Thursday, January 29, 2009

Romance during Black History Month?!!

love is in the air
influence spreads like a spore
Brown Bear is immune

So I guess it's getting to be that time that I dread: not only is Valentine's Day, the shittiest fucktard-iest holiday ever, but my wife and I's (I know that's not grammatically correct, but I'm retarded so lemme alone!) 10 year anniversary is coming up, which is gay. Now I heard from someone that for the 10 year anniversary you are supposed to give her wood, but I give that to her all the time whether she's awake or willing or not, so I am not sure how giving it to her for our anniversary is going to make it a gift. I'll try though, maybe if I surprise her by doing some of that "foreplay" I keep skipping past to get to the sex parts in movies, but then she might expect that all the time, so that's a no go. If it takes longer than a commercial break, I ain't interested, that's the only true thing I learned from Smeagol and it's a good caveat to live by. That and "never look Mystery in the eye", for doing so leads to dementia.

I also heard tin and aluminum are 10 year anniversary gifts, which is strange. Should I buy her a flask? Would I be uncouth if I drank all the alcohol out of it first? The idea of a woman wearing a hip flask automatically gets me excite for some reason, does that make me gay? Let's look at what Semagol gave his love for their anniversaries:

On their first anniversary we moved from lovely Smithville, Missouri to Ghettotown USA, also known as the corner of 54th and Woodland. We also had to bail Smeagol out of jail.

On their 5th anniversary Smeagol met her at a hotel down by Swope park for some undercover lovin while his thong steamed like an oven (I love rhyming)

On their 10th anniversary he had her bail him out of jail.

My track record, dear readers, is not a whole lot better, unfortunately.

Our first anniversary I was going to school in the morning and working all night, so our first anniversary I think I copped a feel while I was changing and that was it.

Our fifth anniversary we got married, on the same day so I wouldn't have to remember 2 days (her idea, not mine)

I was going to learn Tears From Heaven (I am not gay, listen to the song it actually sounds pretty cool) on guitar for her, and surprise her at work with a serenade, but I spent all this time rocking out on Led Zeppelin, which is slightly less romantic, but maybe more awesome.

Last year I had flowers sent to her job, but I guess I ruined it because instead of a poem or love note I wrote in the little card "Please bring me home a burger and some fries, I am hungry" (I am not kidding)

The year before I purchased "Hot Ebony Honies pt. 7: Indiana Bones and the Last Horny Crusade" which was strangely enough a straight to dvd film that was pretty cheap. I figured we would watch it together and then....uh.... well anyway I guess she was less than enamored when I decided to screen it before we watched it together and accidentally left it in the dvd player. Awkward!

Granted the way we started off in our journey through life together was less than romantic - I was calling around after being taken to jail to get someone to bail me out, and Smeagol, after telling me "Well that's your problem, niggie" I guess told someone at Burger King where I worked at the time (I'm not exactly sure how it happened) and she took 500 bux out of her savings to purchase her some USDA black beef, but I need to come up with something romantic.

I briefly thought about maybe not farting in her face or something like that, but I really want this to be special, not "speshul", which most of my other gift ideas are (for her birthday one year, I accidentally spilled grape juice on the carpet, and she was on me to get a rug doctor to remedy that, but instead of renting one, I bought her a steam cleaner for our anniversary.....what?)... I thought about purchasing a scarf from a very talented entrepreneur I know, but I think it's too late to do something like that, and there's a waiting list. Though wearing just a scarf and dancing around like I did at my Chippendale's audition might be a good idea... if I wanna be single!

I think the thing that makes it worse is she has given up on trying to hint, or even acknowledging stuff like anniversaries or Valentine's day or anything like that, because to do so would be, much like the misled creditor who gives Smeagol a credit card, to set up for unending and total failure, and that's not how I wanna roll.

