and decided to follow through.
I went back to the computer room, assumed the position, and started crankin.
About halfway there, the bench decides it has had enough, and/or Jesus decides to humiliate me in front of my still (relatively) blushing bride.
As I’m sitting on it, legs tucked underneath to keep out of the way of the money shot, (jizz on the leg is lame, just ask Frickineh) the bench gives out. Like, the legs just flatten. This leaves me in a rather awkward position: i.e. Big Travy in my hand and my legs DIRECTLY underneath me, heels touching my ass, supporting the weight that the bench has given up. Pretty much the LAMEST position a fat person can be in aside from the splits.
And don’t tell me that you’re fat and can do the splits. I don’t care, and neither does anyone else. That’s just nasty. It’s probably harder to get you off the floor than a sealed plunger on wood, and it probably makes the same noise.
At the point where my legs almost broke, I rolled off to the side of the bench with it still trapped in between what I am sure at this point were paralyzed legs. I was SCARED. I’d just masturbated myself into paralyzation! I’d been warned about blindness, but not this!
Then, the icing on the cake. I’d just gotten my cash and prizes tucked away, and I was gaining feeling back in my legs, and…
…in the door walks my beautiful new bride.
The porn is still up on the screen, the bench is broke, I’m dying but recovering and I’m still harder than a Braille Rubik’s cube. There really wasn’t much to say.
And that is the day The Missus found out that newly married men will still masturbate.
She had NO sympathy, and I caught all kinds of hell for breaking that bench. Folks, it’s TMI Thursday time with the one and only Lilu over at LivitLuvit. She’s a peach of a gal that really does her best to get everyone on the internet to do something embarrassing or nasty on Thursdays, and so far, she’s done a good job. This is my contribution this week. If you want more of this, please for the love of all that is holy and pure, click the picture of those old people having more fun than you did last night.

Just click play.

I’ll take care of the rest.

And just because I know some of you are TRULY worried, I’ll go ahead and tell you. It’s SFW. (safe for work)

I know.

There aren’t really words to describe it.

And yeah, I tagged it with kittens so it would get more hits.

Folks, it’s TMI Thursday time with the one and only Lilu over at LivitLuvit. She’s a peach of a gal that really does her best to get everyone on the internet to do something embarrassing or nasty on Thursdays, and so far, she’s done a good job. This is my contribution this week. If you want more of this, please for the love of all that is holy and pure, click the picture of those old people having more fun than you did last night.

If I could, I’d like to outline my sexual education for you.
It didn’t take place in a classroom, nor any other part of school, such as the gym teachers office, or in the janitor’s closet, or out on the football field one night after the Spanish teacher got done telling you why he was unhappy in his marriage.
It didn’t take place in a church, and it wasn’t personally taught to me by a priest, or any other clergyman that was forbidden to marry.
It consisted of my mother almost, but not entirely chucking a book by Dr. James Dobson into my room when I was in the 6th grade, saying, “Here Travis, I picked this up at the library, you should read it!” And running out of my room back into her protected little housewife bubble.
It also partly consisted of a prank some older girls pulled when I was in the 5th grade that involved them leaving little scraps of paper on the floor of the gym that said, “A woman get’s pregnant by a man putting his penis into a woman’s belly button…”
I still won’t put a load anywhere near one of those things.
The book had a chapter in it called “Sex” or something like that.
I turned right to it. Hell, I thought it might have pictures.
Instead what I read was a graphically detailed chapter of how a p goes into a v, and how babies are made. They didn’t get right into the “parts” so to speak, but they gave me the basic idea of things, which I was sorely needing, because I was starting to be the kid that “didn’t get” jokes at school.
It also taught me how to masturbate.
Now. Before I go further, I’d just like to say that I am sure that when Dr. Dobson wrote that book, he didn’t envision a child starting a habit that, 15 years later, has developed into a hobby that he’s mastered much like a young Asian boy masters karate and meditation.
However, that’s what happened.
But I’ve wandered off the point a bit.
The point is, I didn’t know certain things about a woman’s body. Hell, I’ll be honest, I’m still in confusion about that g-spot thing. That’s real. And don’t give me any of that “Poor Missus” shit, I don’t think she even knows where the damn thing is at. It’s like finding a set of keys in a lake that you’ve been looking for for 8 years, then turning around in excitement to tell your wife about it, and knocking them back into lake you pulled them out of.
Anyclimax, I was 16, and I was at my first girlfriends house. We had been dating while, long enough that we were using the “L” word, and I was getting handjobs pretty regular, and I still thought regular handjobs were a pretty cool thing.
Somehow, the topic of her period came up. This sparked a question in my brain. A question that I thought I could trust her not to laugh at.
“Hey. When you have to pee and you have a tampon in, do you have to take it out to pee?”
cricketcricketcricketuncontrollable laughter and finger pointingcricket
I was pretty ticked off.
“Travis, we have a pee hole. It’s right above the vagina… Did you not know this?”
“No. I didn’t. Thanks for laughing at me.”
So yeah… That’s how I found out that a woman doesn’t pee through her vagina.
Maybe next time I’ll tell you about Kid Funk diagramming where the clit is for me.Folks, it’s TMI Thursday time with the one and only Lilu over at LivitLuvit. She’s a peach of a gal that really does her best to get everyone on the internet to do something embarrassing or nasty on Thursdays, and so far, she’s done a good job. This is my contribution this week. If you want more of this, please for the love of all that is holy and pure, click the picture of those old people having more fun than you did last night.

