home to mystical retard?
Or wily raptor?
I have a few announcements to make before we begin, enjoy, readers:
My next product review, after much careful thought, will be on Round and Brown, a gentlemen's film on love and pop culture. Full color photos! I will make sure they are work safe with my vast editing prowess in such programs as: Microsoft Paint.
I found my folder o' worthless cerificates I got at Da Firm, and will post those with the corresponding stories, including the infamous "Working With People" diploma, which was easilly ammunition for...what, 5 manager's meetings was it? great times.
Anyhoo, on to today's tale!
Shit has a special place in our family. From my uncle who shit in plastic bags, to the two gentlemen in today's post, it is almost like a real live family member, kept on the outskirts of humanity, gnawing angrilly at the barricade between us and civillized society so we can be laid open like a rotting fish that Smeagol found under the couch, laid bare for all to see. Ah, my poetic tendencies belie my infatuation with the pedantic. Cock!
Anyway, I have an uncle on my dad's side with the same name as the Walmart Bag Shitter, as my mom's brother is now infamously known, a serial shitter known to strike at any moment, sometimes seen running in small circles in his room whilst desperately clutching his ass, trying to find a Walmart sack to unleash the Turds of Hell into. My uncle on my dad's side, let's call him Biff, because I like the name, is the exact opposite of my dad in all ways except physical looks: He is a little bigger in the belly, but still has the handlebar mustache and huge mop of hair on top that my dad does, though his is red and not ash white from all the crack vapors that have infiltrated it's rankd like a Just for Men commercial for dope addicts. He was for some completely unexplainable reason crack to the ladies, who would buy him gifts and pay for his meals and drinks in order to enjoy his company for the evening. It boggles my mind, even my own wife thinks he is suave and devonaire, even with the Buddha belly. I ain't no cockblocker though, all props to him.
On this particular night, a VERY lovely woman got his attention by offering to buy him tickets to a Chief's game, this was when they were decent so it was pretty long ago. He was a sucker for free tickets to sporting events, and so turned the rest of the ladies in the line down. After purchasing his ticket, beer, and dinner, she felt she had done enough to get into his pantaloons. I guess after he blew her mind, she started in with the love talk, to which he drunkenly replied something like "Yeah yeah, whatever your name is, leave a 20 on the counter on your way out" or something, I wasn't there and I don't feel like asking Smeagol, who probably was there in the closet massaging his thong with reckless abandon.
My uncle awoke the next morning, ready to greet the beautiful rays of the sun filtering softly through the open shades, to a strange sight. The lovely lady he was with had straddled his chest and was finishing up an incredibly nasty dukefest on his chest. She finished, probably straining to fart in his face, flipped him off and left.
Another story, we had a cousin, let's call him Billo, who would stick his hand down the back of his knickers, pull a small lump of shit out of his ass, and throw it at people. This is funny if you are 2 or 3 and it's not me you are throwing your mooks at, but this guy was 17. What gets me is he got the ladies all the time, even 1 or 2 who had seen him chuck shittles at various people! He would also at random times wear only a bath towel as a cape, call himself the Nasty Faggot and run around bare assed outside simply to entertain us, launching his shit projectiles at various people simply to get us to laugh, great times. But after I quit wearing the towel....
And the final one in our oddyssey of fecal Euphoria, was Coby. Ah, Coby... not in our family, though he probably should have been. When we lived in North Kansas City, before the crack impugned on our lives like an unstoppable rebel force, we had nice things. A stereo. Color television. Vanilla Ice Greatest hits. And a Sega Genesis. Coby was either young or retarded, we never bothered finding out which, and he would walk up to the window to our bedroom and poke his head in, saying "JAAAAAAY JAAAAAY..... COULDAI comein play Thega?" And we would laugh and laugh and throw things at him and then let him in to play Madden 95, nay the bestest sports game at the time. Coby had a bowel problem. We would get no end of joy taking turns holding him while the other punched him lightly in the stomach numerous times, giggling like schoolgirls (Coby too) as he either farted each time he was hit or shit his pants. Then we would yank his pants off and throw them on the roof of various houses (these were the projects of North Kansas City, 1 story brick bungalows, a small jump would take you up onto the roof) and laugh as he tried to get them back. Coby was also a nasty buzzard, always trying to get our retarded neighbor, Dawn, to give him a handjob, ostensibly while he shat himself.