SO I need brainstorming. What have you done for your significant other? Smeagol said Mystery nuzzled up behind him recently, and asked him "what can I do for you?" to which he answered "You can get the hell outta my life!" While that is romantic, I'm not sure humor is the way to go in this instance.

Come on, peoples. While I am well versed in the art of killing, I am a n00b to the fine art of loving.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Rock the boat (don't rock the boat baby!)

it's snowing, snowing
wintry breath of the angels
and dutch ovens for all!

While I love winter, I hate these temperatures. all the piss and jizz I spray all inside my pants on the way to work every day freezes up and makes me walk funny.

So I guess Smeagol finally got his car running, and though it is totally not legal and he has no business driving around as his license has been suspended since the geri curl was in style, he drove his car down to JJ's house to have JJ take him to see his PO. I can only assume another frantic call for bail money is coming up soon, as he will apparently never learn his lesson.

Things were going pretty well with his new lover, Erica. Although she had completely smashed his new Mercury Mountaineer and completed what he would soon find out was a hit and run, she felt bad enough about that to shower him with praise and twat, nay the only 2 things any man wants. Then things took a slightly less than serene turn: I think she found out about him meeting Mystery in a hotel for afternoon delights, after which I am sure the hotel room was cordoned off and never used again.

Anyway, I guess his new honey found out, and decided to take her big head kid and go home to her husband. I think I have told this story before, but it still gets me: why would you cheat on your girlfriend with your wife? Did Smeagol use the same hotel Toboggan Boy and Janet used for their honeymoon? How did Smeagol get there since he didn't have a car? Can Herpes be transferred through sheets? Did Erica's husband ever touch her again after he found out about Smeagol's looks? How lame is it that she was 2 grades lower than me in school?

Smeagol wants to come by again this week, no doubt to see if I had attained any more stealables. I now have a pretty decent digital video camera, and though I am not sure I can imber video into my blog, I know I can imbed photographs.

Also, I learned something last night, no not that the reverse cowgirl can hurt if done without copious amounts of lube (I knew that already from my jail days), I learned some wounds run deep, nay, some wounds never heal. I called my sister to see if she wouldn't mind calling Smeagol to give him his father's teleophone number, and the hatred in her voice when I dared mention his name was palpable. Not only did she refuse to call him, she told me to give her his number to give to her dad because she didn't want to ge responsible for giving Smeagol that information. THis hatred is not lost on him, though, as he informed me he had nothing to say to her either.

This leads me to a question, and I really want you to think hard before you answer, because not only is this cruel and a terrible practical joke, it will probably end with neither of my older siblings ever talking to me again. WOuld it be funny if I called Smeagol and gave him her phone number, telling him it was his dad, to see if they will talk and make up?

You know what, no. That's cruel. I have done the same thing with JJ, and also given him the phone telling him it is a girl only to see the look of general dismay on his face when he realizes it's a certain raptor, and I cannot put anyone else through that.

Speaking of which, I know I have said something about it before, but why is it every time he calls he asks if you're ok, "you sound kinda down, kinda sad..."? Has he not figured out it is him, with his constant begging and "You can't say no niggie, you just can't!" whenever he calls asking for money and/ or free rides?

Saturday, January 24, 2009

on the vote

since I am being inundated with people telling me that I misspelled "greatest", I did that on purpose, it is supposed to be a joke. But even if it wasn't, if you are reading my blog you should know by now pedantics and poor spelling skills are NOT my biggest concerns by any stretch. More on Smeagol Monday.

Friday, January 23, 2009

I Love HMO! (sing to "I love Rock N' Roll" By Joan Jett)

I love my HMO
regularly deny stuff,
but want their dues NOW

Stevester's Adventure through the American Medical System

So I wanted to do a couple of things, namely change my medical insurance from Coventry (motto: "We don't fuck you in the ass as hard as Blue Cross at least, I mean am I right?") to GEHA, which is the government employee's health insurance. Since I work for the gub'ment I do not have to fill out a lot of the forms and shiznit you other skanks do, but I noticed on the parts I didn't have to fill out that the American public really takes it in the ass. Let me explain.

