Tell me a story EDF.

Discussion in 'Hard Gay Shitpost Metropolis' started by oddguy, Dec 29, 2011.

  1. oddguy

    oddguy
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    The Prime Memeister

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    WARNING !
    THIS IS A QUALITY THREAD !
    go shitpost somewhere else.

    There is nothing i love more then a good story.
    And i KNOW some of you motherfuckers must have some.
    So,tell me a story EDF.

    Acceptable topics include:

    Drinking,smoking,fucking,fighting,getting arrested and all that other good shit.

    Let's work together and make this thread not shit.
     
  2. Chainsaw surgeon

    Chainsaw surgeon
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    Best stories I know are these German bed time stories for kids.


     
  3. Weezus Christ

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    i had always been a voyeur but it got worse after my accident. i suffered severe hallucinations, depression and nerve damage. i spent all my time perfecting my stalking habits. the thrill of being unseen and unnoticed didnt just thrill me it was quite a sexual charge. but jerking off in public with a trench coat was only the beginning of the end for me.



    i would routinely wear hobo clothing to remain unnoticed when i would go on 'my missions'. like a hunter stalking prey i would wait at some girls window. silent and endlessly patient. i had never been spotted. not even a dog ever barked. sure i had a computer full of porn but i found it in bad taste and somehow nauseating. i had almost no stimulus to anything. all the money from the settlement and it was as useless to me as burnt toast. i had lost my soul. or i thought i had. here being an invisible phantom i had found a thrill. a reason to go on living. circling the lights outdoor completely unnoticed like a moth. i knew my addiction would one day burn me alive in much the same way but i never expected what i saw that night. in many ways i considered myself a bug. after the car wreck i had hallucinated being a crushed insect on a windshield for weeks. the car rushing at a hundred miles an hour while i was pushed by the gravitational force into a tangle of legs.



    i was sitting inside of a large bush. a bird's eye view into a bedroom where i heard the familiar sound of fucking. the light was dark as i peered in and what i saw was very curious. a woman frantically fucking a man. not that strange. but he was on his back. my erection was dead in my hand and i had completely forgotten what i was doing. it was clearly a woman wasnt it? yes. no mistaking. not even a robot looks that good. but was this some kind of ass to ass domination play or what? the guy had stopped moving for several minutes before i noticed when the girl stopped moving and sat like using a toilet. her stomach rolling like some kind of bellydancer. i had begun to sense a fear i didnt know possible. i had felt no joy aside for my voyeurism in months. the brief myriad rainbow of shiny color before the guilt sickness and long walk home. but now i felt an overpowering sense of dread. i wanted to run far away. i was sweating. my god i was sweating. my completely limp dick was in my shaking hand. . somehow i knew i would never jerk off again. i zipped my pants up carefully tucking my dick through the zipper as quietly as a church mouse. i looked up to see the thing disjoin itself from what i was sure now was a corpse. its body was segmented. the pubic region extended backwards into some kind of proboscis. glistening with blood and other ungodly substances. its legs were long protrusions that ended in freakish ankles. it was mutating! my god it was changing into something! it opened its mouth and daintily licked off its hands. long skeletal fingers that ended in points. the wrists seemed iridescent green and purples. for a moment it stood upright and lifted it's victim's leg off of the bed. its head was angled directly at me. i knew it was making direct eye contact with me but it just turned and awkwardly dragged the body out the bedroom door.i was too terrified to run but i was too afraid to stay. i noticed that i had pissed myself around the time i got my feet working. maybe it was sweat. i was drenched with it. i crawled through the back yard and clumsily fell over the chain link fence. breathing hard in as much silence as i could muster. i heard it open the back door knob turn and in between shaking i pulled the bottle of scotch from my pocket and forced a few burning gulps down my throat. the thing was making so much noise on the fallen leaves i couldnt hear my heart pounding over it. it spared no time vomiting some kind of ichor onto the lower branches of a tree in the back yard. it had a little yellow plastic swing set on it i thought with some muddied horror. it was going to cocoon itself but whatever kind of offspring this monstrosity made probably wouldnt need a swing set to play on. thank god for the booze. i was less frightened than before. almost two hours later i was drunk and had somehow dozed off. i woke up to the familiar feeling of colorless apathy. itchy. this wasnt the first time i had woken up in dried leaves. it was always really itchy. but it was the first time i had spent the night in a back yard. i slowly lifted my head and gave a look around. everything seemed fine. what a crazy dream i had had! i thought. surely it was just some hallucination. i was no stranger to them. but never had they been so vivid or more importantly terrifying. i sat up and leaned against the fence. a big bottle of whiskey at my feet. only a few shots left in the bottle. i had drank myself into a nightmare again. thats all. i inhale deeply,close my eyes and tilt the bottle to my parched lips. a good long swig of the rotgut. i open my eyes in mid-shot and there is a giant white translucent cocoon in the tree. two people are wrapped inside. i spit the liqour out of my mouth and my eyes tear up as some of it gets into my sinuses. between the tears in my eyes and blurry vision i see it begin to move. a vaguely female shape next to a man with a giant pregnant belly. the monster opens it's eyes and looks directly at me. at least i think its looking at me. behind the eye lids are shiny black pools. impossible to tell where its looking. it struggles to move and a look of horror crosses its face. an unintelligible gargle escapes its mouth as it tries to wriggle itself free. i think it said 'oh god help me' but i cant be sure. the cocoon is shaking and stressing. the woman-insect-thing shakes again and makes another shrill scream. the body of the dead man convulses and for a moment i think he may still be alive when i realize that it is hatching. worms are chewing their way out of it. and they dont stop. the female thing thrashes violently as they begin consuming its hands and feet. soon the entire inside of the cocoon is nothing but fuzzy black crawling worms.