Well, this week’s TMI will be short and sweet.

The thing is, it’s been sort of a “big” week for me.

You know.

“That” kind of big.

As in, maybe I should think about switching to 2 a day bowel movements.

Here’s why.

Actually, wait. Let’s talk about why they don’t make toilets with bigger holes in them. Why don’t they? I mean, surely they know that there are people like me out there that might on occasion have really big extra helpings of nachos and then have all that compress in their colon to something roughly the size of junior varsity football, don’t they? While we’re at it, why don’t they widen the pipes, too? If I ever build a house, it will have pipes the size of a subway system. When I flush a toilet in that house, I want to have to wonder if I’ve been pink socked. I want to have to hold onto a bar above my head that has to have at least as many steel bolts in it as they’re always braggin that the Ford F150 does. I want the neighbors six houses down to say, “Geez. It must be taco night at the Sloat’s.” Is that too much to ask?

Okay. So now. Here’s why.

I’ve taken a dump in 3 different toilets this week, and I’ve clogged ALL of them.

My house, the school, and my dear, sweet mother’s.

I felt kind of bad about that last one.

I think I’m going to have to start eating less.

Is there a discreet way to use a plunger? How come it always sounds like you’re driving an 18 wheeler through a heavily flooded china shop on the “quiet” side of town?

Well, the week’s not up, so I’m going to try to go 4 for 4 today.

Wish me luck!

Anyone want to invite me over to let me take a shot at immortality?
Folks, it’s TMI Thursday time with the one and only Lilu over at LivitLuvit. She’s a peach of a gal that really does her best to get everyone on the internet to do something embarrassing or nasty on Thursdays, and so far, she’s done a good job. This is my contribution this week. If you want more of this, please for the love of all that is holy and pure, click the picture of those old people having more fun than you did last night.

I think I was 14. It’s hard to remember, and I’ve tried to mostly block it from my mind.

It was also on a band bus.

It’s here that I’d like to take the opportunity to say a few words to the parents whose kids want to play the trumpet, the saxophone, the clarinet, or if they’re chunky, the tuba.

It’s cool and all, until a band trip.

For some reason, little Johnny or Kate, most notably Kate, will be an incredible child and a great role model until they get on a band bus. Then the magic happens.

Innocent young teens go abso-fucking-lutely apeshit. It’s the hormones.

I made out with a black chick on a band bus. And I just want to take an aside from the aside and say that when you get made out with by a black chick, you STAY made out with. That shit is EPIC.

Anyway, parents, I suggest you think twice about letting little Johnny and Kate go to Six Flags with the band on a “band trip.”

You remember the first American Pie where that weird wicked hot chick from How I Met Your Mother talks about shovin a flute up her axe wound?

Yeah… That shit happens for realsies.

Anyboob, we’re on a band trip, and we’re playing truth or dare.

It get’s to Kate* and she takes dare. Well, my buddy looked at me and said, “Have you ever seen tits before?”

“No…”

“Well then, Kate, I dare you to flash Travis.”

Let me tell you about Kate. They called Kate “Loppy.” I didn’t know why. I was a young, innocent child, with very little in the way of sexual knowledge, unless you count getting girls to touch my penis by telling them it was a spider.

I soon found out why they called her Loppy.

I was expecting a bra flash, something I’d seen before, and wasn’t real impressed with.

No.

I got the real deal. I got the full monty. I got…Tha Bidness.

She flipped the bra up, and out fell two of the weirdest looking boobies I’ve seen TO THIS DAY. Folks, it was insane. I’ve taken the liberty of using MS Paint to illustrate what I saw:

It. Was. Awful.