Apparently, in order to change your insurance, you have to have had a catastrophic life-changing and APPROVED event going on. You cannot change your insurance because it sucks or because another group gives you a lower rate. THis is not unlike peer pressure drug dealing, except these guys get your money before you get your paycheck and the drugs cost more and do less. Plus when they kidnap you you do not get your drugs for free, and none of the HMO guys wear cool clothes....I guess they're nothing like drug dealers. Oh well.

"But why the diatribe against the American Health care system Stevester? I'm Benson Hunter!" You might be saying if you really were Benson Hunter, which you aren't, so don't even joke like that.

Let me tell you a tale, a tale of daring, a tale of daring, of electric attraction, of primordial embarrassment, of the cold shrinking a wiener. I went to the doctor because I wanted to see about going from taking 4 shots a day (no not in my ass) to getting an insulin pump, because it offers more control over the diabetes which is apparently marauding over my pancreas and kidneys like an unstoppable rebel force.

HMO - 0, Stevester - 0

Round 1 - I walk into the doctor's office, which costs 30 dollars now. Fuck.

HMO - 1, Stevester - 0

Round 2 - After waiting for almost 30 minutes after my scheduled appointment, I am called back and weighed, listening to the "tsk tsk" of the nurse who is weighing me. "I ain't Missin' you " is playing on the radio in the background, and a doctor and nurse are trying unsuccessfully to tell who sings the song. I ashamedly inform them that it is John Waite, and that I own the album, to which the nurse, who couldn't be any older than 20, gives me this sad, sad look like "what a fucking loser" as she asks how old I am, and once she finds out I am thisclose to 30, informs me that she is 21. Fuck.

HMO - 2, Stevester - 0

Round 3 - My doctor walks in, I ask about the pump, she hands me an appointment card to see a specialist, informs me the pump is not covered by Coventry, and leaves. Total time actually speaking to a doctor - 1:02

HMO - 3, Stevester - 0

Round 4 - I go to the specialist, pay the 50 dollar entrance fee, and go back to wait. Since I was fasting, they take a urine sample and half my blood, then a midget punches me in the taint for good measure (I guess on a dude the taint is called the grundle, but I digress...) before the doctor walks in and asks me all the same questions he just had me fill out on a 12 page questionnaire, some while reading off what I had written. I instantly hate him.

He signs me up for a class to learn about how to use the pump and how to not be fat, and tells me to wait for his nurse. She walks in and informs me that since I just filled the cup with piss and they did not need it anymore, and since the lab that I needed to go to next was just "a few doors down", I could just take the cup with me and give it to them so that although they would still take blood, at least they wouldn't make me piss again. She gives me the room number and while checking my blood pressure at first awkwardly straddles my arm, so that my palm is nuzzling her camel toe. Nice.
So I leave the office, and find out the lab is on the other side of the hospital, and now I must walk down a bunc of full hallways carrying a cup of my own urine. On an aside, why the FUCK are hospital hallways so goddamn long? should I really need to be able to run a triathlon to make it from the shitter to the water fountain and then to the elevators? C'mon!

I get to the lab, and they inform me that Coventry will not cover their services, the only place that will is about 15 miles southeast of where I was. They hand me a map, the forms, and my cup of urine back, and send me on my way. In the elevator, a really hot asian chick gets on, kinda looks me over with a little smile like "hey, how YOU doin?" Then sees that I am holding a cup of what is obviously my own quickly chilling urine and moves away from me and doesn't make any more eye contact. Factor in the fact that my foot hurt from sparring the night before when I kicked someone and he brought his elbow down on top of my foot, bruising it terribly, and you have what looks like a crazy fat homeless guy. Fuck my life.