    i dont know how i got away. and to be honest i dont remember alot of what happened but that's pretty close to how it happened. i couldnt give up my addiction to voyeurism but now when im out lurking in the bushes i no longer feel like i am secretly invading the most personal parts of people's lives but protecting them from another unknown horror. i suppose the thrill is about the same.
     
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  4. CallMeMaggot

    CallMeMaggot
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    Interdasting. But, mate, you really need a bag of full stops.

    That will be your next birthday present.
     
  5. oddguy

    oddguy
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    The Prime Memeister

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    I knew you would come threw !
    Either you or flu.
    Sadly,i was hoping for true stories.

    Ill tell one that i have already told some of you in the past.

    During my high school years i was in the "problematic kids" class. It was a classroom composed of kids who got poor grades in middle school but not quite poor enough to warrant being sent to the "professional high school" that taught you things like air conditioner repair,and fixing refrigerators.This was in the time before i developed my current metal state that causes me to be a recluse and avoid all human company.At the time i still believed i can derive some joy from friendship and companionship and so on. In this deluded state i befriended some of the class hooligans. Despite the circumstances that had brought all these kids together in this class,most of them were not actually that problematic. But those who were soon became my "friends".

    This was only the introduction that needed to be added for you to understand the context of this story. The tale i want to focus on began during my second year. One weekend,as i was sleeping, the phone rang. "But who was phone ?" you may ask,and if so you are a pathetic memefag. It was my fellow classmate that instructed me to get dressed and come down. The hour was two in the morning,but i was curious to know what he wanted. Soon i was down and in his car. On the way he explained the plan. You see,he was a soccer fanatic,and so were the two other classmates that soon joined us, and what they needed was fireworks. Or,to be more precise,signal flairs. In Israel it is common during soccer games for fans to set of flair or throw smoke grenades they had stolen from the army onto the field. The problem was: All these things are against the law and can not be bought. So what's a guy to do ? Well,what we were going to do is go to the docks the next town over,brake into the ships and rob them. "But oddguy,you are not a sports fan! why did you join this faggotry ?" you might ask. Well,i was just board and it seemed like a fun time. I would just like to mention that the guy who put me up to this once went to the gay pride parade,not to support them,but rather to try and start a fight with a homo. So needles to say this sounded like it was going to be a good time. In addition,they promised me that the boats often have bottles of vodka i could keep,and,considering my Russian heritage, I simply could not refuse.

