Anything for a bet 'Fecal George'

From Rob Vaughn


PRELUDE

During my freshman year at Purdue, some idiot living on my floor of our residence hall foolishly stated that he would allow his head to be shaved for $100 -- right down to the scalp. A few of the guys on the floor organized a collection process and quickly raised the money. The event became what we termed "a floor function" and guests were invited to attend. The whole thing took place one evening around 7 o'clock or so with about 30 guests in attendance. It was a real popular floor function and no real harm was done to anyones image or pride. But that's not the story.

Here's the story:

THE SETUP

About a year later, I was a sophomore living on that same floor and we starting talking about tasteless things we'd do if the money was right. Some guy mentions that the previous year we had a great floor function wherein a floor member shaved his head (allowed it to be shaved, actually) for $100. Other guys stated that there's no way in hell they'd shave their head for a scant $100; it would take hundreds or thousands of dollars for them to do it. Then some guy (me!) says, "What would it take for you to eat a spoonful of shit?" Huge sums of money were now being discussed for this tasteless feat. A million dollars was a real common figure. So my friend, George, decides to open his big, stupid mouth (opps! foreshadowing). George says something along the lines of, "I'd never let somebody shave my head but I'd probably eat a spoonful of shit for $50." Really, George? $50?? Are you serious?

LOGISTICAL MATTERS

Yep, George was serious. And before George had a chance to change his mind, the fund raising gears were set in motion. Word went out that another floor function was being planned for next week sometime. A "lottery" or sorts was held. (The Feces Lottery was my idea. We were faced with two problems: we didn't have $50 for George and we didn't have any shit for him to eat. I solved both problems in one brilliant moment. :-) For the low, low price of just $1, you could buy one chance at winning the Feces Lottery. (For $5, you got 6 chances.) After we had the $50 in hand, we placed the names of the contributors in a hat (actually it was a trash can). We drew out 2 names. One of the "winners" declined his prize and we drew another name. We now had our two lottery winners and, you guessed it, those two winners got to be the Feces Donors.)

George made us agree that the feces in question had to be of a somewhat "normal" variety. Nothing green and runny, no diarrhea, nothing with high corn-content, ... standard requests for this sort of thing, I guess. That's why we had two lottery winners; we decided to give George his choice. We told the lottery winners they couldn't do things like eat a bunch of prunes, have Taco Bell for five days straight, etc. This was, after all, a floor function and we would to keep things friendly.

The day before the floor function was to take place, the two lottery winners were escorted from their rooms (one at a time) by part of the fund raising committee. Each was sent into a bathroom that had been certified "feces free" with only a medium-sized cup (we had to be sure that no illegal feces made it to the big event). After each of the winners completed his assigned task and departed the bathroom, the cup was sealed and placed into the refrigerator of the most honest guy living on the floor for overnight safe-keeping. [BTW, one of the winners had a little trouble on his first trip to the bathroom and ended up having to give it a second try a couple of ours later. He came through like a real trooper the second time around. ;-) ]

THE STAGE IS SET

Although attendance was strictly by invitation only, we had a huge crowd -- well over 100. George was escorted into the elevator lobby (where all of our floor functions took place) as if he was a king. The crowd shouted and cheered upon his entrance. George was placed center stage complete with homemade bib and a big glass of water. [He was sober, upon insistence of the fund raising committee.] After giving George about 5 minutes to sweat in front of the crowd, The Feces Fetcher made his way into the lobby - with one cup in each hand held proudly over his head. The crowd went wild. The chants of GEORGE!! GEORGE!! GEORGE!! GEORGE!! reached a deafening level. The spoon (a soup spoon!) was brought forward by another member of the fund raising committee. In accordance with the rules, the two cups of feces were presented to George for his perusal and, ultimately, his decision. [This is where I became somewhat concerned about George -- about his physical well being, not his mental well being. Mentally, I knew he was already scarred for life and nothing could change that now. I thought if he could live until morning we could get him home to his parents at the end of the semester and they could deal with the long-term mental damage.]

After a hesitation of about 10 seconds [I thought he was going to pass out], George, pale-faced and covered with sweat, selected the cup on his left. The crowd roared again: GEORGE!! GEORGE!! GEORGE!! GEORGE!! Still in accordance with the rules, The Feces Fetcher spooned up a nice helping for George. (The rules stated that this helping would be a "healthy spoonful" but not a "heaping spoonful.") The spoon was then handed to George, who was still wearing his bib and still had his big glass of water in his other hand. (The rules stated that George had to do the following in order to get his $50 reward: insert spoon w/ feces into mouth, remove spoon from mouth clean of feces, show the crowd the clean spoon, swallow feces so as to remove it from mouth, display empty mouth to crowd by sticking out tongue and saying "awwww" like you do at the doctor's office. After that he could then eat or drink as he wished. He also had to keep it down for at least 10 minutes -- we figured after 10 minutes if he wanted to send it back through his mouth the other way, that was fine with us, but he didn't get any extra money for it.)

George then raised the spoon w/ feces up to eye level at arms length from his body. He made a couple of wide sweeping arcs in front of his body with the spoon so that everyone in the crowd could get a good look at the winning feces. [It was at this point that I could tell George *really* didn't want to go through with this thing. He was wondering about the consistency. "Will it be like pudding or more like ... what? Will I notice the smell? How much of it will get stuck between by teeth? Will I have bad breath the rest of the night. Am I going to double over and throw up saliva covered human feces in front of all these people who don't really even know me? How did I get myself into this mess? Can I possibly get out of this?" Well, George took a long, hard look at the crowd and knew that there was simply no way to back down. I almost felt sorry for the guy. Just thinking of what he was about to do actually made my stomach queasy and my knees a little bit weak -- and I used to deliver roadkill to my "friends" back when I was in high school.]

After everyone had a good look at the feces covered spoon, George held it straight in front of his face, about a foot from the tip of his nose. He took a deep breath and brought the spoon toward his opened mouth -- and stopped. The spoon went back to being a foot from the tip of his nose and his eyes sort of rolled up toward the top of his head. [I thought he was gone for sure...] He then steadied himself, took another deep breath, forced the spoon into his mouth, (flash! flash! flash! from all the cameras in the lobby) closed his mouth and his eyes, and then withdrew a nice, clean soup spoon from his mouth. We all held our breath and just watched. He inhaled more air through his nose and swallowed hard. [I'm sure I imagined it, but I thought I heard the lump go down -- just like in the cartoons.] Then in one instant, his eyes opened, his mouth opened, his tongue stuck out of his mouth and he rolled his head back so we could see inside his mouth. 8-() It was empty. George then took another deep breath and gulped down the entire glass of water. Two people in the crowd got sick and had to go outside. George made his way down to the bathroom where he had toothbrush and toothpaste waiting.

THE EPILOGUE

My friends and I made our way back to our end of the floor. We couldn't really believe that he had done it -- and only for $50, we said. What an idiot, we said. We were then discussing whether or not he would get sick before morning. Or would he kill himself tonight while we slept? Would he ever do anything that stupid again? Would he ever eat shit again for $50? Certainly not, we decided. We could tell it had been a traumatic experience for him. And we knew he'd never be the same.

Then as four or five of us are standing around talking outside our rooms, George comes out of the bathroom and starts walking toward us (his room was at the other end of the floor). He comes down and leans up against the wall next to us. Everyone is speechless. Silence. Then I finally say, "George, I can't believe ..."

But I'm cutoff in mid-sentence as George belches (BUURRP!) and says, "Oh, excuse me."

That was all I could take. I had to go in my room and sit down for a few minutes. I'm just glad I couldn't smell it.

dutch fire dump

From scary

20 Nov 1995

I have read alt.tasteless the requisite 2 months, and have been thoroughly grossed out many, many times. thank you all

here is my contribution

I was working in amsterdam, netherlands for a few months, installing a computer network and teaching the folks there how to use it

I was in the middle of a client meeting in the boss's elegant offices with half a dozen people, and I felt a righteous shit coming on, so I excused myself at an appropriate point and retired to the adjoining executive bathroom (which was quite small, actually - a sink and a toilet)

they have these toilets in amsterdam (and I have heard they are elsewhere in europe, as well) that have a shelf that sits high and dry above the sump, so that when you shit, it sits on this shelf, presumably so that you can examine it after you are through. I like it, especially since it prevents getting toilet water splashed on your ass. since the shit is exposed it makes more of a smell, but that's okay by me - sight and smell evaluation of your dumps are an important part of hygiene

I made a rather large pile on the shelf, and used three handfuls of toilet paper to wipe (sequence: back to front, check, front to back, check, back to front again) and was about to get up when I felt a second wave coming on. oh well. it happens

the second wave was going to be more difficult, a hard shit following a soft shit. as I contemplated what I could have eaten the last day to bring about this sequence, I lit a cigarette to mask the prodigious miasma wafting out of the bowl. about halfway into the painful second dump I felt the need for some sort of mild sedation to help dull the pain, so I tossed the half-smoked cigarette into the bowl (from behind, being careful not to burn my ass) and lit a joint instead

as the fine dutch cannabis began curling around my brain, I became aware of a second, sharp pain on my ass. heat. I glanced around and saw flames licking out of the bowl, singeing my butt crack hairs and making my shirttail smoulder. the cigarette had caught the used toilet paper on fire. I jumped up and spun, shouting. the stalactite of poop which was hanging out of my sphincter whipped around and broke off, sticking to the wall momentarily before gracefully sliding to the floor, leaving a long, brown smear

the fire was merrily blazing away on the toilet shelf, and I reached around it to flush and put the fire out. nothing. the toilet was not functioning. I panicked, and flung the door open to the office, pants around my ankles, shit smeared on my ass, a joint in my hand, and shouted "FIRE!!"