HMO - 4, Stevester - 0

Round 5 - I get to the other place, and walk in with my urine. Fuck this shit. I walk up to the desk and inform the lady I needed to get some labs done and that "I have both the forms and a cup of my own urine I have been carrying around all day", placing said cup on the counter right in front of a couple of old ladies, letting them revel in it's amber glow, hint of key lime pie and frothy textures. Fuck them! Feeling I was leaving in victory, I cracked a smile, only to have it wiped away when informed that Coventry would cover all but 15 dollars of the fucking lab work. Sheeeit!

HMO - 5, Stevester - $0

WHat kinda shitload of fuck is our medical system where a man must cart around a cup of his own fucking urine and still pay almost 100 dollars for the privelege? All I have to show for that day is 2 pamphlets on insulin pumps and a funny story to tell. How is it Cuba has universal health care and we do not? I briefly thought about moving to like France or something but they do not have NFL so fuck them.

Thursday, January 15, 2009


Rest in Peace My friend
like like the lone cherry blossom
I know you'll return

Sad news, brothers and sisters... there's been a death in my family. If you came to this blog looking for funnies to lighten your day, I caution you to turn back now, as I need to vocalize my grief. After 4 short, beautiful years, My Ford Escort finally bit the dust. Like a loving parent, heart aching and in all manner of painful agony, I finally pulled the plug, and the front license plate came off with it.

I went to pick the Hot Rod (and don't anyone dare to call it anything else, it was a hot rod and that's how I shall always remember it dammit! I need a hug!) up after leaving it at my dad's house for him to work on, and he informed me that it was working fine, that he couldn't find anything wrong with it. I gleefully threw the keys to my 2004 taurus on the cold ground and ran to lovingly caress the aerodynamic pieces of trim half falling off my beloved, noting that instead of fixing one of the rear seatbelts so that the back seat would fold down someone just cut it off, and loved it even more. I got in, started it right up, and reveled in it's awesomeness as even though it was in neutral it said "Shift Up". I backed out of my parents driveway, the wife and kids in tow in the massively inferior Taurus, with it's stupid ability to go up hills and....heat, and took off like a shot, speeding up to a breakneck pace of 25 miles per hour! Already in 4th gear, I drove to the ghetto gas station to fill up, and marveled that 14 dollars completely filled my car up. I got back in, noticing the sex eyes being given to me by the local skanks (and dudes for some reason), and turned the key....nothing. I held the clutch down and tried again, and got the starter up, and it backfired loudly, scaring a few hooligans no doubt intent on rubbing their naked bodies against my car in hopes that such coolness could be transposed by osmosis.

What had happened? I tried over and over again, and nothing happened. I sadly got out of the car and with one hand pushed it over to the phone, and called my dad and AAA. Back at the house, we checked all the hoses, everything was in order, it just would not start. I have no shame in admitting I started bawling, and thought about laying spread eagle on the ground and masturbating furiously whilst crying, but it was muddy out so funk dat.

"But why is this post called 'Resurrection', Stevester?" You might be asking, wondering in earnest if I really was crying or not.

The reason why this post is titled 'Resurrection', is because just a few days ago my wife informed me of something that can only mean the spirit of my car had not died, just moved. Apparently her friend at work is wanting to sell her 1993 Ford Escort, which she says is a piece of crap that refuses to die, but she wants a car where parts don't fall off of it whenever she hits a speed bump and/ or surpasses 50 MPH. As my wife told me about this, I felt a flutter in my heart, and a tear came to my eye. Could it be? Was my Escort trying to reach me from beyond the grave? I asked with baited breath and cautious optimism if it was possible....shitty looking?