    Skipping ahead a few weeks, we were once again at the same dock after doing this for several weeks in a row. This might sound like a vary bad idea... and it is ! Sadly we were not exactly criminal masterminds and were to lazy to go to a dock further away. So we arrived at the dock and sneaked past the guard and did our thing. I stayed as lookout and soon was greeted by my friend with a bag full of loot. After that we returned to the car and got ready to drive home. When we suddenly noticed a car behind ours. It's light were off but there were clearly a man and a women sitting in it intensely staring at us. "Fuck,the cops" we thought. We all sat in the car and tried to figure out what to do next. These were obviously police officers waiting to arrest us. I mean,why else would the be in a car at the dock at four in the morning with no light on? right?... So we sat there and waited. The two individuals continued to stare at us,and after about 5 minutes we couldn't help but stare back. Why were they just looking at us instead of arresting us ? So the starring contest continued. After about 15 nerve wreaking minutes something finally happened. The guy in the car,a fat bald man in his forties judging by his silhouette, made a dismissive gesture towards us and turned to the girl,who looked much younger then him. After they exchanged a few word,her head began to go down towards his lap and bob up and down... They were not cops. Just a fat guy and a hooker he ordered. And the reason they were starring at us was that they were waiting for us to leave so that they could do their business in privacy. Eventually they got tired of waiting and mistook us for some kind of persistent voyeurs who really wanted to watch.

    We laughed it up and drove off. But needles to say i did not go boat robbing with them again.
     
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  6. CallMeMaggot

    CallMeMaggot
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    Girlvinyl

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    [​IMG]
     
  7. oddguy

    oddguy
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    The Prime Memeister

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    i thought i got all the damn typos out !

    [​IMG]
     
  8. CallMeMaggot

    CallMeMaggot
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    Girlvinyl

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    funny-kids-pictures-smug-baby.
     
  9. beefrave

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    [​IMG]
    [​IMG][​IMG]hen I was 17 years old I was working at a local internet service provider as a perl programmer. The pay was $10.00 an hour, which wasn't bad for a small town. Minimum wage in my town was on par with wages paid for rowing a viking slave ship, and I was grateful to have a job that didn't involve hamburgers or livestock. I was in high school, however, so I had to work nights. Working nights meant a lot of alone time with my boss. If my boss had been a beautiful female secretary with a penchant for ediots, this would have been ideal. Unfortunately he was not anything of the sort, my boss was a man in his late forties who hated his wife so he'd often work long hours to avoid her. He wore tinted, prescription hunting glasses and had a mustache which sat atop his upper lip like a greasy falcon awaiting the commands of its master.
    My boss shared the same name as a celebrity. Anytime someone would meet him there'd be the inevitable "Wait, your name is [...] - just like the celebrity?!" conversation, whereby he would have to begrudgingly admit that yes, he had the same name as this other famous person. Because I'm afraid that someday he'll read this (or his wife will), I'm not going to call him by his real name. To protect his identity, I'll instead refer to him as Rod Stewart.
    [​IMG] So late one night I'm working and Rod Stewart is sitting behind me, typing away. The office was situated so that I faced a wall, and Rod Stewart sat against the opposing wall but facing me (so his back was to it). We worked in a windowless basement with all the servers, switches, and other networking equipment. He'd surrounded him with 8 computer monitors which formed a semicircle around his desk. I always figured he wore those tinted hunting glasses to shield the blinding light coming from those monitors. Normally Rod just did his thing and I did mine; we would talk every now and then, but there was very little overlap in our work. On this particular evening, however, Rod was unusually talkative. He walked over to my desk carrying the motherboard of a computer and asked me to read the small numbers printed on the side of the microprocessor, claiming that his far-sighted vision made it tough for him to read the tiny print. I read them and he went back to his desk. Soon after he fired off a question about programming, and when I turned around I noticed he had an old computer case sitting in his lap, which he appeared to be tinkering with. I answered his question and then resumed working. A few minutes later he asked another question, which I answered. These questions kept coming, always with a few minutes in between. It seemed that he was trying to make it obvious to me that he was working, because when you work you naturally always have a computer case in your lap and you ask your coworkers lots of questions. I didn't really figure out what was going on until I heard the sound of pennies.
    [​IMG] Imagine the sound of a sack of pennies being shaken up and down, sort of like a "shick shick shick." Internet culture has declared the correct onomatopoeia I was hearing to be "fap fap fap," but I still think it sounds more like a shick than a fap. Soon after Rod Stewart asked me to list all the data types in the perl programming language, I began to take note of this penny-shick sound. It was fairly regular, but occasionally the rhythm would bump up a notch and the shicking would get pretty intense. It didn't take long for me to figure out that the wife-hating Rod Stewart was whacking off at work - his 8 monitors no doubt flooded with depraved pornography from the darkest corners of the internet. Over the years I've forced myself to believe that he was definitely looking at porn, because the thought of him looking at ME while masturbating would be enough nightmare material to span several lifetimes. So why the computer in his lap? This was all part of his brilliant plan to make it appear as if he was very busy.
    [​IMG] I tried "accidentally" dropping one of my large perl books onto the floor, hoping that the loud slap of the cover on linoleum would shock Rod Stewart into ceasing, but unfortunately it only momentarily deterred the pennies from shaking.
    At this point, I had a choice: I could turn around in a flash, point my finger and taunt the man whose lustful gaze was fixated on 800x600 pixels of god-knows-what, or I could keep working and pretending that life was a beautiful journey and there was no such thing as greasy mustached men who jerk off at work. If I turned around and called him on it, I might lose my job. If I sat there and kept working, I'd have to hear those pennies shake until Rod Stewart shot millions of sticky little Rod-Stewartlets into an empty computer case. Was that worth $10.00 an hour?
    [​IMG]
    Apparently it was, because I took the sissy route and got the fuck out of there. Making sure every movement was slow and obvious, I grabbed my backpack and made my way to the exit, maintaining constant eye contact with the floor. I mumbled something to Rod Stewart about having to leave early that night, to which he over-enthusiastically replied "Great Chazz! Thanks for all the hard work today!"
    Rod may have won this time around, but I keep telling myself that one day he'll try that again and something will go horribly wrong. He'll be forced to go home and explain to his miserable wife how he got his penis caught in a CD-ROM drive. Who'll have the last laugh then, Mr. Stewart?
    I will, you son of a bitch. I will.
    [​IMG]
     