Was I aroused?

You got dang right.

Why?

CAUSE I WAS LOOKIN AT MY FIRST PAIR OF REAL FEET!

Surely one of you will get that reference.

Bonus points to the one who does.

My buddies all laughed, because I was apparently the last to know about ol’ Loppy. I guess she flashed those things like they were the last pair on earth, and I’ll never understand that. Why can’t the hot chicks do that sort of thing?

Anyway, if this story had a moral, and most of mine do if you look hard enough, it’d be this.

When Johnny picks up the trumpet, you give him the sex talk, slap him on the ass and slip him some condoms.

When Kate picks up the flute, lock her in her room and only let her wear turtle necks and long pants until she’s out of the house.

Oh.

And parents? If your daughter has hairy boobs, can you…ahem…SAY SOMETHING?

Thanks a million.

*Name was changed to protect identity. That’s the last thing I need is that chick adding me on Facebook and seeing this. Geez. So yeah. Her name wasn’t Kate.

(P.S. Don’t give me shit about that double standard. It’s always been there, I’m just bringing it up. (heh) For sure, you think my baby niece will be the most protected little girl ever? You better believe it.)

That title is gonna kill my traffic. I know it is.

However, the other day, I was tasked with finding out if Lady Gaga is a man or not.

Who is Lady Gaga?

If you asked that question, I’m going to make a recommendation.

I’d like to to feel around for your head. Chances are, it’s in your ass, and you need to remove it. If that’s the case, then talk to your doctor about some sort of emergency surgery, or talk to any Chapel Hill fan about living with it there. They all know about leading a full healthy life with their heads in their asses.

Now that we have that worked out, on with the post.

When I was asked to make my decision the other day, I was in a classroom subbing. I immediately put this up to a vote for the kids, because let’s face it, anything I was having them do was less important.

The vote was simple. Raise your hand if you think she’s a man, and then raise your hand if you think she’s a woman.

I have to say, when you have to force a kid to vote just to break a tie, the chances are you need to do more about proving to the world that you are, in fact, a lady.

She squeaked by on the thinnest margin of estrogen, with a vote of 5-4 for the lack of a Y chromosome.

That’s too close, folks.

So I went into my research.

I was talking with Jeff from Badly Drawn Monsters yesterday, and I used the phrase “I’ve had my face buried in her business all day.” Followed immediately by “I would totally get in that to look for a penis.”

He stopped talking to me.

Folks, I’ve been through a lot of different media the past couple of days looking for the ol’ stick and berries on the “it” in question, and I have to say, I can’t find either.

Send the pictures to…wait.

Wait.

Heh. Send them to this person.

Yeah, there have been some lumps, but not “sugar lumps.” Ya know what I mean?

I hope you clicked that link. I love that band.

They could be lady time lumps, or bunched up underwear lumps, or thanks to new knowledge given to me by Lauren at (Mis)Adventures In Theatre recently, maybe something called ben-wa balls. Thanks for that, Lauren.

*shudder*

Anytestes, from hereto and forthwith, let it be known that on this date, the day of our Lord, I, Travis Sloat, do hereby pronounce the singer known as Lady Gaga, to be a woman. And not only a woman, but a woman I would take home, pour a glass of wine, turn on some Marvin, light a fire, talk about some musical business things for a while, buy a bearskin rug, lay her down on that bearskin rug, ask her nicely to not make her next costume out of my new bearskin rug, and then make the sweet, sweet, maybe ruin my new bearskin rug but it’s okay because I just got Lady Gaga pregnant and she can buy me a new one love to her.

That’s real.

P.S. She can’t be a woman. She just can’t. Want to know why? Have you ever seen Maury Povich, and he’s got those people on there, you know the ones, the ones that look like women, but might be a man? And you don’t want to rub one out while they’re on the screen because they might turn out to be a man and you’d wonder for the rest of your life whether or not you’re gay because you fired off some knuckle children at a man. For sure, let’s just say I’ve already “invested” some of that time into pictures and video of Lady Gaga. So. She’s not a man. Why? Because I don’t masturbate to pics of dudes.

That’s real.

God, I hope that’s real.

You might have noticed a new design here.

That’s right, Jenna over at Bloggy Bog Designz did it up big. I can tell you two things about them.

1.) They do GREAT work, and they will hold your hand the whole way through.

2.) They take a LONG Christmas break.

The second thing is totally forgivable though, on account of the first thing.

Anyway, I think it’s time for the main attraction. I know why you’re all here. You’re here for the TMI.