She informed me that it definitely was, and it was a stick, and I knew. You know when you see that special someone and you just know you were meant to be with that someone? When you think about you and that person together, your breath catches and your heart and soul fill with serene light as you revel in the thought that you had finally found your other half, how the cosmos had finally been tamed, how you had finally harnessed the beautiful language of love and felt ready to rule the world? Well I never felt that until I heard the Escort was a piece of crap, and then I knew. I knew we were meant to be together, and no one, not even the law, is going to keep me from being with my sweet ass Escort. This was further confirmed when she informed me that her friend wanted 200 dollars for said Escort, and that it really was a 200 dollar car. Over the next few weeks, I will regale you all with tales of how awesome the old Escort was, but hide your sadness like a wiener in a hot dog bun, waiting for your hapless victim to choose it from your strategically held hors d'ouvre tray, slathered in mustard and pulsating with happiness, because this story only took a twist, it has not ended.

As soon as I get it and get a chance to legalize and then awesometrize it, I will offer free rides to anyone who has the urge. Wait... that didn't sound right.

Monday, January 12, 2009

Part II of the Epic Tale

Let's go Cardinals
No one likes the damn Eagles
And you're due to win!

(Getcha thought there'd never BE a part II, huh Wabbs?!)

The Cardinals, with sexy manstud Larry Fitzgerald (I only like his abilities, I would not make sweet man-love to him, so stop snickering) Are going to the NFC championship, agains the perpetually troll-looking Donovan McNabb (not that I can talk, I look like a gorilla or a brown bear, but I'm also not famous, so fuck that guy!), and I am very excite! It's sad that the Cards are doing the same thing Shittenheimlich did with the Chiefs, putting trust in veterans from other teams and being ridiculed constanatly before the season starts, and are now 60 minutes away from the big time. I have already started getting ready for a Phoenix Cardinals/ Pittsburgh Steelers Superbowl with the essentials: Spinach dip, bloomin onions with sassy horseradish sauce, 3 tubes of KY lube, my karate foot cozies (I don't care if it sounds gay, they are warm and they look cool, plus they are constantly drenched in the dpittle/ blood of my sparring partners... duct tape and margarita mix along wit da Cuervo, you know how I do! (I heard that somewhere)

Anyway, you didn't come here to hear about my Superbowl preperations or to ponder what I would need all that lube for (totally innocent reason, gutterbrain), you wanted to hear

PART II of the Epic!

I would like to do this in the format of 24, you know, the television show with the Counter Terrorism Unit that Benson Hunter was going to send after me? Anyway...

4:38PM (tick....tock...tick....tock...)

- We're driving along in my cherry 1985 Mercury Grand Marquis, the huge golden boat with the white interior that my then-girlfriend would soon use to back over a hapless victim driving a transam, my trying not to make it obvious that I am trying to leam out the window for fresh air, Mystery in the seat next to me, leggings on full display, funk emanating like a sulfur deposit on Callisto (read about it, planets are fascinating!), constantly doing that stupid tsk tsk thing, just trying to get me to respond so she could annoy me. You see, Mystery is one of those people who thinks they are better than anyone else, and that everyone cares about, nay, is yearning to learn about the inner workings of her mind, therefore, it wouldn't behoove her to start talking to you directly; no, no, she has to hint that she intends to say something profound to get you to ask her

"hey what's on your mind friend?"

I do not care what is on her mind, and simply turn the radio up to cover up her snotterings (I made that word up, it's when you try to grunt a bunch of times to get someone's attention, the grunts turn to snorts and sooner or later you end up with snot all over your face), and then she does the unthinkable: she turns the radio down and starts in with "man I sure hope this thing I'm going to do works, I might need help though, duh!" while looking wistfully out the window. I am now completely annoyed but just want to get this over with, so I ask her what the hell she is talking about so I can go back to listening to my damn Beegees.

I really wish I could add audio files to this blog, you really need to see what I am trying to explain here. Picture her pursing her lips, much like a duck would. Then picture her trying to blow air out of those pursed lips, spraying a fine mist of whatever bacterial organismsn are strong enough to survive the funk of her mouth vents all over anything within 6 inches of her face.

"Well I just hope he will take how much money I've got, I think he will-"

Stop right there. I almost wrecked the car. What the Fizzizzuck?