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  10. beefrave

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    sounds like a very american story . YOU SURE. YOU ARENT FROM AMERICA?
     
  11. CallMeMaggot

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    I have bad news for you, bro

    realjerking.
     
  12. Solution

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    "Take in as much air as you can. This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can. A friend of mine, when he was 13 years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkout counter, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned. So my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline. Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt. At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts. Then, this kid, his mom yells it's supper time. She says to come down, right now. He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed. After dinner, he goes to find the carrot, and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky. This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they nev¬er do. Ever. Even now that he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them. That something too awful to name. People in France have a phrase: "staircase wit." In French: esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a par¬ty and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party.... As you start down the stairway, then-magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down. That’s the spirit of the stairway. The trouble is, even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do. Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about. Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around their kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look ... better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad teen suicide. Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the
    public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the kind of fan¬cy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense. It's this big brother who travels around the world, sending back French phrases. Russian phrases. Helpful jack-off tips. After this, the little brother, one day he doesn't show up at school. That night, he calls to ask if I'll pick up his homework for the next couple weeks. Because he's in the hospital. He's got to share a room with old people getting their guts worked on. He says how they all have to share the same television. All he's got for privacy is a curtain. His folks don't come and visit. On the phone, he says how right now his folks could just kill his big brother in the Navy. On the phone, the kid says how-the day before-he was just a little stoned. At home in his bedroom, he was flopped on the bed. He was lighting a candle and flipping through some old porno magazines, getting ready to beat off. This is after he's heard from his Navy brother. That helpful hint about how Arabs beat off. The kid looks around for something that might do the job. A ballpoint pen's too big. A pencil's too big and rough. But dripped down the side of the candle, there's a thin, smooth ridge of wax that just might work. With just the tip of one finger, this kid snaps the long ridge of wax off the candle. He rolls it smooth between the palms of his hands. Long and smooth and thin. Stoned and horny, he slips it down inside, deeper and deeper into the piss slit of his boner. With a good hank of the wax still poking out the top, he gets to work. Even now, he says those Arab guys are pretty damn smart. They've totally reinvented jacking off. Flat on his back in bed, things are getting so good, this kid can't keep track of the wax. He's one good squeeze from shooting his wad when the wax isn't sticking out anymore. The thin wax rod, it's slipped inside. All the way inside. So deep inside he can't even feel the lump of it inside his piss tube. From downstairs, his mom shouts it's supper time. She says to come down, right now. This wax kid and the carrot kid are different people, but we all live pretty much the same life. It's after dinner when the kid's guts start to hurt. It's wax, so he figured it would just melt inside him and he'd pee it out. Now his back hurts. His kidneys. He can't stand straight. This kid talking on the phone from his hospital bed, in the background you can hear bells ding, people screaming. Game shows. The X-rays show the truth, some¬thing long and thin, bent double inside his bladder. This long, thin V inside him, it's collecting all the minerals in his piss. It's getting bigger and rougher, coated with crystals of calcium, it's bumping around, ripping up the soft lining of his bladder, blocking his piss from getting out. His kidneys are backed up. What little that leaks out his dick is red with blood. This kid and his folks, his whole family, them looking at the black X-ray with the doctor and the nurses standing there, the big V of wax glowing white for everybody to see, he has to tell the truth. The way Arabs get off. What his big brother wrote him from the Navy. On the phone, right now, he starts to cry. They paid for the bladder operation with his college fund. One stupid mistake, and now he'll never be a lawyer. Sticking stuff inside yourself. Sticking yourself inside stuff. A candle in your dick or your head in a noose, we knew it was going to be big trouble.