six pairs of eyes were riveted on me and the fire in the toilet. there was no laughter as they scrambled. one of my co-workers (bless him) had the presence of mind to grab a chemical fire extinguisher and shoot it, first on the back of my smouldering shirt, and then on the pile of burning shit and toilet paper

in the quiet aftermath, I started laughing, and gradually the rest of the group joined in. I had a slight burn on my ass crack, the hairs were all singed away, and my shirt was ruined. we opened windows to clear out the foul-smelling smoke, cleaned up a bit, and resumed the meeting

when the meeting was through, the clients thanked me for the inadvertent entertainment. later that week, they sent me a brand new dress shirt to replace the one that was burned

all in the line of duty

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caution: pressing the pause button may cause your machine to pause
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Some random thinkings

From NIKOLAUS MAACK

2 Nov 1995

Ever since I mentioned to my girlfriend that I read here in good ole alt.tasteless that the average person farts 14 times a day, we've been counting our farts religiously. It makes for strange conversation.

"So as I was saying to so-and-so..."

"Five."

"Five? What do you..." *sniff sniff* "Oh."

And then, later that night, I lay naked on my girlfriend's bed while she popped all the pimples on my body. On my face, my arms, my back, my ass, my legs. Shit, who knew there were so many pimples on a person? She would cackle with glee as she would come across one, and then squeeze it with her finger nails. There's be that nice jab of pain, followed by release. Like a mini orgasm.

[The following is a fictional add on to make this worthy of being in alt.tasteless. If you don't understand the difference between fiction and reality, then you're probably a fundemantalist christian, and should be praying instead of reading this garbage.]

While hunting all over my girlfriend's body for pimples, I came across her clitoris, and, in the madness of the moment, mistaking it for a pimple, I tried to pop it. And I did. It popped open, and bits of clitoris flew everywhere. My girlfriend began to scream, and I flashed back to first aid class. What does one do to stop bleeding? Direct pressure!

Well, I thought to myself, last week when we had sex in a certain way, she really enjoyed it because my pelvic bone put "direct pressure" on her clitoris.

So being the clever sort of guy that I am, I moved my girlfriend about so that my pelvic bone would do just that. Then, while fucking her, I dialled 911.

"What's the matter?" the 911 operator asked.

"I blew up my girlfriend's clitoris like a pimple, and now I'm fucking her to stop the bleeding. Please hurry, I may cum soon."

So fire trucks and ambulances and police cars all arrived at my girlfriend's place (scaring the hell out of her parents). The ambulance attendants decided that I should keep on applying pressure, so the two of us were slipped naked on to the stretcher, and carried out of my girlfriend's home. Her mom fainted upon seeing my recently de-pimpled derriere shaking about as I thrusted in and out of what she thought was her daughter's *virgin* cunt. (I was supposed to be teaching her algebra, not fucking her, or popping her pimples.)

In any case, the police decided not to press charges for any of my crimes, (statutory rape, impromptu clitorendectomy, etc) as I blew them. Cops sure do cum quick when you suck on their nightsticks and fondle their balls. Guess that's why the join the force: to take out their aggressions in some way other than sex and beating their wives.

I wouldn't want to leave you all with the impression that police officers are mad, violent, crazed neanderthals with a bloodthirsty sense of aggression. Some cops got real tender after I blew them, and wanted to cuddle for a while. It was so cute. I felt real guilty when I handcuffed them, made them perform oral sex on their guns (after first fucking them up the ass with those same guns) and the used their steel batons to beat their testicles like they were eggs. Ayep. Sure felt guilty. For about 5 minutes.

Ah, morals. You slip and slide out of my heart like a big greasy cock out of a screaming tight little rectum.

Nik

---
If you flame me, you are really flaming yourself. Think about it.
Thought about it? Now go fuck yourself.

My Poor Ol' Lazy Dick

From Dr Sonya

Sat, 11 Nov 1995

Jeff Smith writes: "Having a bladder roughly the size of a peach pit, I get up to whizz a few times a night. "

Hmmmm....well, unless you've been drinking a quart of water, coffee, or beer prior to going to bed, nocturia (pissing at night) ain't particularly normal. Most often, it's a sign of diabetes mellitus. A quick n' tasteless way to tell: taste your urine; if it has a sweet taste, you best be visiting your local quack. Historical tasteless note: this is the way that diabetes was diagnosed Way Back When - a "doctor" would taste the patient's urine for a sweet taste. The name "mellitus" comes from the Greek word *mililotos*, which means "sweet clover". Hollister - do you like to prime your diabetic boys with some candy or Coke prior to partaking in their golden offerings?

Okay, 'nuff of that little sidetrack - now on to the "meat" of the matter ...

"Could I be stretching the tendons or supporting muscles by bending my schween three times a night -- hastening my inevitable sexual incompetence? Tae? (gulp) Sonya? Anybody? "

[grabs Netter's Atlas of Human Anatomy off bookshelf]

Well, for starters, there are no muscles per se that are responsible for an erect choad. The muscles in the base of the penis are the bulbospongiosus muscle, which is found at the base underneath the choad. It appears to wrap around the base only (therefore, not onto the shaft). The other is the ischiocavernosus muscle which again covers the corpora cavernosa part of the choad at the base. These muscles are very thin, and lie between several layers of fascia covering the choad and nutsack. I don't think you have to worry about bending your ManTool when you wiz with an erection.

While we're at it, there are some other fun anatomical facts about the anatomy of this area that must be mentioned. The next time you have your face, PissPump, or favorite foreign object in someone's perineal area, you can say you read about it on a.t.!

Perineum: basically the area between the pubic symphysis and tip of the coccyx (tailbone), with the sides being formed by the ischial tuberosities (your "sit-bones"). Those geometry wizzes out there will see that these areas will form a trapezoid. A line carried across the ischial tuberosites will form two triangles:

Urogenital triangle: In women, this includes the WhiskerBiscuit (tm Zeno) and all associated structures. In men, it's pretty much the area commonly referred to as the "taint". Nothing really exciting (i.e. - no orifice) 'cept the base of the nutsack. Is a great place to apply some serious tongue action in either sex.

Anal triangle: A favorite area of our buddy Spike and all other anophiles. This obviously contains the A.T. Chosen Orifice - the anus, leather donut, chocolate starfish, brown eye, etc. Also contains the "taint" in women.

Here is a little ASCII to give you an idea; assume your partner (or mother, in the case of mcDouch) is lying with his/her legs apart (yum, yum!):

\ / <----inner thigh
\00/ <----nutsack (yeah, it's small - so?)
/||\ <----pubic symphysis/base of choad
/ `\ <----urogenital triangle
<-------> <----left ischial tuberosity
\ / <----anal triangle
\(*)/ <----anus (aka "Bane's tunnel 'o love")
`\/ <----tip of coccyx
__/\__ <---bottom of ass


If you don't like the diagram, you can kiss my (*). I'm a fuckin' doctor, not an ASCII artist.

"ObPiss: After drinking coffee, my urine smells like straw."

Hmmmm...sorry, Jeff - I don't know what to say about this. Other than to wonder if it is expresso or regular coffee...bwhahahah! If you ever cart your sorry ass out this way like you've *promised*, we can do some piss taste/smell tests on you with various ingested fluids.

BTW - thanks for all those that wrote with requests for the "Tasteless Medical Condition of the week"; I've gotten enough requests to last a few mos, and I will add my own as I come across them. Stay tuned....

ObTeaser: I checked out an amazingly greaH^H^H^H^oss book of macropathology (that is, pics of the entire diseased organ, etc). I knew I had to share it with you scumbags when I saw Chapter 18 - Malformations Definition: "Malformations are permanent defomities of the entire body or parts thereof....Monsters are infants born with pronounced malformations; less severe deviations from the norm are called anomalies." Woo hoo - you would not *believe* the pictures of these abominations! Anybody got a scanner they wanna let me borrow?

-Dr. S. , again bringing you the best that tasteless medicine has to offer!

Decapitation

From Sgt Zeno

Tue, 1 Aug 1995

From the NandO Times online newspaper:

Two Saudis beheaded for murder in kingdom

DUBAI, UAE - Two convicted Saudi murderers were beheaded Tuesday, bringing the number of executions in Saudi Arabia this year to 116, according to an unofficial count. A Saudi Interior Ministry statement, reported by Gulf news agencies, said the two were found guilty of beating a Pakistani taxi driver to death. Since July 12, 10 Saudi men have been beheaded in the kingdom, including two for raping a 12-year-old girl.

Saudi Arabia, which implements strict Sharia Islamic law, executes by the sword, and in public, rapists, murderers, drug smugglers and those convicted of violent armed robberies. Many of those beheaded this year were Asians and Africans convicted of drug smuggling. According to unofficial counts, 53 people were beheaded in Saudi Arabia in 1994 and 85 in the previous year.