If you’re new here, I just want to apologize up front for this. LiLu over at LivitLuvit does this little gig where you tell a really embarrassing story about yourself, and then link it up over on her site, where you will find a plethora of “wholly unclassy” stuff. If what I have to say doesn’t make you twitch quite enough, I suggest you click the picture of the two old people down there who are having a lot more fun than you did last night.

The other day, I had some home-ec student made chili.

I honestly didn’t think it would end like it did.

However, it did, and this is what happened.

I got the rumbles on the way home from work, and I chalked it up to stress on account of my brakes going out, and me trying to make it to the tag office before they closed so I could renew a 32 year old tag.

I made it home without any further incident, and I thought everything was okay. Little did I know, that chili had liqufied everything in my intestinal tract.

I think really it speaks wonders for the tightness of my ass.

Anyway, I sat down in my recliner, and didn’t have anymore issues.

A couple hours later, I had to go tinkle.

As a guy, one of the great things about peeing is that it gives you an opportunity to fart. Some of my greatest squawks of the butt trumpet have come while I was shaking hands with the president. It’s the best time to do it. You don’t have to worry about the wife giving you beef, you don’t have to restrain yourself, you can just let loose and let it fly.

As it turns out, those rules only apply when you haven’t had home-ec chili.

You see where this is headed?

Yep.

Let me set the stage for you.

I’m in my bathroom. I have one hand firmly on the wall, one hand on Big T. The urge to pass a little gas hits me.

I turn it loose…

…and…

…I effin crapped myself.

That’s right, ladies and gents, Travy G, the captain of cool, the sultan of sarcasm, the ambassador of alliteration, shit himself.

I’d like to tell you that it was just a little bit, and truth be told, it probably was. However, it didn’t FEEL like a little bit. It felt like, well, it felt like someone had just dumped a bowl of chili down the back of my pants.

I almost cried.

Humiliation does not even BEGIN to describe the feeling I felt. I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t incapacitated in anyway. I was of sound mind and able body, and I shit myself, WHILE STANDING AT THE TOILET.

The Missus knew immediately something was up for two reasons.

A.) I took a mid-afternoon shower.

B.) I started a load of laundry.

Have any of you had to tell your spouse that you just shit yourself?

She laughed at me. She tried not to, I’ll give her that, but she did. Asked if I was alright, all while holding back the biggest smile I’ve seen out of her all year.

Home-ec chili.

It will make you shit yourself.

Also, how do you tell the young ladies at school that made if for you that it made you shit yourself? Hallmark doesn’t make a card for that, and I can tell you how that conversation would go down.

“Hey Mr. Sloat, how did you like that chili we made you?”
“Well ladies, it made me shit myself somethin awful.”
*crickets*
“I mean, it was delicious!”
“Oh Mr. Sloat, you’re so funny!”

Yeah…

“I’m sorry bout the attitude I need to give when I’m with you, but no one else will take this shit from me.” – Matchbox 20

That’s right.

Two days in a row.

And this one went with the post, so suck it.

I’m totally kidding. I love you all.

(Hey y’all! It’s TMI Thursday! This little bad boy was created by the ever popular blog cool chick LiLu, who happens to have more of these types of stories over at her blog. Just click on the picture of those two old people clearly enjoying what was an accidental Viagra overdose.)

Well folks, it’s that time of the week. TMI Thursday.

I was kind of struggling for something to write about this week, and sat down to rewrite “Twas The Night Before Christmas,” for my good buddy Ed who’s going to have a vasectomy tomorrow. However, the words wouldn’t come, and I went to bed thinking I’d type it this morning. As it turns out, I didn’t need to.

Apparently, my cash and prizes can type. Now, I’ll admit, when I saw the spelling and grammar mistakes in this, I about went apeshit. However, any punishment delivered to my nether regions will directly affect me as a consequence. So I just gave them a stern talking to, (in the shower, so The Missus wouldn’t catch me talking to them) and told them that they were gonna do a bit more paying attention at school.

They pleaded with me to make sure Ed got this letter, and I don’t think I can deny them that. I tell you what though, this is the last time I’ll sleep with the laptop in bed. You see, in addition to this letter, apparently they typed a little something up for Jessica Alba, and SOMEHOW sent it to her. I don’t know how, but for sure, I got a call from her attorney this morning, and HE. WAS. PISSED.

You ever used the excuse, “My balls did it?”

It doesn’t work. And they didn’t bother to type me up a little something for the legal counsel that I’m going to need.