    What got me in trouble, I called it Pearl Diving. This meant whacking off underwater, sitting on the bottom at the deep end of my parents' swimming pool. With one deep breath, I'd kick my way to the bottom and slip off my swim trucks. I'd sit down there for two, three, four minutes. Just from jacking oft' I had huge lung capacity. If I had the house to myself, I'd do this all afternoon. After I'd finally pump out my stuff, my sperm, it would hang there in big, fat, milky gobs. After that was more diving, to catch it all. To collect it and wipe each handful in a towel. That's why it was called Pearl Diving. Even with chlorine, there was my sister to worry about. Or, Christ almighty, my mom. That used to be my worst fear in the world: my teenage virgin sister, think¬ing she's just getting fat, then giving birth to a two-headed, retard baby. Both heads looking just like me. Me, the father and the uncle. In the end, it's never what you worry about that gets you. The best part of Pearl Diving was the inlet port for the swimming pool filter and the circulation pump. The best part was getting naked and sit¬ting on it. As the French would say, Who doesn't like getting their butt sucked? Still, one minute you're just a kid getting off, and the next minute you'll never be a lawyer. One minute I'm settling on the pool bottom and the sky is wavy, light blue through eight feet of water above my head. The world is silent except for the heartbeat in my ears. My yellow¬striped swim trunks are looped around my neck for safe keeping, just in case a friend, a neighbor, anybody shows up to ask why I skipped foot¬ball practice. The steady suck of the pool inlet hole is lapping at me and I'm grinding my skinny white ass around on that feeling. One minute I've got enough air and my dick's in my hand. My folks are gone at their work and my sister's got ballet. Nobody's supposed to be home for hours. My hand brings me right to getting off, and I stop. I swim up to catch an¬other big breath. I dive down and settle on the bottom. I do this again and again. This must be why girls want to sit on your face. The suction is like taking a dump that never ends. My dick hard and getting my butt eaten out, I do not need air. My heartbeat in my ears, I stay under until bright stars of light start worming around in my eyes. My legs straight out, the back of each knee rubbed raw against the concrete bot¬tom. My toes are turning blue, my toes and fingers wrinkled from being so long in the water. And then I let it happen. The big white gobs start spouting. The pearls. It's then I need some air. But when I go to kick off against the bottom, I can't. I can't get my feet under me. My ass is stuck. Emergency paramedics will tell you that every year about 150 people get stuck this way, sucked by a circulation pump. Get your long hair caught, or your ass, and you're going to drown. Every year, tons of people do. Most of them in Florida. People just don't talk about it. Not even French people talk about everything. Getting one knee up, getting one foot tucked under me, I get to half standing when I feel the tug against my butt. Get¬ting my other foot under me, I kick off against the bottom. I'm kicking free, not touching the concrete, but not getting to the air, either. Still kicking water, thrashing with both arms, I'm maybe halfway to the surface but not going higher. The heartbeat in¬side my head getting loud and fast. The bright sparks of light crossing and crisscrossing my eyes, I turn and look back ... but it doesn't make sense. This thick rope, some kind of snake, blue¬white and braided with veins, has come up out of the pool drain and it's holding on to my butt. Some of the veins are leaking blood, red blood that looks black underwater and drifts away from little rips in the pale skin of the snake. The blood trails
    away, disappearing in the water, and inside the snake's thin, blue¬white skin you can see lumps of some half-digested meal. That's the only way this makes sense. Some horrible sea monster, a sea serpent, something that's never seen the light of day, it's been hiding in the dark bottom of the pool drain, waiting to eat me. So ...I kick at it, at the slippery, rubbery knotted skin and veins of it, and more of it seems to pull out of the pool drain. It's maybe as long as my leg now, but still holding tight around my butt¬hole. With another kick, I'm an inch closer to getting another breath. Still feeling the snake tug at my ass, I'm an inch closer to my escape. Knotted inside the snake, you can see corn and peanuts. You can see a long bright-orange ball. It's the kind of horse¬pill vitamin my dad makes me take, to help put on weight. To get a football scholarship. With extra iron and omega¬three fatty acids. It's seeing that vitamin pill that saves my life. It's not a snake. It's my large intestine, my colon pulled out of me. What doctors call prolapsed. It's my guts sucked into the drain. Paramedics will tell you a swimming pool pump pulls 80 gallons of water every