I ask her to explain. At this point, Smeagol was in Kearney or some small town outside of Kearney, and this was going to be a 45 minute MINIFRIGGINMUM drive to.....HOPE the bail bondsman will take the money she had? No, no, funk dat. I ask her what she means by that, to which she replies that she technically HAS all the money, but is going to try to bargain with him to let Smeagol, who we all know will skip bail, out for less money. I briefly consider explaining to her that the only way for bail bondsmen to feed their fucking families is to collect the money he was asking her for, saw the completely blank look in her vacuous eyes, and thought better of it.
Whatever. We get all the way to the damn jail outside of Kearney, by the way some shitcan town North of Kearney, which is a shitcan town itself. I see the bail bondsman, who like I said before is a walking bail bondsman stereotype, at least until Dog the Buttfucking BOunty Huntress becomes famous that is, smoking a pipe while looking at us with disdain. I automatically hate people like that, who are you to think you are better than me, fucktard? I wanted to ask him that, but remembered this was all for Smeagol, and kept my mouth shut. Mystery walked over and started talking to him, and I could hear him rasping like a cherry 1989 Ford Escort engine, telling her he would need this info and that info and my info and addresses and....wait wha?!
Apparently this asshat wanted all my info, social security numbers, address, where I worked, the works. Now I realize the reason is he has no way to know if Smeagol is a flight risk, and being a winged velociraptor he very much is a flight risk, at least until the weight of his thong drags him back down, but I balked nonetheless...

Tomorrow, part 3 in the series, in which we have to drive to friggin Kansas... stay tuned.

Friday, January 9, 2009

Another Saga, Part I

Drain the wicked snake
I love turkey pot pies son!
haikus are easy!

Breaking News-

I know I was going to do part 2 of the Epic today, and I still might, I just have to get something off my chest first (besides the cleveland steamer Max left there, cocaine is a helluva drug)...
If I have spoken to any of you on the phone since moving to my new house, you may have noticed something strange. You may have noticed that for some reason the phone cuts out OFTEN. I mean once a minute for about 20 seconds at a time. I can still hear you, but you cannot hear anything I say. At other times, it sounds like I am int he Matrix, as the digital signal from my phone breaks down so much it makes my voice sound robotic. Naturally, being a well rounded professional, I assumed it was naked granny zombie poltergeists messing up my phone, and the only thing that would sate their hellish intents was a ride on the Stevester Peg. I laid completely naked with a hardon on my basement floor as an offering for almost 20 minutes until my ass cheeks fell asleep and I ran out of donuts that I had stacked on my man pole to munch on in case I got hungry, but other than the neighbor lady looking through my window nothing happened.

So I turned my ire toward more Earthly fare. I have the Time Warner all in one digital package, with the "blazing fast internet, digital phone and cable, all in a fantastic package" which is how I desribed myself when I first met my wife, Ziing!

I hate talking to customer service. They are poorly trained, underpaid, rude, and also probably from the ghetto. Being a tech nerd, I also feel more comfortable using my keyboard for communication (both by chatting and throwing it at people) than using my verbal mandingo to come in lucky people's ear pussies. Imagine my surprise when I noticed Time Warner has a live chat option! No more talking to guys from India who 1) have no fucking clue as to what they are talking about, and 2) have suck thick accents you can never tell if they are talking to you or munching twat (Youuuuu liiiiiiigget Vishkayan!)

