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Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Thursday, August 23, 2007

Monday, August 13, 2007

  • Recovery Week




    I'm going to need the rest of this week to recover from this past weekend.  Min and I ended up fulfilling one of our goals...to drink 3 nights in a row.  Lol, yea it's not exactly one of the greatest aspirations in life, but nonetheless mission accomplished.

    And shout out to Cici, who was my co-conspirator in our crazy weekend...August birthdays are definitely the best!

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

  • Battle Asses



    WARNING: The following post contains scenes of anal leakage and coarse language intended for crass and immature audiences.  Reader discretion is advised.

    this was actually posted on craigslist austin about a year ago...



    You are my arch nemesis. I see you wandering around as I go about my IT Computer Nerd business: Tall. Middle Eastern. Pot Belly. We catch each others eye every now and then and give each other a slight nod. I know you, I know what you do and I am on to your games.

    I saw you this morning, we made eye contact. You nodded and took another bite of whatever Death-Ass producing garbage you fuel up on that makes the bathroom, smell like the inside of a dead monkey's colon, and nodded at me. I got you this time, fucker.

    I give you my icy grin and nod back, then hurry back to my office. It's almost noon, and that's the time you like to run to the toilet and preform your daily ASS JIHAD on all the people just trying to wash their hands. Maybe in your country there is no common sense that would tell you that lunch time = hand wash time. People want to get clean and eat, not be fumigated with the high octane liquid shit attack you subjugate them too.

    But I got you this time. Yeah fucker I GOT SOMETHING COOKING UP FOR YOU! Two egg sandwiches with cheese. Greasy sausage patties. A couple glasses of Tang. Some leftover Chinese food. A Twix. Root Beer Soda. Some steamed broccoli I had in the fridge. A Hot Pocket with pepperoni and cheese. A Chocolate Poptart. And like a cherry on top ... a McDonald's Quarterpounder with cheese.

    I never eat this shit, it's all greasy and fucking nasty, but today is the day I fight back. I go out for a quick mile jog and almost die. My stomach feels like there are two midgets fighting to the death inside there. I walk back to work, ass clenched tighter than a virgin's thighs at Church.

    Great. The hot chick from next door wants to chat. She assumes the sweat on my face and arms is from running. She doesn't realize that it's a cold sweat induced by my severe sphincter trauma. She finally shuts up and I stagger to the Death Ass Arena.

    You are there already in your favorite stall: The one right next to the fucking sinks. You stupid, socially retarded fuck. Fine. You have yet to begin your daily purge of Middle Eastern Ass Stew. I enter the stall next to you and drop my pants in preparation of the upcoming battle.

    Your opening salvo is fired: A sloppy wet fart with a solid-shot closer. I laugh and show you the power of Advanced American Foodstuffs.

    The tuba fart I unleash echoes off the walls and shrinks my waistline about an inch. The guy at the urinal laughs as I slap the wall between you and I and say "Back to YOU, Kajid!". You are silent, I assume you know who I am and that the time has come for us to battle. I know you are summoning your intestinal fortitude for full out war.

    You do not disappoint me.

    With a hissing "SSSShhhhhzzzzzzzzz!" you squirt out a deadly spray of ass juice that pollutes the air and makes my head swim. The pisser at the urinal is no longer laughing, he quickly zips up and runs for the door. He did not stop to wash his hands, instead opting to head for the hills. I cover my mouth and nose with my shirt and the black spots disappear from my vision. My head clears. I am ready.

    "AAaaaaaaaRRRRRGGGHHH!" I yell, as I drop Big Tim. That's short for "Big Timber" ... AKA "Mississippi Butt Log".

    Quick-fire farts stutter out of my ass, as I push the monster log from the Shit Dimension into our reality. The beefy, yeasty stench easily overpowers the Indian Ass Gutter oder of your previous attack. Mega Turd hits the water in the bowl with a mighty splash, the reek is that of a dead whale slowly ripening in the hot, tropical sun. I catch my breath and wipe my brow, and start to pat myself on the back. I should have known the battle was not over.

    The only thing I can think of is that you must has completely unzipped your ass to your elbow. That's the only way I could begin to explain the lumpy, creamy splashes falling out of your ass into the toilet. It sounds like you are pouring a gallon of strawberry shake with whole strawberries in it into the shitter. I see the hairs on my arms start to curl from the horrid stench wafting up from under your stall. I shudder and sway on my throne, unsure if I will survive.