Anyway, without further ado, I give you: My ball’s letter to Ed.

deere ed,

this is litle travis and his testacals. wer’e reel sorry for whats abowt to hapen. we herd about it from travis. we cant imigane the pain and sufuring yur going thru. we dont think yu shood take it. we r sending yu sum plain tikits and sum mony. he dosnt no wer’e sending yu this EMAIL. THE LETRS GOT BIG AL THE SUDEN. HANG ON. ok. fixd it. neway, plez run away wen yu sea the sclaple salcple scelple big nife. it is going to cut yu and mak yu bleeds. then they wil tye yur juce tubes togother and mak yu not be albe tu hav the baibes. i hav herd of this befour form ohtr testacals. it iz vrey bad. come hoam and tel yur wife taht yu had itz dun. then uze the pul out methid frm hear on out. she wheel nevre no. aim four the boobs. if it cant bee avoyded, pleze no taht wee r tinking abowt yu and wish yu teh vrey best. sory four al teh spleling mizteaks. this is 2 tyme weve dun this. the 1 tyme wuz too mizter bobbit. we r hopping tings do beter four yu.

sinsearly,

litle travis and teh simbols

Ed, buddy, I’m very sorry in advance. I hope the words from my bits were comforting to you, but listen.

I really need that money and those tickets back. The sumbitches apparently know how to use a credit card, and Visa isn’t buying the “My balls did it” excuse either.

To everyone else, let’s leave Ed a little sympathy in the comments, eh?

By the way, Brandee over at Think Tank Momma did a lil sumthin sumthin for Ed today too! Go check it out!

(Hey y’all! It’s that time of the week again, and no I don’t mean where you have to take that pill because you saw Henry Winkler hit your stereo again, making it magically turn on. It’s TMI Thursday! This little bad boy was created by the ever popular blog cool chick LiLu, who happens to have more of these types of stories over at her blog. Just click on the picture of those two old people clearly enjoying what was an accidental Viagra overdose.)

I told some of you rookies that I don’t do low brow a lot. I swear it’s true, you just happened to catch me on a two day streak. Also, let’s be honest, TMI Thursday is the EPITOME of low brow. I mean, it’s the point, right?

Like yesterday, this one has an animal in it, but this story should be a bit shorter. The reason I’m doing this for TMI and not Memoir Monday is because this has stuff in it that I’m embarrassed about, and it also contains more proof that I’m a douche.

Anydouchecanoe, (See? I told you I’d do it, BigSis) let’s get on with the story.

The Missus and I were newly married, and we were living in a quadplex that looked a lot like this.

Yeah, that’s to scale.

Anycramped, we couldn’t really move in that place without bumping into each other, which worked out great for me, because we were newlyweds, and well, bumping into each other usually involved the sex. So. Win win, right?

Wrong.

What they don’t tell you about being a newlywed is that eventually…

You’re not one anymore.

This is where the real world shit starts to happen. Shit like you get into a huge argument over the phone while you’re at work because she decides she wants a cat, but she’s allergic to cats and you try to tell her that, but she is DEAD SET on getting a cat, and you cuss at her like you’ve never cussed at anyone, so she hangs up on you, but you call back and she doesn’t answer so you cuss at an answering machine like you’ve never cussed at one before, but you forgot that your 11 year old brother who thinks you’re the bees knees is staying with you this weekend so he hears you cussing at your wife, and you feel really bad, and in the end…you get a frickin cat.

Shit like that.

So anyway, she got a cat, and we named it Jaqueda. Yep. You saw right.

I hate cats, so I decided that I’m going to get a dog. A little dog, something cool that I can teach tricks and maybe eventually will eat the cat.

So I got a German Shepherd.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. “Aren’t those really big? Like, huge?” And you’d be right, kind of. Because when we went to look at it, it was little. And cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuute. Because it was a puppy, see? And puppies never grow up to maul your house or you mercilessly. (This is exactly why I’m not allowed to look at baby tigers)

We named him Kronos, and paid for him with a check, which bounced about a week later, which lead to a whole other situation of cussing on the phone. He was also the dog that I gave a golden shower to

We didn’t have a “yard” per se. When I say, per se, I mean we had a patch of grass that was about 4 feet by 4 feet in back of our “house.”

Potty training Kronos was a bitch. Right before we got rid of him, he had it nailed though.

Anyaccident, one day Kronos had been a bad dog, and he was in his cage in the back of the house, which he got mad about, so he shit in it, then barked a lot so we’d let him out.

Well, we hadn’t exactly TOLD our landlord that we were keeping a German Shepherd IN HIS RENTAL HOUSE. He was pissed about the cat, and we figured he wouldn’t be able to handle knowing a giant police dog was being kept in it too. I didn’t need this thing barking and letting all our other neighbors know that we had fuckin Rin-Tin-Tin cooped up in a cage designed for a poodle. (Don’t judge me. He ate good.)