ObTastelessShortStory:

This reminds me of what happened about a year-and-a-half ago. I lived in Dhahran, Saudi Arabia, and I got to know a lot of the locals. Actually I partied with the locals and drank their highly illegal moonshine that everybody drinks (stupid laws...nobody cares...everybody does it).

I hung out with this Filipino dude during most of my residence there. He was a cool guy, and he always knew how to get ahold of single, Filipina nurses (ha cha cha). His name was Victor (obviously a traditional Filipino name).

Every once in awhile, Joseph would hang out with us at these speakeasy parties. He was kind of a dweeb, and he never got laid. He was small and scrawny, and he had really bad breath. But he did blow a decent snot-rocket.

But one night (at the Halloween party at Al-Gazaibi's) he met a married Filipina girl whose husband was not with her. I guess the poor sot had terrible hours or something. She was butt-ugly (perfect match).

Well, that got rid of Joseph (thank Allah). He didn't attach his ass-licking personality to any more of our great exploits that he tended to ruin (more often than not).

I didn't think about him for a couple months, and Victor and I continued our good old game of Russian Roulette with Your Dick. One day Victor and I got together, and he said to me:

"Hey, dude, you'll never believe what happened. Remember Joseph? He's in jail...Evidently, old snaggletooth made it a habit of coming over to his apartment for evening plumbing work. Something went wrong one night, and she just up and died...Heart condition or something of the sort...Anyway, she died, and Joseph didn't know what the hell to do....So he put her in the closet...6 days, man...Who knows what the hell Mr. Snaggletooth had been doing all along...Anyway, Joseph gives up and calls the police and tells them that Mrs. Buttface is in the apartment, and she's dead.

"Well the cops come and instantly arrest him. [Saudi cops are more likely to shoot first, ask q's later.] They tossed him in the slammer to rot."

Well, that's how I found out that Joseph got arrested. It was about a month later when they held the trial for him. They found him guilty of adultery, hiding evidence, having a woman in the house, drinking alcohol, and generally being an infidel.

He was given the death penalty.


I talked to another friend of mine. He worked in the Ministry of Justice or some other place like that. He was a Saudi and loved Americans (a lot). He liked to touch Americans (a lot). I usually tried to avoid him, but I decided to ask him a favor.

"Mohammed," I said (because that was his name), "Someone I know just got the death penalty..."

He gave me a strange look like I was about to ask the impossible.

"No, I don't want you to free him, I want to know when they're gonna chop his head off."

He gave a sigh of relief and said, "Yes, my friend, I find out for you... I will give you a call tomorrow and let you know...and maybe you can come to my place for a party..."

I wasn't that happy about him finding out info for me, I just nodded and grinned and said "maybe" a lot....just like they do.

Anyway, the moment of truth approached. I planned it out...I took the day off, I got some Riyals out of the bank, and planned my route the night before.

I parked about five blocks from Chop Chop Square (nickname that ExPats gave the place where this was going to occur). And I walked the rest of the way.

A small crowd of people was already gathered when I arrived, and some guards were already escorting somebody out. Several Saudis looked at me and saw that I was an American and shoved me ahead of them in the square. They started shouting "Amriki! Amriki!" and everybody pushed me to the front. When I got there, I could see that two other curious Americans were already there. They looked rather stunned already, and when I looked at the riser, I saw a gleaming pool of blood. Obviously the last guy had just left.

The guards dragged their prisoner out to the square and put him on his knees. Some official read some statement aloud in Arabic (which I have only a small grasp of), the only word I understood was "inshallah" and that means "if god wills it."

They laid his arm out on the block and "THWACK" with the sword, his hand popped right off. One guy grabbed it up, and another applied a tourniquet to his arm/stump/wrist. A little blood splashed during this episode, and the guy grimaced in pain and let out a bleat like a suffocating sheep. It was obvious that the guy had been drugged before they chopped off his right hand...I guess it's merciful...and rather disappointing.

It seemed like forever before they brought the next prisoner out. Actually they brought out two prisoners. And one of them was good-old Joseph. I hope he learned his lesson about screwing ugly, married women.

They made the two guys kneel down for the punishment. The executioner approached with his big, shiny sword and stood between the two prisoners. The official read some sort of decree that probably stated that the two men you now see before you are filthy, infidel swine, we spit upon their heathen ways...blah blah blah.

At that, the official sort of looked down at me...making a weird kind of eye contact that made me extremely uneasy. To the side, I could see the executioner turn to the second prisoner who I didn't know. The death-verdict reader continued to hold his gaze with me, and I started to shake a little, and I could feel my heart pumping blood straight to my temples.

The executioner raised his sword into the sunlight, and brought it down "THWUP" not decapitating the man. In the same motion, he swung the sword down, around, and up as he turned to Joseph "THWUP" cutting into the skin on the back of his neck.

He turned to the first guy "THWUP" back to Joseph "THWUP" and "THWUP" and "THWUP" and the two head landed on the ground in front of the bodies like some sort of ritual sacrifice. Blood pumped out of their bodies rhythmically and pooled about the heads that lay motionless on the riser.

The other guy's body sort of slid to the side of the chopping block in slow motion and hit with a soft thump. Blood splashed out into the crowd. One of the Americans near me gagged and ran out of the crowd, and some of the Saudis laughed at him.

I looked back up at the official who had so disturbed me with his stare, but he was already walking quickly back to the building as four men cleaned up the mess.

As I turned and walked out of the square, all I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears. I barely noticed the locals who stared at me to see my reaction. I guess it wasn't very note-worthy, as they turned away in boredom to see what the third "Amriki" was doing.

I drove home with a different outlook on death. It's one thing to shoot enemy tanks at 3000 yards and kick around dead bodies that have been lying in the desert for a few days, and dragging airplane crash victims out of the river. But it sure is something when someone you know gets their head chopped off in front of you.

"I dig no shallow graves."

Setting Fire to my Armpit Hair

From Tim Hayward

Tue, 28 Nov 1995

OK. Enough of the British reserve. This is a final act of shameless self-publicity - a final vain attempt for a lowly place in a dark corner of the janitor's cupboard in the basement of the AT Hall of Fame.

I have regaled you with 'Losing my Virginity in a Clown Suit', 'My Cornish Pasty Dick', the immortal 'Worst Date of All Time' and now it is time to reveal my ultimate humiliation 'Setting Fire to my Armpit Hair'.

I work for a TV company in London, a repository for the very worst in Armani Suited, Gucci Booted, ponytailed cliches. I was, at this early point in my career, much taken with a young research assistant who had recently joined the company, and decided to impress her with dinner at one of Soho's more pretentious watering holes.

'Est' has a clean, well lit Scandinavian interior, with blonde wood everywhere and a long, 'L' shaped bar. The front is all glass and just inside the door is a coat-rack (a ludicrously costly confection, looking much like a bundle of oversized Cervical swab sticks, probably designed by an unimaginative German with a Gynaecological fetish). The restaurant was crowded and the stools along the bar were draped with expensively black-clad women with immaculate nails and bored looks. Over the tooth-grindingly tasteful background music could be detected the persistent sussuration of silk against cashmere. Suits stood, two-deep around the women, humming seductive mantras of expensive designer names and unimaginable sums of money. The perfect place to seduce an impressionable young pezzonovante in the TV world. Needless to say, I looked immaculate in my unstructured linen suit. The scene, as they say, was set.

The meal, as expected, was perfect. Its exquisite flavours exceeded only by its extreme smallness. Each plate was lovingly assembled by a highly paid art director with a tunnelling electron microscope. The cuisine was so nouvelle, it was unlikely to be invented until 1998. My seduction technique was perfect and my date was beginning to audibly moisten.

Emboldened by her melting looks and the obvious promise of radically athletic sex, I began to consume more wine (a particularly splendid Merlot, as I recall) and the evening began to take on a warm and quite delightful haze. (Readers of my previous posts will hear warning bells at this point). Conversation tripped lightly from my tongue in a sparkling stream of bon mots when suddenly my eye was drawn to the door. A man had reached his hand around the door and was taking a ridiculously expensive leather jacket from the coat rack.

I am not a man easily aroused to anger, but this was a clear felony and, of course, an opportunity to further impress upon my date that I was not merely a well rounded raconteur, wit, chef, entrepeneur and outstanding lover, but also a man of action, a Very Parfit Gentil Knight, as schooled in the arts of war as in the arts of love. I leapt to my feet, knocking over my chair and depositing two glasses of Merlot in my date's lap, lunged across the room, hurling customers hither and yon and grabbed the felon by the arm, yanking him through the door and twisting his arm up his back.

'Is that your coat'? I cried, as every man in the room gazed at me in awe and every woman suffered an involuntary uterine twitch.

'Yes' he replied, calmly.

Fortunately, the English are not a demonstrative people and, as I made my mumbled apologies, most of them had the decency to stare into their drinks in embarrassment. I returned to my table and my date, who had by now adopted a strangely cold attitude. The manager approached the table and sweetly thanked me for 'at least trying' and although the man I had assaulted was a valued customer, would I care to come to the bar after my meal, for a drink at her expense.

I drank more at the table, mainly to hide my utter shame and slid gently from the second bottle of wine into the port without pause. Finally my date pointed out two vacant seats at the end of the bar and we adjourned there. From our seats I could see the lifeless, fishlike eyes of every yuppie, boring into my in a finely wrought combination of contempt and pity. There was nothing for it but to drink more.