I log onto chat, and wait patiently to give a very stern textual thrashing to whatever unlucky douche gets me in the queue. Something told me though that I was in for a long day when the chat opened up. I will try to remember it as best I can, and recreate some of the conversation here:

Vishnaly Smith (from here on VD)Me (from here on Me)

VD: Thank you for contacting Time Warner Cable, please give moment look account informations
Me: Yep
VD: I understand you are having slite issue with telephone and internet, is this correct?
Me: Yes, I am h-
-Chat has ended!-

The asshole stopped the chat. Ah, how magical, how fantastic! First, who names their kid Vishnaly Smith? You need an ass whoopin. I log back in and get someone else with poor spelling skills, let's call her VD too:

Me: look, I am getting pissed off right about now. I want a working phone and working internet. I want someone to come out to fix my issue. I want that done today.
VD: I understand your concerns.
Me: (after waiting 2 minutes with no replies) OK, that's great. Are you sending someone out?
VD: I'm sorry, someone out for what?
Me: If you read what I JUST WROTE, you will see what my issue is. Here, I will copy and paste: look, I am getting pissed off right about now. I want a working phone and working internet. I want someone to come out to fix my issue. I want that done today.
VD: Let me check your account informations, hold please...

At this point, I am already annoyed. But on an aside, why do they have you input all your account fucking information if no one fucking reads it? What's the point of having me input all that shit if I get asked EVERY FUCKING TIME for the same fucking info? Fuuuuck! I seriously start thinking about laying naked on the floor again, maybe the old lady zombie (you see, we recently found out the only reason our house was available is because the old lady who lived there died... more on that story later) was on the shitter or something, when VD comes back:

VD: I will need to send technician to your house to resolve issue. May I have address please?
Me: It's the one on my account, the only one I would call you about in the first place...
VD: Oh ok. I send out, Technician will be there between 8:00AM and 6:00PM. Is the-

I log off, annoyed.

Later: The first tech, and why I now hate Mexico.

Thursday, January 8, 2009


Alright, I usually don't post twice in one day, but this is an emergency.

You all know I am deathly afraid of someone touching me or speaking to me or looking at me while I am at my most vulnerable: i.e. whilst I download the brownload (credit for that phrase go to Chris, word to yo mutha).

I was sitting on the can, not really crapping anymore, just letting it all stew whilst I played Tecmo Super Bown (I got a Nintendo emulator on my GBA, Schwiiiing!) when the door opens. Annoyed I turn down the volume and pucker my sphincter until they leave.

Not only does this guy not leave, but he walks past not one, not two, but 4 empty stalls and stands in front of the one I am in for what seems like an eternity but in all honesty was prolly more like 3 seconds. I then see his hand go over the top of the stall as he yanks on the door not once but twice in a row, trying to open the door. I am riveted at this point, and my sphincter, in my lack of concentration, lets loose a most unmanly fart, the kind that is kinda weak sounding like you were trying to hold it in and it escaped?

Anyway, while this is happening, I swear to you all, I saw him peek with one eye in between the crack and the door at me sitting there, shitting, and for only a nanosecond I think we made eye contact. This is rape, and I was powerless to stop it, as the only thing I would hate more than being anally dominated is to have shit all over my pants. I prepared for a hand-to-hand combat session, and almost laughed out loud when I pictured a grown man fighting another man who is sitting on the toilet, and losing.

After ascertaining that a locked door, shitty smell and actual human sitting on the can meant the toilet was occupied, he went to the stall closest to the urinals and let loose what I can only describe as the 1812 overture played backwards. The smell was horrendous, even for shit. I hightailed it outta there, feeling dirty but still confident that I coulda whooped his ass while taking a dump.

Also, I forgot to tell you all Smeagol came by this past weekend. Lemme finish the epic and I will get to that, though I swear I have never heard more moaning in my life than I did that fateful day.

THe Epic, Part I

8 years; Bush is gone!
tenure smells like sweaty balls
unbreak my heart, sir

Sit down, children, and I shall regale you with a tale that will take you through magical lands of cockblockery, deceipt and raptor.