So I’ve told you all that to tell you this. I used to be mean and cruel to animals. It wasn’t for fun, it was a way to take out aggression. I would hit them and stuff, and just generally be mean. When I look back on it now, it really makes me feel bad, and yeah, I’m sorry for it. What can I say? I’ve changed a lot, and I’m not that way anymore. Hell, I might even go out for an NFL draft. (Don’t jude me. He ate good.)

Anybeatsdogsandgoestoprison, I was mad at him for barking, and so I went back to the back bedroom where he was, and started poking him with a golf club everytime he made a noise. I was trying to teach him to shut up, and yes, I fully plan on using this method with my children. (Don’t judge me. They’ll eat…well, whatever I leave them.)

The Missus, God love her, decided she had had about enough of my animal cruelty. So she dealt with it.

She came back, grabbed the golf club out of my hand, and SWUNG IT AS HARD AS SHE COULD AT MY FACE.

Here’s how I know that I’m cooler than Tiger.

The Missus, God love her, didn’t hit me with my own club.

I caught the club in mid-swing, bruising my hand pretty badly, then I wrapped my arm around it, pulled her in real close to me, face to face, and just stood there.

“Get out of my house.” she said.

I laughed at her, told her to let go of the golf club, she did, I put it back in my bag, and I went and watched TV. (Don’t judge me. She ate good.)

I’ll tell you this though, from that day on, I’ve been nice to animals.

Well, with the exception of poor Kevin. (Don’t judge me. He jumped in front of MY truck.)

Editors Note: Listen, I loved that dog, even though I was mean to him. Some of you feel that way about your spouse, so seriously, don’t judge. We had Kronos about a year, and he tore that little house of ours to shreds. He had help, but that’s another story for another day. When I had to get rid of him, I was teaching him how to turn the lights on and off. I trained that dog with mints leftover from our wedding. He was the best dog I’ve ever had, and I still miss the hell out of him. Wherever you are, Kronos, I miss you, and I hope you’re doing well. Oh. And please don’t call the ASCPA or Animal Planet or anybody on me, please? I don’t need a commercial made ABOUT me.
(Ladies and Gents, once again, I’ve picked up some newbies. I’d like to welcome them all aboard! All of them should know about TMI Thursday, invented by the ever popular “cool chick” LiLu. For those of you who don’t know about it, well, now is your chance to leave. It’s where I tell a very embarrassing or personal story about myself. If you aren’t thoroughly disgusted, click on the picture of those two old people having more fun than you did last night. She’s got more. Don’t say you weren’t warned!)

Ladies, feel free to skip down a bit, I need to talk to the gents.

Just go here. Seriously. Click anywhere here.

They gone?

Right. Okay guys, here’s the thing. You totally have my permission to try this line. Like, see if it works for you, and if it does, we’ll have a meeting and figure out how we can incorporate this knowledge into every mans life.

Ladies, y’all can start reading again.

I was 14 years old, and I had not yet seen the movie, Arachnophobia.

I had a best friend at the time who had rented it on video, and he was going to be watching it that night with his family.

He had an older sister, let me tell ya, she was smokin hot. Smokin. Cute little blond girl, I believe at the time she was dating a 68 year old man. Anyway, she was fine.

So naturally I wanted to go see the movie with him, stay the night at his house, stay the day over at his house, etc.

So I lied to the parents, and went over for the movie.

I led a sheltered life, so I hadn’t seen many “scary” movies.

Well, thanks to seeing this one at the age of 14, I still hate spiders.

Anyfear, I was laying on my stomach watching the movie, and the older sister ran her hand up my leg, doing two things. Scaring the baby Jesus clean out of me, and instantly giving me a boner.

Like, I kind of raised up in the air a little bit out of fright, but stayed that way because of the erection. Guys, you know what I’m talking about, right? Ladies, just picture a pneumatic jack sort of thing.

Anyway, my little devious mind went to work.

Older sis had to take me back home that night, and I called shotgun.

My friend climbed in the back.

My mind was still firing on all 4 hormone driven cylinders.

Finally, I had an idea.

I carefully arranged myself, and then said, “Wow. That movie has me jumpy. I’m feeling spiders all over the place. Even this feels like a spider.”

She said, “What’s that?”

My mind nearly blew as I felt the nibble. By this time I was as hard as a calculus test given by Stephen Hawking.

“Give me your hand.”

SHE GAVE ME HER HAND.