When the Manager arrived to serve us I ordered a Sambuca which was promptly served, already lit and merrily flaming. At this point several things crossed my drink addled mind....

1. You are supposed to extinguish a flaming Sambuca by cutting off the air to the flames with a coaster.

2. I had been taught an old chef's trick of pouring brandy over the hand and lighting it without burning myself.

3. I needed to pull off something fairly spectacular if I hoped to get laid.

..So with James Bond like nonchalance, I placed the palm of my hand firmly over the mouth of the glass.

I suppose it was fortunate that I was drunk, because the smell of cooking flesh hit me before the pain did. I raised my hand to see the glass, firmly stuck to my palm by suction and very, very hot blue flames lapping from the tips of my fingers. I, and the barful of yuppies, gazed in stupified wonderment at this human incendiary as I reached up, with my other hand to snap off the glass. It was actually cooked into my palm and it took a couple of second before I was able to break the suction, sending a stream of flaming Sambuca down my arm, up the sleeve of my loose jacket and directly into the hair of my right armpit.

I leapt to my feet and tried to beat out my own armpit, screaming as I did, subsiding into silence only when I realized that every eye in the room was on me.

I spent the rest of the evening with my hand in the ice bucket, my addled brain replaying how delightful her ass had looked as she stormed out of the door.

That's it. If that doesn't warrant at least an 'honourable mention' then I'm fucked. Remember that if I don't make the list, I may neglect to give you 'Butt-fucking the 400lb Woman' or 'Trail of Blood - My Night as a Tequila Slammer Girl'.

Yours in Christ

Rt Rvd Ruprecht Cinnamon-Chive

Unholy Shit [fiction]

From St. Catheter

Fri, 3 Nov 1995

The rain was getting harder. It was now precisely 11:51 PM, and Mark was into his fifth beer. He was feeling pretty invincible but the night was young, and he intended to get wasted before it was all over. He had put in a rough week at work and he deserved it.

He lit another cigarette. He and his drinkin' buddies sat in their traditional circle, in Ian's apartment. The talk wandered from sex to work, back to sex, to basketball, finally settling on sex. Mark had eaten lunch at Taco Bell, and had drunk four cups of coffee between lunchtime and quitting. In addition, the beers were beginning to settle in. And now, at 11:51 PM, Mark had to take a shit. He stood up. "Shit break," he announced. It was customary among this group to make such an announcement.

Mark walked to the bathroom. As he locked the door behind him, thunder boomed. It was storming out there.

He pulled his pants down and sat on the toilet. Ian's bathroom was a mess. He counted five empty toilet paper rolls, two paperbacks, and yesterday's newspaper. His friends laughed about something. The lights flickered for a moment, and the pre-shit growl came from within. He could feel the product lined up inside him for disposal. Then, he began to push.

Plop. The first piece fell to the water. Then some movement, and Mark felt the main feature inside him, the mother lode. He grunted softly as he squeezed it out. It crackled past his sphincter, and splashed neatly into the bowl.

Then another one queued up, and came out. It was almost as big as its predecessor. Mark would have well-purged bowels tonight, he realized with a smirk. He heard thunder again, closer this time.

Another one? Jeez, he thought. When was my last shit? It ventured forth, Mark's muscles helping it out. It was the biggest one so far. The shit's passage through his anus, that rarest mix of pain and pleasure, was longer than any he could remember. Ahhhh...the stout log advanced with conviction. This was definitely going to be his finest creation; this was a huge one. Still grinning, he wondered if Ian had a camera.

He pushed. Peering between his legs, past his genitals, he saw that it had reached the water. This was like seeing the longest freight train ever. Damn, it was a wide one. And it was still attached! And there was more! He pushed more, harder. It kept coming. He couldn't even feel the end of this one yet; soon it was bending, folding on itself like a sundae topping. Mark stopped pushing and caught his breath. He was sweating; he realized that however long this piece of shit was, it wasn't nearly all the way out yet. He still couldn't feel the end.

He pushed, he strained, it kept coming. His intestines couldn't be that damn long, but this shit just wouldn't quit. In fact, he was feeling the diarrhoeal urgency of *having* to shit. He dutifully answered nature's call, and pushed harder. His efforts were rewarded with more shit. His sphincter was too strained to even pinch the loaf off. It was whole and complete.

He couldn't feel the end.

Fear now came to Mark. He flushed the toilet to make room for more. Even as the bowl refilled, the cramps rose up, and he pushed. Within seconds, the shit extended from his anus to bottom of the bowl. The harder he pushed, the more he had to shit. And it was getting worse. He scarcely had time to catch his breath; his face was quite red as he grunted and struggled to keep up. The shit seemed endless. He looked between his legs again, and gasped as he saw that the bowl was fully a quarter filled with his product, the water dangerously high. The tank wasn't even done filling, but he flushed again. Unfortunately, the plumbing was unable to handle the volume of feces, and the toilet backed up. Mark jumped when the cold water touched his buttocks.

It was now 11:57. Thunder roared outside as water and shit particles flowed onto the tile.

Mark's pants were bunched about his ankles, and he was in pain. The shit advanced relentlessly as he stumbled into the bathtub. He was almost panicking now, and didn't notice the trail of solid feces he had left. Gripping the tub for support, he squatted and kept pushing.

The conversation in the front room had stopped. Eddie smelled it first, and blamed a fart on Ian, but this was no fart. This was pure and concentrated; this was the smell that only the freshest shit can make. The four looked at each other, puzzled. Then they heard Mark's groaning from the bathroom.

"Mark, are you beating off again?" Doug asked. No answer.

The smell was worse. Brian sniffed deeply and gagged. "Jesus H. ...". Ian grimaced. "Goddamn...". They all went for the bathroom door at the same time. Ian jiggled the locked doorknob. Brian pounded on the door. "Dude, what the FUCK did you eat today?" No answer. Mark groaned. "You all right in there, Mark?"

They looked at each other again. Eddie sniffed and winced. There was no answer from inside. Brian knocked again. "Hey man, you OK?" No answer. A short scream came from within the bathroom.

Brian kicked the door open. Nobody spoke.

The odor was intense, feces was piled on the floor and in the bathtub. Mark was squatting next to the wall, his face impossibly red, his eyes helpless and terrified. Firm stool thrust forward from his anus like meat from a grinder. It landed in his pants bunched about his ankles, spilling over and piling up. He gritted his teeth and strained; all he could do was keep pushing. There was a sound like a ripping sheet and Mark's colon came loose from his now shapeless sphincter, oozing to the floor. His friends watched as the slimy organ descended, with shit still flowing from it. Mark screamed again, and somebody's watch beeped.

Brian got the worst of it, since he was closest to the door. He would later tell the police that he thought he had seen Mark's abdomen expand for an instant before it happened. None of the others had reported this. But they had all described the sound as a "dull thud", they had all been splattered with innards and feces as Mark's torso separated from the rest of his body.

"Massive gastrointestinal rupture/trauma secondary to indeterminate blockage" was noted in the medical examiner's report. An "unusually large amount of fecal matter" is also recorded, though the amount was not measured.

The funeral was closed-casket. Brian and Eddie seem to have recovered pretty well, though they never talk about Mark. Doug moved away, and nobody has heard from him lately. Sometimes, when he has to shit, Ian waits until the rain stops.

The joys of drinking tequila

From kilbo

8 Nov 1995

Tequila: just the barest whiff makes me retch in remembrance of the last day I drank that shit.

As a freshman in college, I actually quite liked tequila. In fact, I was partial to the kind with the agave worm. In my quest for more worms to conquer, I took to Dos Gusanos; Two Worms brand. Yup, it had two larvae nicely pickled at the bottom of each bottle.

My fraternity brother Skid (another story) and both were on the agave train for about a month and a half. We resolved to start saving our worms in anticipation for a celebratory tequila slam at the end of the quarter when finals were over.

That days rolls around, and we had managed to polish off four bottles of the stuff by that time, with eight worms saved up. We trundle off to the liquor store and purchase a bottle each of the famed Dos Gusanos. This is at about 2pm in the afternoon.

We wander back down to my room in the basement of the house, I pull two shot glasses off my shelf, and we proceeded to straight shot our respective bottles and eat six worms apiece. In twenty minutes. No shit. Oh, and did I mention that these were full fifths, not pints?

Then the fun began.

At T+40 minutes we had managed to annoy the entire basement community.
At T+60 minutes we had managed to annoy the main floor folks.
At T+75 minutes we had managed to annoy the entire house with our antics.

I vaguely remember having about 15 pissed off people chasing me up and down the back stairwell and me throwing a dining room chair out the window into the parking lot, narrowly missing another brother's car. At this point, Skid and I realized that it was time to go seek new worlds to explore in our condition, and decided to take the dumpster in the back alley for a spin around the block.

I think we left it on someone's lawn when we tired.

Then it was time to experience the wide world of University Avenue. After purchasing about 40 newspapers with one quarter from a box, we went back to the house to start a fire with our newfound combustibles. Of course, our brothers were ever vigilant, knowing that we would return and we had to abandon those plans, as they would not let us near matches.

Spoilsports.