    I have no choice. I must employ the Deal Breaker. I hunker down and clench my hands together. My fingers twitch and entwine like a nest of snakes, almost like I am running through a series of ancient Ninja Hand Symbols. My feet lift up onto the toes and my legs start to shake.

    "You want to play??" I growls. A low moaning comes from my stomach, like a dinosaur calling into a swampy, foggy night. "YOU GOT IT! AAAAAAHHHHHH!"

    Like Cloud summoning The Knights of the Round in Final Fantasy 7, I summon the Excalibur of Turd Demons to destroy my enemy. Hot magma-like shit rockets out of my ass, releasing a noxious, sticky cloud of deadly recall perfume. I hear you gag and see your feet shuffle around, but you can't get away, can you? No. You can't.

    Veins throb on my neck and temples as the turd monster tears itself from my bowels. My lips skin back from my now clenched teeth and I try not to scream. Your roll of toilet paper rolls into my stall. You must have torn it from the wall with numb fingers in an attempt to "Wipe and Scoot". Too late. MUCH too late!

    Odors pound you with merciless fists: Rotten Fruitcake stuffed with boiled chicken assholes. Hammered shit-logs served on a bed of week old white rice. Rosie O'Donnell's rancid crotch farts. The smell of your mom's dank, hairy Middle Eastern armpits.

    Your stall door bangs open and you stagger out. You take three unsteady steps to the door and can barely open it wide enough to slip out. I laugh at you before you leave. "Yeah! RUN, Fucker!" I yell, and laugh again. You say nothing.

    It's all over except for the clean up. Fuck with me again, you shit filled Anal Terrorist. Me and my ass will be waiting.




Thursday, August 02, 2007

  • The Eyes of Texas are Upon You



     I felt the warm rush of nostalgia run through me as we walked the streets of downtown Austin last weekend.  Or maybe it was the warm rush of alcohol running through me on its way to infect my liver.  Anyhow, after the requisite bar hopping on 6th Street, we ended up at this place called The Wave.  The downstairs area was lined with your Homers, the beer drinkers who huddled around booths and tables engaged in conversation while checking out the scenery and the beer drinkers who pretended to be engaged in conversation while checking out the scenery.  The upstairs had more of a club feel, with overly-cushioned booths lined in that fake, white pleather and a bar surrounded by people who were enjoying the company of Mr. Goose with Miss Cranberry and Lil’ Walker On The Rocks. I flagged down the brown-eyed bartender with the universal sign of impatient alcoholics...yelling at her while waving dollar bills in the air.

         "2 Patróns," I blurt out.  "2 Gran Patróns chilled." She stopped for a second and threw me a look that said "This is 6th Street you drunk moron, not Madison Avenue."

         "The best we've got is Silv-" I cut her off, nodding my head. "That's fine...2 Patrón Silvers then.  And don't forget to make one for yourself."

     Brown-Eyes flashed a quick smile and mouthed the word "Thanks" before turning back to grab the shot glasses.  I spun around to look for my drinking partner Min, only to see him a little ways off heading towards a group of Indian girls...dots, not feathers. He stumbled into the middle of their group, placing his index finger underneath his nose, and yelled out, "I smell currrrrrry!" before huddling over, cracking up hysterically at the genius of his observation. Goddamnit, that bastard. Just as I was about to walk over there and grab him, his eyes locked onto a pair of blonds with lithesome bodies and ass-ets big enough for him to lose interest in the group.  Assuring myself that he was too drunk to be a threat and not drunk enough to get kicked out, I posted back up to the bar just in time for the tequila shots.  Reaching for Min’s shot glass, I clanked it with the bartender’s, shot it down, and remembered how much I hated tequila.  I chewed on the lime wedge like it was my last meal as she headed back to the register to add the damage to my tab.  Brown-Eyes then returned unexpectedly, slammed down my shot and proceeded with some shameless flirting- “You know, that shirt makes you look like an asshole..."


    Coming in September: Austin Redux




dyoo79

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    • Name: Daniel
    • Birthday: 8/16/1979
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    • Member Since: 11/5/2003

About Me

  • psychotic hypnotic product, i got it the antibiotic, ain't nobody hotter and so on and yadda yadda, god I talk a lotta hum-de-lay-de-la-la, oochie walla-walla, um-di-da-dah-da-dah but you gotta gotta...