minute. That's about 400 pounds of pressure. The big problem is we're all connected together inside. Your ass is just the far end of your mouth. If I let go, the pump keeps working-unraveling my insides-until it's got my tongue. Imagine taking a 400-pound shit and you can see how this might turn you inside out. What I can tell you is your guts don't feel much pain. Not the way your skin feels pain. The stuff you're digesting, doctors call it fecal matter. Higher up is chyme, pockets of a thin, runny mess studded with corn and peanuts and round green peas. That's all this soup of blood and corn, shit and sperm and peanuts floating around me. Even with my guts unravel¬ing out my ass, me holding on to what's left, even then my first want is to some¬how get my swimsuit back on. God forbid my folks see my dick. My one hand holding a fist around my ass, my other hand snags my yellow¬striped swim trunks and pulls them from around my neck. Still, getting into them is impossible. You want to feel your intestines, go buy a pack of those lambskin condoms. Take one out and unroll it. Pack it with peanut butter. Smear it with petroleum jelly and hold it under water. Then try to tear it. Try to pull it in half. It's too tough and rubbery. It's so slimy you can't hold on. A lambskin condom, that's just plain old intestine. You can see what I'm up against. You let go for a second and you're gutted. You swim for the surface, for a breath, and you're gutted. You don't swim and you drown. It's a choice between being dead right now or a minute from right now. What my folks will find after work is a big naked fetus, curled in on itself. Floating in the cloudy water of their backyard pool. Tethered to the bottom by a thick rope of veins and twisted guts. The opposite of a kid hanging himself to death while he jacks off. This is the baby they brought home from the hospital 13 years ago. Here's the kid they hoped would snag a football scholarship and get an MBA. Who'd care for them in their old age. Here's all their hopes and dreams. Floating here, naked and dead. All around him, big milky pearls of wasted sperm.
    Either that or my folks will find me wrapped in a bloody towel, collapsed halfway from the pool to the kitchen telephone, the ragged, torn scrap of my guts still hanging out the leg of my yellow¬striped swim trunks. What even the French won't talk about. That big brother in the Navy, he taught us one other good phrase. A Russian phrase. The way we say, "I need that like I need a hole in my head...," Russian people say, "I need that like I need teeth in my asshole...... Mne eto nado kak zuby v zadnitse. Those stories about how animals caught in a trap will chew off their leg, well, any coyote would tell you a couple bites beats the hell out of being dead. Hell ... even if you're Russian, someday you just might want those teeth. Otherwise, what you have to do is¬you have to twist around. You hook one elbow behind your knee and pull that leg up into your face. You bite and snap at your own ass. You run out of air and you will chew through anything to get that next breath. It's not something you want to tell a girl on the first date. Not if you expect a kiss good night. If I told you how it tasted, you would never, ever again eat calamari. It's hard to say what my parents were more disgusted by: how I'd got in trouble or how I'd saved myself. After the hospital, my mom said, "You didn't know what you were doing, honey. You were in shock." And she learned how to cook poached eggs. All those people grossed out or feeling sorry for me.... I need that like I need teeth in my asshole. Nowadays, people always tell me I look too skinny. People at dinner parties get all quiet and pissed off when I don't eat the pot roast they cooked. Pot roast kills me. Baked ham. Anything that hangs around inside my guts for longer than a couple of hours, it comes out still food. Home-cooked lima beans or chunk light tuna fish, I'll stand up and find it still sitting there in the toilet. After you have a radical bowel resectioning, you don't digest meat so great. Most people, you have five feet of large intestine. I'm lucky to have my six inch¬es. So I never got a football scholarship. Never got an MBA. Both my friends, the wax kid and the carrot kid, they grew up, got big, but I've never weighed a pound more than I did that day when I was 13. Another big problem was my folks paid a lot of good money for that swimming pool. In the end my dad just told the pool guy it was a dog. The family dog fell in and drowned. The dead body got pulled into the pump. Even when the pool guy cracked open the filter casing and fished out a rubbery tube, a watery hank of intestine with a big orange vita¬min pill still inside, even then my dad just said, "That dog was fucking nuts." Even from my upstairs bedroom window, you could hear my dad say, "We couldn't trust that dog alone for a second...." Then my sister missed her period. Even after they changed the pool water, after they sold the house and we moved to another state, after my sister's abortion, even then my folks never mentioned it again. Ever. That is our invisible carrot.
    You. Now you can take a good, deep breath. I still have not."-Chucky P
     