The other vague recollections I had were playing pool where not many balls stayed on the table, a truly strange dinner where they gave us our own table to sit at, and something to do with the ice and pop machines, but that's pretty hazy.

In short, we were fucked up.

"Big deal." Most of you are saying. "We've been plowed too." Well, the next memory I had, after the fuzzy one about the ice and pop machine, was waking up on the hardwood floor of my room in a puddle of vomit. At 2pm the next day. (See when we started this odyssey above.)

The room was spinning, I was fully clothed but with a blanket my roommate had thrown over me. I promptly vomited. And didn't have enough energy to move away from it. I lay there for about three hours, vomiting, spinning and praying that Glub would take me. I passed out again.

At about 10pm that night, I finally drifted back into consciousness as my roommate along with about five other people standing over me began to ask me when I was going to clean up the mess, and "Do you know where the dumpster is?" All I knew was that I had wet my pants, and wanted to take a shower.

Groggily, as I was still spinning, and still _fully_ drunk I shambled upstairs to take a shower. Too bad I forgot my towel. That wasn't a big issue, as I was still heaving up all over the place the bile my stomach was creating. I staggered back down the stairs, grabbed a large cup of water and tumbled into bed, somewhat comforted by the thought that my drunkenness and hangover would dissipate whilst I slept.

How wrong I was.

On day two of this hangover, I awoke about 11am to a spinning bed. I promptly leaned over the edge of my bed, and vomited onto the carpet the yellowish water/bile contents of my stomach. Realizing that this was going to be another long day, I put my bathrobe on and shagged upstairs for lunch.

Downing more water, some painkillers and fried eggs, I again retreated to my room to continue my convalescence.

That day was filled with a certain deliberate cycle I went through: drink water, puke water back up, drink more water, pee, puke water back up. Lather, rinse, repeat. Ad nausem. Climbing into bed, I noticed that the spinning was finally almost gone, leaving me with only a gut that felt like I had severe food poisoning. I considered that progress.

I drifted off to sleep thinking that I'd feel better in the morning finally. Upon arising, I immediately realized that I was better. Instead of feeling like I had food poisoning, I only felt like I had the stomach flu. This marked the beginning of the third day.

I won't bother you with the pesky details of that day except to say that I was still puking, and that I had recovered function of my bowels. I chalked that up as another win.

It wasn't until about a week after T-Day that I felt somewhat normal again. No puking, regular bowels with good stool consistency and my head didn't hurt when I moved around quickly. What did this mean? Of course, it was time for a tequila popper to help me wash away the evil memory of my three-day hangover/alcohol poisoning experience.

Tracking my roommate John down, we secured a pint of the evil spirits to split between the two of us. I figured I'd play it safe this time, and I was still working on patching the holes in the drywall that I had created on my last binge.

John cracked open the bottle, poured the shot, slipped in some 7-UP, popped it for me, handed it to me, and as I was bringing it to my lips, I caught a waft of that recognizeable tequila and.....before I even knew it; as my body was waaaay ahead of me; I went into dry heave mode. John just about wet his pants laughing watching me scramble around for our wastebasket to spew in.

To this day, 8 years later, the very smell of tequila causes my stomach to begin to turn over. Tequila is truly evil, but I do miss chewing on those agave worms.

Chris

Would you like some camel pee?

From Viv Liu

28 Nov 1995

Suppose your mother doesn't want you to marry someone out of your own race, what would she tell you? Some yucky story about how scary it is to marry sb. of another race, right? That's exactly what my mother dug out of a newspaper, unfortunately, I laughed pretty hard at the story, and dismissed it since I wouldn't believe myself to be as stupid as this woman I am about to tell you about:

There is a young woman in China who craved to get out of China, more accurately, desired someone white. One day she was wondering around in a huge shopping center, (perhaps looking for the minority of white people in China). All of a sudden, her eyes were fixed on this tall, handsome, beardy white guy who appeared very mature and honest. Of course, being not bad looking herself, as soon as she approached the guy, they hooked up quickly within a week. A month later, she announced to her family proudly that she is getting married, moreover, she told her mother mysteriously that her fiancee is going to take her to the Middle East. Upon seeing her daughter's excitement, the mother assumed that it is the destination of her daughter's honeymoon.

There went our young woman. She and her husband landed in the Middle East two months after they met. On the way to her new home, she had been imagining how she would spend her time arranging flowers with her handsome prince, how they would frolic inside the maze like palace and how she would look in the finest jewelry...

She opened her eyes. And she saw five shriveled Arab women in dirty white veils and robes, each holding a child with tears and excretions from their noses all over their faces, screaming their throats out, while their mothers stared at this frightened young lady with evil and disgusted eyes from behind their thick veils. They stood up when their husband led his new wife into the room, and whispered something unintelligible. The husband started introducing his five wives to his sixth. "Maybe they are my maids, I might have to tell them to bathe." Although disturbing, she proceeded to see her husband's mother, who is even smaller and dirtier and who spoke to her in the funny language very fast. Apparently, her "prince" wasn't as rich as she'd thought.

The next day, our young lady is ready for wedding. She is all "dressed up" after spending a night by herself in a bare room. Oh all that complicated procedures of the wedding did not cheer her up at all. I bet she felt like she was dropped onto an alien planet. At the end of the day, comes the most important of stage of wedding. Her husband's mother solemnly walked up to our kneeling heroine and presented her with a large bowl of light yellow liquid and gestured her to drink it up in one gulp. She, took the bowl and smelled it, (I will leave it to you how it smells). She managed some smile and asked her husband standing beside her what it was. "Oh, it will bring you good luck and lots of healthy babies. It is camel pee." I don't know much about what happened to our heroine after hearing the words "camel pee". Throwing up, crying, screaming, storming out of the wedding... a lot of things happened.

I only remember that the next day, she contacted the Chinese consulate and cried to them about what happened and that she wanted to go back to her mother. I think it was two weeks later that she did return to China. She had a nice vacation in the Middle East, I guess.

Heads and shoulders....knees and toes.

From Geoff Miller

22 Nov 1995

Darwinius Vespasian wrote: "I have a small lump on my right shoulder, I wouldn't describe it as a spot in the normal sense, firstly because of the strange anatomy and secondly due to the contents."

Jim Davies replies: "This may be an inverted follicle, where the hair is growing the wrong way (inwards...). "


What Darwinius is describing is known as a sebaceous cyst. I know them well, having had two of the fuckers swell up and get inflamed, requiring surgical removal. The cheesy-smelling white fluffy stuff that comes out is sebaceous fluid, not pus. Unless the thing gets inflamed like mine did, though, in which case it's both.

I had one of these appear several years ago, at about the level of my navel but around to the left side. What made me aware of it, originally, was that it itched due to its filling up with fluid. I unconsciously reached down to scratch what I thought was a common skin itch and felt this marble-sized mass under my skin.

So I did what any a.t-er would do, and squeezed it. My hand was instantly filled with this odiferous, cheesy stuff, and oddly, the thing didn't hurt like pimples do when you squeeze 'em. Popping this thing was compulsive and oddly fulfilling in a way, sort of like playing with bubblewrap, and it became routine to burst it every few days as the fluid accumulated inside. I didn't know what it was at first, and figured it was just some weird kind of deep pimple that I hadn't experienced before.

Eventually the thing became severely infected somehow, probably due to bacteria getting in through the opening, and I had to go to the hospital to have it cut open and drained. I'd always pictured the thing as being the size and shape of a grape or a marble, but as the doctor probed around inside it with a pair of hemostats, he said that it was actually more like a clump of grapes, with several separate chambers that each had to be opened and drained.

Oh, a year or so I finally had that one dealt with permanently, it became similarly infected. I waited until I got home from work, then took off my shirt, went into the bathroom and squeezed the bastard hard. There was a continuous drilling sound as the thin, high-pressure stream of crud hit the mirror. It lasted for a full five seconds, maybe more, and then I went "around the clock," squeezing it from different angles to make sure that I got all the stuff out. Sort of like those final few bladder-emptying squirts when you're taking a piss, right? The deposit on the bathroom mirror was a true work of art. A vertical puddle about the size of a dinner plate, it consisted of semisolid lumps suspended in a thick liquid "broth," and it stunk to high heaven. I think I might've taken a picture of it before I went for the paper towels (toilet paper wouldn't have been up to the magnitude of that task), but I don't remember. If I did, maybe I'll find the photo some day and scan it in.

But that wasn't the best one. No, the best sebaceous cyst I've ever had appeared as a grape-sized lump on my lower back, off to one side, and remained there inert for several years. Eventually it started iching, so I started scratching and probing it one evening. That was apparently enough to make my body wake up and realize that something was there that shouldn't be, and those ol' white blood cells came racing to the rescue as I slept that night.

When I woke up the next day, this thing was just *massively* inflamed. That whole area of my back was red and sore, and it kept getting worse. So I went to the flight surgeon (I was in the Coast Guard at the time, attending school at Altus Air Force Base, Okla.). She told me to apply hot compresses to the cyst for a couple of days to draw out and concentrate the pus, and then come back to have it removed. That occasion didn't arrive a moment too soon, since the cyst had become so sore that I had to turn chairs at an angle in order not to have any direct pressure on the thing when I sat down. It was a constant, unremitting pain. Ghod, did that thing hurt!