Once upon a time, the weather was warm, and life was good. The afternoon haze of a day that had just enough heat to melt the asshole fungus that was perpetually on our couch had settled in, bringing with it a faint smell of mint and freshly cut grass as a certain raptor stood outside, frantically swinging a scythe like a comically undersized Grim Reaper, thong draping over the top of his sweatpants as he decimated 2 or 3 blades of grass at a time. There I sat, in the living room, playing Sega Saturn, wondering if I would ever get to violate a woman's love hole and realizing I would not as long as I lived in this dump, when I saw them: The police. They came creeping around the corner slowly, and at first Smeagol didn't see them. Mystery sat on the couch, squeezing the life out of yet another kitten.

He noticed too late. The police made their move, gunning the engine into our dusty driveway as Smeagol ran inside and for some reason sat on the couch. I watched with mild interest as the police walked up and knocked on the door. Mystery, flinging the semi-dead kitten to the hard wooden floor, got up awkwardly and hobbled over to the door. The usual conversation ensued, with the police asking if she would go get Smeagol, her telling them he wasn't there as he sat in plain view, them gently puching her out of the way and cuffing him, me wondering why they couldn't do a brothah a favor and take her too.

Mystery asked where they were taking him, and the officer finally said something that raised an eyebrow for me: "Well, he's going to Kansas City FIRST..." and the other officer chuckled.
So begins what I shall dub "Road to Bail: Bondsman's Paradise", an epic journey that took almost 16 hours, most of them in close proximity to Mystery for extended periods of time. It was a road that at points I assumed would never end, and one that took this bondsman much closer to me than I ever wished.

Part I
As they took Smeagol out to the cruiser, Mystery leapt into sitting down and doing her stupid version of the "Tsk Tsk Tsk..." which sprayed smelly spittle all over the table and I am now certain into a cup that I had up to that point intended on drinking out of. I will say this though, if you get put in jail Mystery is the one person you want bailing you out. She has no shame, and never quits, no matter how rude you are or how many times you tell her no. She caught my eye as I glanced at my cup, wishing I had drained it before she tainted it. I tried to look away, but it was too late:

"Hey Steven, you get paid today, right?" She shat out the words like a retarded monkey, flinging the feces at itself while eating a pinata, the children saddened by tiny dragonflies shitting in their oatmeal.

I tried to let her down easy, as I had no intention of using my money to bail Smeagol out of jail: "Yes, I will get MY paycheck today, and I need to get shoes and some food", as we should all know by now a day off from working at Burger King meant no food or watching Smeagol gum down 30 day old taco bell and kim chi before getting his feet rubbed whilst watching wrestling.
"Duuuuh well you need to give me some of your money to bail Smeagol out, I can't use our money because I need to get food for us and we are going out later this week"... WTF?! I mean honestly, What....the.....Fuck. This bitch just told me she didn't want to spend her going out money bailing a raptor out, and wanted my money, when we both knew he had no intention of paying me back or sharing food with me. I simply looked at her blankly and then went back to my game. After awhile I heard her mumble "Well then you can start walking" before going to get the phonebook to call bail bondsmen. Telling me I can "start walking" was the only way Mystery used to be able to get a reaction out of me, even though said reaction was an annoyed guffaw or a fart in her general direction. It didn't work this time, I had more of a right to be there than she did, and besides, if I left she would burn the house down that day, unless some swarthy negro just happened to be over there pounding out her stinkhole, which almost made me lose my lunch just writing.

Anyway, she gets on the phone, and I listen with some interest as one after another bail bondsmen tell her that not only will they NOT bail him out, but as soon as he gets out they want to know where he will be so they can come get him for monies he owed them from before, usually illiciting a hangup by her. Smeagol had given addresses for everyone in out family but himself to bail bondsmen, and the line that was after him was growing at an alarming rate.
That's when she lit upon a new bondsmen, the walking bail bondsman stereotype: Trucker hat, dirty shaggy hair, driving a brand new pickup truck, smelled like pipe tobacco, 4 foot tall, always wearing those stupid shooting glasses, voice raspy from decades of 5 packs a day cigarette smoke...

Part II tomorrow.