I took her hand, and I placed it firmly on my man bit.

I took my hand away.

SHE TOTALLY KEPT HER HAND ON MY WIENER.

Dude. I was stoked.

She left it there for a few seconds, and there may have even been some light stroking. It was a frick frackin miracle I didn’t put a shot straight through her windshield.

I kept it reigned in though.

She laughed about it, removed her hand, and continued driving.

The entire time, my best friend was trying to look up in the front seats and asking “What’s going on? What’s going on?”

I’ll never forget the response from the older sister.

“This is front seat stuff. It’s not for people in the back seat.”

For. The. Win.

Guys, you have your homework.

Ladies, since you probably cheated and saw the assignment, let us know. Would his work on y’all?
(Ladies and Gents, once again, I’ve picked up some newbies. I’d like to welcome them all aboard! All of them should know about TMI Thursday, invented by the ever popular “cool chick” LiLu. For those of you who don’t know about it, well, now is your chance to leave. It’s where I tell a very embarrassing or personal story about myself. If you aren’t thoroughly disgusted, click on the picture of those two old people having more fun than you did last night. She’s got more. Don’t say you weren’t warned!)

The penis wasn’t out.

I really feel like I should say that in opening. Somehow, it seemed very important that I should clear that up.

I also think I should say that I don’t have a problem with gay people.

Yeah, that’s not how I was raised, but the way I see it, there are a lot of other things we need to clear up in this country before we go hitting the gays in the head and tell em they’re all headed straight to hell. That ain’t cool.

Also, I’m not one of those guys who thinks that every gay man wants my junk. I know that I am not an especially attractive sight for the FEMALES, much less a gay man.

That being said, I have had a gay man who has wanted to have a 3 way with me and The Missus, only he wanted her to “just watch.”

Thanks. Really. Thank you. But…no thanks.

However, this story involves a hair cut.

I was in Oklahoma City, and I had a work party that evening. The Missus decided I needed to look a little more like a respectable employee, and a little less like a “guy who just touched a wiener in the bathroom for a line of coke.”

I love her.

So I sat down in the chair, and this rather…gay…black man stands next to me, and starts cutting my hair.

Right away, I’m kind of weirded out, because he starts scissoring it. Well, scissors and my hair don’t like each other much. It’s a clipper kind of hair. You know, buzz buzz, I pay them 10 bucks, come again. Right?

Naw.

This guy scissors the whole thing. And, I have to say, he did a damn fine job. Damn fine. Except for the end.

On the very last snip, he leans in.

When he leans in, I feel something.

Something on my arm.

I move my arm.

IT POKES MY ARM AGAIN.

I look up, directly into the eyes of a man who is boldly poking me in the arm with a semi-erect penis, and eyebrows kind of up in a “Eh? Eh? What do ya think? You want some of this silky smooth chocolate, husky boy? Just the tip. Just for a minute, just to see how it feels. Eh?”

Oh. My. God.

I don’t remember specifically how I expressed my distaste, but I know I did it quietly, and quickly. My arms went straight down to my sides, and I just stared straight ahead like someone who had just been raped. I really felt like I had.

I came up with a new rule that day.

If I get a tip, you don’t.

That’s real.

(I totally googled “gay man touches arm with penis,” Moog style, just to see if a funny picture would come up that I could use. I’m very sorry I did that.)

(This is it folks. It’s Thursday. And I’m baaaaaaaaack! I took a week off last week, and I’ve gained some followers in that time. So let me warn you here. These are the days where you close the browser on your computer, shake your head a little bit, and say, “What the HELL was I doing reading everything he posted?” That’s right… It’s TMI Thursday, brought to you by a blogging associate of mine named LiLu. If you want more of this garbage trash wonderfulness, click that little button of the old people having more fun than you did last night. That, my friends, is real.)

I can’t really remember who reminded me of this story, but I think it was Daffy over at Batcrap Crazy. She left a comment on someones post, and it sent me flying back…

I was about 12 years old, maybe 13. I don’t remember when the problem first started, I only remember that for some time, when I woke up to take my morning pee, I had been getting kind of dizzy. Like, kind of woozy or something. I wasn’t sure what the problem was, so I decided to ignore it, and it would probably go away.

It did not.

Enter a couple of weeks later.

I was standing at the toilet, going about my morning bidness, when I got lightheaded.

Shoosh, this wasn’t something I was unfamiliar with, so I kept giving my toilet a golden shower.

A couple seconds later…

…I am woken up by a loud crack on our tile floors, and a sudden sharp pain in my head, coupled with a very cold moist wetness around my cash and prizes.