I arrived at the flight surgeon's office at the designated time, took off my shirt, and lay face-down on the examining table. The doc shot me up with Novocaine, which hurt like a sonofabitch thanks to that whole region of my back surrounding the cyst being inflamed. She started cutting, but it still hurt. It eventually took no fewer than nine shots of anasthetic to make it possible for her to even touch my back, much less operate.

The first serious cut that the doctor made, however, was a memorable one. She lanced the top of the cyst and squeezed it lightly -- only to have a torrent of pus and smelly sebaceous fluid cover her face and the front of her tidy blue Air Force uniform shirt. She gave a startled yet dignified screech, something appropriate for a dignified captain in the medical corps who was nevertheless a woman.

The doctor worked for maybe half an hour, cutting and pulling an occasionally giving me yet another shot of Novocaine. She knew I was interested in what was going on, so she gave me a running commentary as she worked. Apprently this cyst consisted of a skin-like bag that was filled with crud. Not only did the crud have to be drained, but the bag itself had to be cut out. When the job was completed, I had what looked like a bullet hole in my lower back at about the level of my left kidney. I still have the scar, and sometimes it still itches.

The doctor packed the hole with a length of Betadine-impregnated gauze strip and covered that with a taped-on gauze square, and that was that. She told me to come back in a couple of days to have the gauze packing replaced and to try to keep the area dry for a week or so. Oh, and she showed me the little fleshy bag as I was leaving, even going to the trouble of poking through the mountain of bloody, pusy gauze squares on the little steel cart that had held her surgical tools in order to find it.

Geoff

California Dreaming

From Julian Macassey

Wed, 15 Nov 1995

Mendocino is not just a satire, it is a way of life.

I was recently invited up to Mendocino to dive for abalone. Abalone are a marine snail, pretty tasty and often served in slope restaurants.

Mendocino is a county north of San Francisco. It is a coastal county and seems to consist of small communities and countless holiday cottages and houses.

Apart from the Yuppies from the Gay Bay, that come up for weekends, there is a hardcore of year round residents and people who work in the local tourist industry.

This is beautiful country, redwood trees, rugged coastline, nice wooden houses, cabins and dirt roads.

The year round residents here are the sort of people you expect to live in California. They really don't give a damn. They also can be found sitting in hot tubs and chugging vino at any hour of the day or night.

This is a part of the world where girls still say "What's your sign?" when they meet you. Guys with long hair sit in restaurants and talk about crop circles and UFOs.

The local Highway Patrol cars have not only a shotgun on board, but an M16 rifle as well. I looked at the armament in this traffic cop's car and asked "Why the M16?". I was told they need it because of all the evil pot farmers in Mendocino. Of course, everyone seems to smoke pot. If you ask around, someone will happily give you a "bag o' buds", no charge, just to be friendly.

If they ever flush the pot farmers and pot smokers out of Mendocino, there won't be anyone left.

The people up in Mendocino are truly "Laid back Californians". Many of the year rounders are members of the "idle rich". They can not really conceive of anyone having a job they have to be at. They gaily suggest you stay for a few more days and get miffed when you say you have to drive back to the salt mine in the big city.

Without doubt, Mendocino is an a.t. vacation spot. A place where nudity, intoxication and idleness are not frowned upon. Driving down the local lanes it is not uncommon to see a woman driving her car wearing a bath-robe. She is quite likely naked beneath it and on her way to a friend's house or just popping out for some victuals. They don't seem to have a dress code in Mendocino, more like an undress code. Well, they do recommend a wet suit if you dive in the chilly Pacific.

In this part of the world, everyone seems to have a tale to tell. Every one knows everyone's business. If anyone is having an affair, everyone seems to be in on it, offering support or condemnation.

At one hot tub party I was shown a Polaroid of two blondes standing together. One was my hostess, the other was what appeared to be a female addressed as a witch. My hostess, in her breathless way had this tale to tell about the picture.

She was invited to a local Halloween party given by a homo couple. While she was there, a lesbian she knew arrived with another woman she had never seen before (The other blonde in the Polaroid). She was introduced to the Witch character and as she put it. "I found myself attracted to this woman, although I have never been attracted to a woman before."

The two blondes got on well at the party and part way through the evening the witch took my hostess to one side and said: "Actually I am a man and would like a date with you."

My hostess was somewhat relieved that the witch was a guy in drag and made a date for the following Wednesday - A hot tub date if course.

So, she gets all dolled up and staggers over to meet her date who told her he works in the local construction industry. They share a couple of glasses of wine and the "guy" starts talking about how uncomfortable he feels about his body. My hostess finds herself having to reassure a guy that it's OK, she doesn't mind how he feels etc. and his body isn't all that important. She starts to wonder why she is having to say to a "Construction worker" the sort of stuff men often find themselves saying to women.

Then her date grabs his chest, cupping a reasonable set of Bs and says: "These are real - I'm going through my sex change."

She nearly died. then he told her that he still had a penis but was currently going through the changes to become a woman.

Freakout time, poor girl had expected an evening of idle chat, vino, necking maybe and now she had this. Here is a date that turns into a therapy session.

This guy wants to be a woman. Why does he want to be a woman? So as a woman, he (she?) can then have lesbian affairs with other women.

My hostess is completely confused by now. She is also confused by her role in this date, or even her role in any future relationship. Is this guy's pecker to be considered a "useless appendage", or is it still to be used for sex until it gets lopped off? She didn't dare ask, not really wanting to know the answer.

The evening was not a success. But have no fear, everyone in town now knows about it.


--
Julian Macassey

Crackwhore Blowjob

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Father Darwin doesn't *always* kill...

From The Checkered Demon

Tue, 7 Nov 1995

I wrote this right before I went on vacation, and it bounced. So, screw me and blow me if it has the wrong friggin' dates, ok?

I'm sitting on the loading dock of the building where I work, on a sunny October day. It's warm, and I'm watching the co-eds strut their stuff, and stretch their long legs in the sun as they walk past my perch.

But, even as I stare at the shapely asses and thighs, I can't seem to bring myself to think of anything sexual. Not one thought about fucking pops into my deviate little mind. Why? Well, it's because of my image of Father Darwin, and the myriad ways that he corrects his children.

I used to be a world-class phone whore. Not a week would pass that I wasn't to be found scanning the personal ads in the paper, marking which were likely to be easy to boink. As I recall, when I left the game, I had a call-to-fornicate ratio of about 3:1, which I personally felt was something of an indication of just how seductive my voice really is. If you don't agree, try it, and see if you can top my numbers. Anyway, I was scanning the papers one fine sunday, and found an ad from my hometown. I got curious, and called and spoke to Norma. She said she remembered me from high school, and I couldn't quite place her, so I made a date, and went to her house the following Sunday.

I can't really begin to describe the house. It must have been a new house in the last twenty years, but it was so seriously run-down and shabby-looking that you'd have guessed that it might even have been abandondd for a decade or so. I walked up, knocked, was greeted by
Norma's sister, and came in.

Toys were strewn from one end of the living room to the other. Unpainted drywall was the decor of choice, along with other 'dumpster decor' furnishings. No curtains, just venetian blinds hung so poorly that they couldn't be taken up. And children, poorly dressed, and unwashed, sat in the kitchen eating take-out pizza as I looked on.

Norma finally stepped out of the bedroom, wearing a loose sweatshirt that also happened to be form-fitting, and sat across from me on the couch. As we chatted, she produced a yearbook that she had, and pointed out our pictures, proving I had indeed gone to school with her.

I had to leave, so I excused myself, and on the way home, I thought about the fun I'd had remembering high school, so I called and made a second date with Norma.

On the second date, I found out that she'd never been married, but wanted to get married right away, and that her two children were by two different men. Also, that she thought that Lorena Bobbit was right, and that they shouldn't have prosecuted her at all for what she did. While I waited for her to get ready, I watched as the children tortured a puppy out of their ignorance, by swinging it around by one hind leg.

As you might have gathered, big-ass warning signs in the Checkered Demon Dating Self-Preservation module were going off, and I wasn't about to date, or fuck this woman. I wasn't even going to take a chance and kiss her goodnight. At the end of the evening, I excused myself, thanked her for an enlightening evening, (ha!) and tore out of the parking lot so fast I left a trail of fire. I could feel her eyes still devouring me and my paycheck as I pressed for even more speed out of my car, rounding corners homeward at well over any legal speed limit. For me, this was the final warning of Father Darwin, "Stop phone-whoring, or else!" I liken this to a gentle pat on the back, for a child gone slightly astray.

Later that winter, my mother called a man for a load of firewood, who turned out to be Norma's father. Norma showed up with him, to help unload (she was a very brawny woman, as well as chunky), and scope out Mom's house to see if I was there. I wasn't, and that would normally be the end of this story, but...

Mom called for a load of firewood for this winter, and when the old man came to unload it on his own, she asked where Norma was. The old man paused, and said "I'd guess you haven't heard. She found a rusted exercise bicycle in the dump, and took it home. She got on it, but it was rusty and weak, and she's a big girl, so the seat support punched a hole right through the seat and into her, through her feminine organs and into her bowels. She had to have a lot of reconstructive surgery, and she's not healing up too well. There's likely no chance she'll ever have children again."