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  13. beefrave

    beefrave
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    i love that :)
     
  14. beefrave

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    YOU CALLED THE FILE "realjerking"lolool
     
  15. beefrave

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    i enjoyed reading but. HAVE I NOT READ THIS SOMWHERE BEFORE? OR HEARD IT ? YES I THINK I HAVE . EVEN THE PART WITH THE DEAD KIDS JIZZ CLEANING.
     
  16. beefrave

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    SOON AS A SAW THE CHUNKS OF FOOD. PART I KNEW WHERE THIS CAME FROM I READ IT IN COLLEGE. LOLOLOLOL LIKE 5 YEARS AGO. GREAT STORY. LOVE IT EVERYTIME!
     
  17. placebo

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    Dramacrat

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    Story time!

    I just got evicted via facebook wall post.
     
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  18. beefrave

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    screencap post show here.
     
  19. beefrave

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    fuckyeah.
     
  20. placebo

    placebo
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    Dramacrat

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    Ahaha omg. The game; winning; etc.
     
  21. beefrave

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    lolololololol "THEGAYM"
     
  22. beefrave

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    LOOKIT MY SIGGY OOHH GAWD YEAH
     
  23. placebo

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    Dramacrat

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    [​IMG]
     
  24. endsenten

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    Knows where you sleep

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    This ain't mine but I loved it.

    I was in the fourth grade on a Boy Scout campout. At this age, most kids are Shameful Shitters, myself included. Needless to say, I, like most kids, tempted fate by playing the take-a-huge-shit-before-I-leave-and-try-to-forget-I-have-an-asshole game while away from home in a desperate attempt to prevent any shameful public shitting situations. Despite the barrages of pain that accompanied those stop-everything-to-focus-on-keeping-your-butt-shut moments that were marked by the feeling that your hair is standing on end, as well as the occasional ranktified fart, I was able to hold my hole. One of my friends, however, was not that lucky.