In time, this all made sense. The crack I heard was my forehead slamming into the tile floor. The sharp pain in my head was caused by the fact that tile floors are a substantially harder object than a forehead. The cold moist wetness? Well that was because my bit an berries were laying in a urine covered section of cold tile floor.

The reason I didn’t understand it all right away?

I was unconscious during that trip to the floor.

So I did what any teenage boy would do. I rolled over a bit, made sure my junk was all back in my pants, rolled back over into the puddle, and hollered for my mother.

She came running, and needless to say, was a bit worried about her eldest son laying face down in a puddle of his own urine. Morning urine, nonetheless.

We made a trip to the doctor. Guess what I had? This:

Micturition (or post-micturition) syncope is fainting during or, more commonly, immediately after urination due to a severe drop in blood pressure. Micturition syncope is most common in older men and usually occurs at night after a deep sleep.
The exact cause of micturition syncope isn’t fully understood. But it may be related to opening (vasodilation) of the blood vessels that occurs when getting up and standing at the toilet or that occurs at the rapid emptying of a full bladder. This is thought to result in a sudden drop in blood pressure.

Yeah, something called Micturation Syncope.

The doctors solution? I should sit down when I pee from there on out.

And that, my TMI friends, is how my life has gotten easier from that day forward.
(This is it folks. It’s Thursday. And I’m baaaaaaaaack! I took a week off last week, and I’ve gained some followers in that time. So let me warn you here. These are the days where you close the browser on your computer, shake your head a little bit, and say, “What the HELL was I doing reading everything he posted?” That’s right… It’s TMI Thursday, brought to you by a blogging associate of mine named LiLu. If you want more of this garbage trash wonderfulness, click that little button of the old people having more fun than you did last night. That, my friends, is real.)

I’ve always been a weird pooper.

Sometimes, when I was younger…wait. That can be next weeks.

Anyway, I never had a real schedule for dropping the kids off at the pool until I got older. About 24 or so. Used to be, I’d forget about taking the Browns to the Super Bowl. Wouldn’t even cross my mind. And since I eat a diet rich in cheese and meats and fats and bad things, sometimes, I get the constipation, and it this instance, it was a very bad thing.

Occasionally, I’d go a couple days without chunkin a deuce, and I’d start getting scared. Because I knew it was gonna be big, and I knew it was gonna hurt. I’d eventually go into the bathroom and give it the ol college try, because I knew it would be better than waiting on my body to say, “Hey man, we gotta do this. We’re backed up worse than the plumbing at the Biggest Loser ranch.” You know, the poop where you roll your sleeves a little bit, because it might get ugly.

Well, one day, I realized that I’d gone about 4 days since my last poop. I realized this whilst Kid Funk and I were at a restaurant called Las Fuentes here in my town. We were just about to sit down to a fine Mexican meal, and my body gave me the tap. Not the rumbles tap, or the assplosion tap. But the “Hey man. We want this food as much as you, but something has to go.” So I got up, and I went to the restroom. I dropped trou, and I sat down for a minute or two.

The reason I wasn’t down longer is because folks, I FELT how big this thing was. It lowered itself down to be released, and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that this wasn’t the sort of thing that could be handled in a small restaurant bathroom. I looked around, and they didn’t even have a plunger. This WAS going to require a plunger. So I rescinded the order, pulled up my pants, and went out there and ate like a condemned man eats his last meal. Slowly.

We got home, and I went into the restroom to duke this battle out. I now had 4 days, and a Mexican lunch on top. I buckled down, and this is essentially what happened. Folks, I know I exaggerate a lot on this blog, but this is the honest to God truth the best approximation of what came out of me.

That is a Wilson TDS 14 and under regulation football. The closest thing I could find. The dimensions of said football? 10 inches by 6 inches. 6 INCHES AROUND. Guys and gals, it was the worst 30 minutes of my life.

I hollered at Kid Funk before I flushed it, just so I could have a witness. This legend has not grown with time, and I swear on it all that it was every bit of that big. He took one look at it, and he said, “How did you not make any noise when that was coming out?” I was defeated. Utterly defeated. I had nothing left. This thing started my hemorrhoids.

I asked Kid Funk to be the first to comment, so that you would all know that I wasn’t lying about it. I also asked him for a quote. The quote:

“Shit was big.”

That really sums it all up. Oh yeah, I mentioned flushing it. I had to use the stick end of the plunger to break it up into flushable pieces. The time for the whole thing to be completed from the birth to the subsequent abortion? One hour.

I took a nap. No shit.