I'm sitting here, thinking about what it must have felt like to have a rusty pipe rammed into your crotch so hard that it punches a hole through to your intestines, and then, the feeling of having a pipe filled with a core of your flesh yanked back out of your body, trailing blood, mucous, and shit onto the floor. So, as I'm looking at a cute girl walk past in cutoff shorts torn 'just so', and I can see her delicate red satin underthings, but I'm not thinking about sex. I'm thinking about the feel of pulling those underthings out of a fresh wound, and the sucking sound her body cavity would make. And the shitty blood that would cover her, the bike, and the floor.

So, dear friends and gentle perverts, on this loading dock, on a fine, warm, October day, I stare at shapely asses, and think that Father Darwin does not always kill to educate. Sometimes, he shows a cruel and vicious side that I respect more than I want to admit. Either that, or he's still pissed about the two previous kids she had.

Hail Father Darwin, may his justice be swift and sure.

Tasteless Medical Condition... (Was:Tarra! Mutant mouse!)

From Bane

1 Nov 1995

Dr Sonya says... "ObT Idea: In my usual theme of education and tasteless coming together, I thought it might be a neat idea to do a "Tasteless Medical Condition of the Week" post. People could make specific requests, or I could pull some particularly nasty disease or entity to discuss in graphic detail."

When I was about fifteen years old, I sprang a 'roid about the size of a marble, and suffered near-mortal anal agonies for about three months until my parents made me go see a Quacktor (I guess they got tired of my shrieks from the shitter, and mopping up buckets of my bloody sweat after).

The Doktor saw me in his office and, after a brief exam, much of which concerned my ability to pay (nil), he informed me that he could perform the procedure right then and there. At his command, and with some trepidation, I dropped trow and assumed a kneeling position on his examining table, pliant boy that I was. He told me to kneel on the paper covered mattress thing (pardon the techno-jargon), ass in the air, face jammed in a pillow. He told me to reach back and spread my own butt-cheeks apart, then he slid a horse needle into my tender young rectal ringmeat. This event holds first place in my own personal Hall of Pain. I groaned loud enough to cause the office nurse to look in on us, and he snapped at me to 'not be such a big baby.'

He left me alone for a bit, and then came back with a small silver tray of sharp-looking silvery items, one of which looked like the out-sized clippers used to cut a large dogs toenails. He had me re-assume the position, and began fiddling around with my starfish in an alarming fashion. He cursed, and told me to hold my cheeks apart, and I tried, I really did. Then I heard snipping sounds like when you cut a credit card in half with a pair of sharp scissors, and a dull, persistent pain began to spread out from my virgin bunghole, traveling upwards through my body until it expressed itself with more groaning. I felt a liquid warmth gently tickling it's way down across my inner thigh hairs and thence to my knees, which began to lose their purchase on the vinyl mattress as the paper began to soak up my blood. My newly slick ass cheeks began to slip from my fingers no matter how much I tried to spread them, and I heard him curse again...then his little silver stool rattled against the examining table as he stood up with a rush and flew out of the room. It was then that I hazarded a peek rearwards. I still knelt oblatus like a penitent, and I saw that perpendicular to my navel began a sheet of my own blood that sheened my belly and thighs and thence to the mattress, runneling down to the floor in a Rorschach pool of scarlet, the Doktors foot prints clear where he had scampered away.

He soon returned in a huff, with an EMT I knew vaguely in tow. Herr Doktor had apparently enlisted this worthy to assist in the spreading of my slippery cleft, but the fellow stopped in stunned amazement when he saw the charnel scene displayed to him. Doktor snarled at him to 'move it' and he took over the job of human spreader, while I quivered and tried to not pass out. By now Doktor was in a fine frenzy, no doubt late for some pressing engagement. I could feel each mighty tug as he sewed like a sailmaker, closing whatever spurting crevice he had wrought.

He finished up in short order, which was just as well. If I'd had to take another moment of this, I would have staggered out screaming, even if I was trailing fifteen feet of my own bloody intestines. He told me to 'clean myself up', and asked (I swear) if I thought if I would 'need anything for pain.' After filling a large waste basket with bloody paper towels, I actually drove myself home and made it to the bedroom before the pain put me to the floor.

This same Doktor, eight months later, told an ICU nurse to "go ahead and let the old bastard take a shit if he wants," and my grandfather (in for a heart attack, and too proud to use the bedpan) died on the toilet on his first grunt. There are worse ways to go, I suppose.

Bane
--
Cheer Up!...it's always darkest just before it turns completely black...

Chipmunk

From jj

11 Jun 92

I grew up in the country. There weren't too many other kids around to play with, and so at times it was a somewhat lonely existence. When I was about 11 or 12 years old, one day in the summer, I was walking through the woods and saw a chipmunk sitting in the path in front of me. Unlike other chipmunks, this one didn't seem to be all that afraid of my approach; it didn't run away as I came near, but rather just sort of looked at me with a blase sort of attitude. I thought it would run but it didn't, even when I came to within a few feet of it; it merely turned its head and looked up at me with what I took to be a friendly expression. I was elated--here was a new friend! I quickly ran back to our house and found a cardboard box. I ran back to the chipmunk, and though I don't remember exactly how I did it, I somehow got him into the box.

My mother was a bit dubious at first, but finally relented, and so I had a new pet. I found an old aquarium and lined it with bedding. I bought a wheel and hacked a way to make it suspended in the cage. I bought a water bottle, and with some chicken coop wire spent many hours creating a sort of second- and third-story superstructure that fit on top of the aquarium in lieu of a lid. The chipmunk could climb up there, through different levels, and it would be just like he was climbing a tree. I intended to do right by my new friend.

Trouble was, he didn't seem to want to make use of these accommodations. He pretty much stayed in one corner and slept a lot, no matter how much I banged on the side of the aquarium. He didn't want to eat anything either, though I tried to entice him with juicy raisins, peanuts and peanut butter. Very curious, and somewhat disappointing. I wanted him to get out and sit on my shoulder, just like in all the Bobbsey-twins genre books I had read. I would take him to school and he would hide in my pocket, transforming the burdensome day into joyful fun.

I found I could pick him up without him making any attempt to bite me. A couple days later, as I was holding him, I happened to turn him over and something caught my eye. Something odd. I looked more carefully. It was a male chipmunk, complete with a full complement of standard sexual organs. Only, there seemed to be something wrong here, specifically with his scrotum. There seemed to be some kind of wound on the chipmunk's scrotum. I looked more closely, turning the chipmunk this way and that--he lay in my hand very placidly--and turned on an overhead light. Yes, it definitely was some kind of bloodless wound--in fact more like a hole--in the chipmunk's scrotum. Having a scrotum myself, I could well empathize and felt a bit queasy. No wonder he wasn't very active! I could relate, and felt much anxiety and a send of urgency. I considered what I should do for him. I vaguely thought that I should disinfect the wound and wondered what I should use. This was all very disconcerting and troubling. This was my friend and he needed help!

As I sat there thinking, chipmunk in hand, some movement caught my eye. I looked closer. Something was moving in the hole in the scrotum! Peering into the hole, looking very carefully, I was finally able to discern the vague outlines of several maggots. They were resting complacently at the bottom of the hole, though the light seemed to annoy them slightly. The chipmunk was again asleep.

Well, something like this never occurred in Encyclopedia Brown or the Bobbsey Twins. I felt a bit nauseated and I wasn't so sure I liked my little pet anymore. I wondered how many maggots filled his body, what percentage was chipmunk and what percentage was wriggling worm. Still, I felt a sense of responsibility toward my pet and was determined to help him get better. I kinda wished that he had had some other sort of infirmity of which I could cure him, something a bit more cleaner and less repulsive, something like a broken leg that I could heroically splint, but there was no use at this point crying over spilled milk. I had to work with what was available.

I hunted through my mother's sewing kit until I found a safety pin. Returning to the chipmunk, I opened the pin and turned him over. I dug down with the point of the pin into his scrotum, digging for the worms. This of course infuriated them and immediately they took off for parts unknown. I was left looking at an empty hole.

The next few hours were spend in a coy game of hide and seek. I would let the chipmunk lie still sleeping for a while, and eventually the worms would return to rest in the cavity in the scrotum. They seemed to like the contact with the air, and had probably eaten their way through the testicles for the very purpose of finding air and/or contact with the outside world. As soon as the little nasties reappeared, I would dig down into the scrotum with the pin, attempting to hook into one of the little bastards. Unlike my pet, they were very energetic; they moved too fast and I failed to hook them, in which case the pin sometimes entered the raw flesh of the insides of the scrotum, at which point the chipmunk would wake up briefly and look at me with beseeching eyes. Then I would sit and wait for fifteen or twenty minutes until the worms returned, the chipmunk would again fall asleep, and the cycle would repeat.

Finally after what seemed forever, I actually succeeded in hooking one of the bastards! I withdrew him from the scrotum impaled on the pin, pulling him like spaghetti into the light. He was about an inch long, very chubby and doughty-looking, and was not at all happy to be suddenly outside the protection of his home. He was moist and glistening, sorta mucousy, and was wriggling about on the pin like some exposed tendon or nerve. Well, step one was complete, and I felt relieved. If I had hooked one I could hook the others.