    The last night we were at camp, I think my friend Jay's ass was tired of all the foolish games he was playing. I think his ass staged a coup -- a messy, horrible, stinky coup. We had all gone to the only kids' tent for the night. During our usual joke and story telling, Jay started to emit the most rotten, offensive smells that have ever come from any hole on any planet. This is not an exaggeration. I have smelled some rotten stuff in my day -- three-week-old Cup-o-Ramen, a god-only-knows-how-old bratwurst left under my suite-mate's bed; this eclipsed them all. It was a deadly mix of rotten boiled egg and raw fish marinated in methane gas. So putrid were these farts that I'm surprised there was still vegetation around the tent when we left, and I'm surprised that a single whiff of one of these abominations didn't make us all sterile. He permeated the entire tent with a repulsive odor so intense and thick it felt like it penetrated your very soul, and not a hundred showers or a hundred baptisms could cleanse you of this evil.

    Of course, this scene, although traumatic, was a laugh riot. We were all rolling around, laughing hysterically, commenting on how close to death's door these rancid fartlets were bringing us. It didn't help that he would let out a pitiful, "Ohhhh, no, sorry guys." As the night went on, he kept saying how he needed to take the biggest dump. I felt sorry for him, because he seemed in a lot of pain, but his plight was somehow funny to us. No one could find the roll of toilet paper in the tent, so we told him to go to the truck down the way and get another roll and do his business.

    Being the age we were, I think he was afraid of the dark. He kept trying to enlist us in his crusade to go out with him and get the toilet paper. No one would bear this cross with him, so he lay there all night, emitting the sarin gas. Somehow, probably due to lack of air, we all fell asleep.

    I awoke the next day, to my surprise, to the same horrific stench that was my friend's essence. Surely his flatus could not have lingered all night? What a magnificent fart, if that were the case! Sadly, though, that was not the reason for the phenomenal hang time. Upon further investigation, we all simultaneously realized what had transpired whilst we slept: That's right, he pooped in his sleeping bag. I don't know if it was intentional, but there was shit everywhere. All over his bag, his pillow -- how the hell that happened, I'll never know. Holy fuck, what a smell.

    Chaos is the only word that can describe the next few moments. In a mix of laughing and coughing, we were all scurrying around, frantically trying to pick up anything that belonged to us that wasn't covered in my friend's bitter chocolate. All time seemed to stop, however, when we heard none other than Jay's dad walking over to the tent to make sure we were all up. UNZIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP...

    As he starts to put his head in the tent to say good morning, he pulls back like he just got kicked in the face; and with a huge grin on his face he said, in a countrified accent, "WHOOOOOO WHEEEEE! Smells like someone shit their pants!"

    I could not contain my laughter at this ironic twist. I tried to stifle my giggles as Jay responded, "Uh, Dad, I did."

    The look on his dad's face was priceless. Perhaps at that moment he was questioning why he ever perpetuated his seed. His smile quickly faded and was replaced by a look that was a cross between horror, confusion, and disappointment. The look of a man who was contemplating hanging himself the first moment he could. After an extremely awkward moment that seemed to have the hang time of one of Jay's heinous monstrosities, we finally emerged from the tent, feeling all the while like we just climbed out of Satan's asshole.

    Jay went to the creek to wash off, which consisted of just splashing river water on himself and changing his clothes. Although no one said anything, he still had shit stains all up and down his legs from immersing himself in his own smudge all night. How in God's name someone subjects himself to sleeping in shit is beyond me. And how did he get it on his pillow? More importantly, how could someone put his head back on that pillow and sleep??

    Although everyone had wanted to ride in Jay's dad's car on the way to the campout, no one wanted to ride home with them.
     
  25. beefrave

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    :(
     
  26. Solution

    Solution
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    Everyone is boring

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    You disobeyed oddguy but at the same time spun a wonderful story.
    BRAVO!
     
  27. CallMeMaggot

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    Girlvinyl

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    wow, you went florid on that one, lol
     
  28. oddguy

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    The Prime Memeister

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    Yup... This is a good thread.
     
  29. oddguy

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    @Flu
    You are needed in this thread.
     
  30. Flu

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    God damn, that's a fantastic story. Both my girlfriend and myself were laughing while reading it. It was wonderfully done - you are a wonderful writer!