It occurred to me that my pet might want to get a glimpse of the enemy that had been torturing him. Thus, I held the impaled maggot close to the chipmunk's face and jiggled my hand a bit to wake the chipmunk up. He opened his eyes; I held the maggot close to his nose. Suddenly the chipmunk became a little dynamo. His eyes lit up as if on fire and he leapt up in my hand. He grabbed the maggot from the pin with his front paws and proceeded to chew the shit out of it. This was all very curious to me. It repulsed me not a little, but I was learning the ways of the wild and anyway the chipmunk was certainly reaping his just revenge.

I spent the next few hours repeating the pin-in-scrotum procedure. Each time I succeeded in extracting one of the little beasts, I would hold it to the chipmunk's face, at which time he would eat it. Out one end, in another. Finally there came a point at which no matter how long I waited, no new heads of maggots appeared in the scrotum hole. I considered the mission a success--I had extirpated the evil aliens that had so morbidly infected my buddy. I set the chipmunk back into his home and went off to bed to have some interesting dreams.

The next day my pet showed a dramatic improvement. He still would not eat, but he walked about the cage very animatedly and seemed to be much more aware (and concerned) of my presence. At one point a couple of days later I lifted him out of the cage and looked at the scrotum hole. To my joyful surprise, I saw that it wasn't really a hole any longer but had started to heal and was now a scab. This was indeed good news. It had been a traumatizing experience, but a lot of good had come of it. During the next 24 to 48 hours, my pet's condition continued to improve. He became very spry and even began climbing into his chicken-wire penthouse. He acted much more chipmunk-like in his movements and I was very glad. I allowed him to pose for a bit on my shoulder, to which he assented with only a few attempts to escape, and it seemed as if the Bobbsey-twins pet-thing might be in reach after all.

Then a day or so later, as I was coming down for breakfast, I paused at the cage to greet my friend. To my surprise, he was again resting languidly in a corner, his eyes glazed over and half-closed. My heart skipped a beat. With trembling hands, I reached into the cage and picked him up. I could well guess what the recurrence of the symptoms meant, and I was afraid to look. With a pit in my stomach I turned him over and looked at his scrotum. The maggots had returned in force. They had not only chewed their way through the newly formed scab, but had eaten out a much greater area. In fact, the damage now went will-nigh clear of the scrotum, extending into the flesh between the scrotum and anus and in fact one maggot was extending from the anus itself, though it seemed not to like the original hole and so had excavated a more satisfactory one adjacent to the original. In short, the entire back end of my pet was one mass of fat phlegmatic twisting and gyrating worms.

This was too much for me. Suppressing an urge to upchoke, I simply walked out of the house with the chipmunk and set him on the lawn some distance from the house. I felt really bad about the whole thing but I just couldn't cope with the notion that I really had not just one pet but perhaps several thousand. I wasn't sure how Encyclopedia Brown would have handled the situation, and to tell you the truth, I didn't really care. All I knew is that I wanted to get rid of this damn chipmunk that was being eaten from the inside out. I mournfully wished for a cat or a dog, just a normal pet like any other kid.

The rest of the story is rather anticlimatic. A couple of days later I worked up the courage to visit the spot where I had left the chipmunk. It was gone. I didn't think it had had the energy to walk away, certainly not across the great expanse of the lawn, and I wondered if some animal had gotten a hold of it. Searching further, I came across a dried pool of vomit a short distance away. I looked carefully for signs of chipmunk in the vomit but didn't see any. To this day I don't know if the vomit pool was related or not.

jj

Wounded Iraqi Cook

From Sgt Zeno

Sun, 28 May 1995

As I sit here pulling my pud (yet again), dipping some Skoal wintergreen, and wondering if I can afford my next mortgage payment, I feel compelled to share another Gulf War story. My frosty mug containing Icehouse beer beckons, and I take a strong hard pull.

ObHomerSimpson: Mmmmm.....Duff Beer.

Well, I'm not sure how to compose this piece. Hell, maybe I'll run out and molest a dead horse to get up the gumption. But it's much too humid outside for that.

Have you ever noticed that? The urge to run out and rape someone (or something) seems to be inversely proportional to the humidity. Humid days just aren't for strenuous and heinous acts of vehement sexuality. It calls for a nice day with a cool breeze rolling in off the bay for me to get out there and really do some good anal invading. Maybe I'll make it a point to actually make an excursion on the next sweltering hot date to go out and be blatantly obtuse about getting some skank. I wonder if I'll enjoy it as much.

But I digress [following in the footsteps of many a good a.t story teller].

Today I am here to tell you about the wounded Iraqi cook. Unfortunately, I cannot take full credit (nor responsibility) for this little number. I must trust my old battle buddy's integrity on this little story about a man who served the wrong nation in a war that was unwinnable.

[Flashback to 1990, Germany] Maverick and I were good buddies. I was a tank driver for the battalion, and he was one of the medics who supported us. We were both married to German nationals at the time (I, however, am no longer... congratulatory notes are welcome), and we both happened to be rather tasteless individuals. I liked to bite off the heads of frogs during field exercises (another story for the telling), and he liked to see how many times he could catch crabs and itch away at them without any body parts falling off.

Strangely enough, we were both sent to th Primary Leadership Development Course at the same time and were volunteered (?) to be battle buddies. This consisted of us living together in the cramped quarters of a pup tent smaller than the woodshed that grampaw used to take you to for those *special* outings you used to have.

We would stay up at night smoking Swisher Sweets and talking about which of the females in the platoon wanted to sneak into our sleeping bag and screw our brains out. [This now brings up the memory of a German national in a park in Munich, her butthole, and an Africola bottle.]

Anyway, you get the jist of how Maverick and I became close battle buddies.

Well, we both deployed to Saudi Arabia (and all of the Southwest Asia countries involved) at the same time. Fearing for our lives, but eventually adopting a black sense of humor about it all, we complied with our government's desires. While I was out in the desert looking at the possibilities of squicking corpses in the sun, he was doing his job as a Combat Medic. You know, treating all of us we-do-more-before-nine-a.m.-than-most-people-do-all-day soldiers. Dealing with: "I have a headache." "I've got diarrhea." "My pussy hurts." "I've got this problem..." "Give me some of that alcoholic cough medicine."

Well, anyway, Maverick is sitting there in his Humvee one night in the desert in a secure perimeter, and this Iraqi enters the area. Nobody actually realizes that the poor sot is actually there. He walks right over the birm through the great Army security we have, and he starts knocking on the sides of vehicles trying to surrender to somebody. Everyone is inside their tank or truck just snoring away.

"Hey, Sergeant Nighbert, what the hell was that noise?"
"Huh....what?....go back to sleep."

This guy is trying to surrender to one of us or something, and everyone is sleeping through it. Nobody seems to want to take charge of this Iraqi who just defected from his army and brazenly crossed the lines into enemy territory. But finally, some mechanic in his track decides to see who the hell is banging on his vehicle at 2 in the morning.

Lo and behold, here is this dishevelled Iraqi cook standing in the darkness (well, actually, he now has the piercing beam of a flashlight blinding him), with torn pantlegs and bloodstains up and down his body [much to the horror of all of you at fans, I'm sure].

I'm not sure whether he had any ESL capabilities or not (English as a Second Language). But he was in serious need of medical attention. From the looks of things, this guy has a serious shrapnel wound to the groin.

Maverick is called into action (hoo-ah). It seems that this little towel-headed camel jockey has gotten a serious case of grenade-explosion-too-close-to-the-choad (a wound that would make Mao Tse Tung proud). Now is the time for action.

Don't take anything as fact from here on out. I only heard this from Maverick's mouth. Maybe I remember it incorrectly. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe I'm right. Maybe I'm black, maybe I'm white. Whatever the case. Maverick has the divine pleasure of treating this poor testicle-deprived sod.

This guy has a flap of skin shredded from his inner thigh. It's still there, but only connected by an inch of flesh. It's a sort of doggie door for the sand fleas to enter into his musculo-skeletal structure in a place that only the Great Prophet of Glub would know the proper course of action for. But as they say "It's only a flesh wound."

The part that you and I want to know about is the damage to the jewel case. Yes, our buddy Abdul has received the high esteemed honor of having his testicle sack ripped open by a hot piece of sharp metal, and part of it is lodged somewhere up near the gonads.

Maverick (the self-proclaimed modern day Marquis de Sade) goes right to work on the guy's future family. He lays the cook downon a mat in the sand, and by the light of the moon and a flashlight, extracts said piece of hot, sharp shrapnel from the wound. (Here is truly a good piece for the trophy case.) The dude is moaning in pain; Maverick gives him some Motrin or something (saving the morphine for any American who might need it more).

Some flesh will have to be cut away before the wound can be properly closed. Because, unfortunately for Abdual and fortunately for a.t'ers, he has developed gangrene over the past few days. I don't know what happened to Mr. Al-azim's little sperm-producing ball bearings, maybe he kept one or two. But he was sewed up without painkiller. Had some field dressing wrapped around his crotch. And was sent to the field trains to the MPs for processing into a camp somewhere. Maybe Ty stole his wallet or something (which he was known to do at those prisoner camps). Maybe Glub was there and intervened, saving him for a higher purpose. I do know that he did survive this episode of war and moved on to a life without children. I just hope that someday, he will tell one of us the epilogue of his war experiences.

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At the funeral parlor: "Well, we can eat your mother's body. And if you feel guilty about it later, we can dig a grave and throw up in it." -Monty Python's Flying Circus
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