Horseshit

Where the hell is everyone?

International Rules of Manhood

1: Under no circumstances may two men share an umbrella

2: It is ok for a man to cry under the following circumstances:
a. When a heroic dog dies to save its master.
b. The moment Angelina Jolie starts unbuttoning her blouse.
c. After wrecking your boss' car.
d. One hour, 12 minutes, 37 seconds into "The Crying Game".

3: Any man who brings a camera to a bachelor party may be legally killed and eaten by his buddies.

4: Unless he murdered someone in your family, you must bail a friend out of jail within 12 hours.

5: If you've known a guy for more than 24 hours, his sister is off limits forever, unless you actually marry her.

6: Complaining about the brand of free beer in a buddy's fridge is forbidden. However, complain at will if the
temperature is unsuitable.

7: No man shall ever be required to buy a birthday present for another man. In fact, even remembering your buddy's birthday is strictly optional.

8: On a road trip, the strongest bladder determines pit stops, not the weakest.

9: When stumbling upon other guys watching a sporting event, you may ask the score of the game in progress, but you may never, ever ask who's playing.

10: You may flatulate in front of a woman only after you have brought her to climax. If you trap her head under the covers for the purpose of flatulent entertainment, she's officially your girlfriend.

11: It is only permissible to drink a fruity alcohol drink only when you're sunning on a tropical beach... and it's delivered by a topless supermodel ...and it's free.

12: Only in situations of moral and/or physical peril are you allowed to kick another guy in the nuts.

13: Unless you're in prison, never fight naked.

14: Friends don't let friends wear Speedos. Ever. Issue closed.

15: If a man's fly is down, that's his problem, you didn't see anything.

16: Women who claim they "love to watch sports" must be treated as spies until they demonstrate knowledge of the game and the ability to drink as much as the other sports watchers.

17: A man in the company of a hot, suggestively dressed woman must remain sober enough to fight.

18: Never hesitate to reach for the last beer or the last slice of pizza, but not both, that's just greedy.

19: If you compliment a guy on his six-pack, you'd better be talking about his choice of beer.

20: Never join your girlfriend or wife in discussing a friend of yours, except if she's withholding sex pending your response.

21: Phrases that may NOT be uttered to another man while lifting weights:

a. Yeah, baby, push it!
b. C'mon, give me one more! Harder!
c. Another set and we can hit the showers!

22: Never talk to a man in a public bathroom unless you are on equal footing: i.e. Both urinating, both waiting in line, etc. For all other situations, an almost imperceptible nod is all the conversation you need.

23: Never allow a telephone conversation with a woman to go on longer than you are able to have sex with her. Keep a stopwatch by the phone. Hang up if necessary.

24: The morning after you and a girl who was formerly "just a friend" have carnal drunken monkey sex, the fact that you're feeling weird and guilty is no reason for
you not to nail her again before the discussion about what a big mistake it was occurs.

25: It is acceptable for you to drive her car. It is not acceptable for her to drive yours.

26: Never buy a car in the colors of brown, pink, lime green, orange or sky blue.

27: The girl who replies to the question "What do you want for Christmas?" with "If you loved me, you'd know what I want!" gets an Xbox. End of story.

28: There is no reason for guys to watch ice skating or men's gymnastics. Ever

Hungry?

Stevey and The Keg

While this is a third-party story, it is a classic nontheless.

Our boy Milliner was a bit of a partier. He suffered from acute alcohol abuse and even lower standards. This was a kid whose solution to pissing the bed was to just turn the mattress over.

So he starts the night off with a couple of drinks and makes his way downtown with a bunch of his friends. After getting to the bar he takes a couple more shots and has a few more drinks. Things are going great, girls are talking to him and everyone seems to be having a great time. The hours are flying by and the drinks are not in short supply for Stevey.

As the night begins to wind down Steve has a sudden irrational judgement scenario and elects to go home with a girl aptly named 'The Keg'. While I've never seen this heinous maiden, her reputation is predicated on the notion that she is, in fact, built like a keg of beer. Not to mention her head looks like an excuse for a kindergarden art project.

So Stevey-boy stumbles home with The Keg and goes up to her place. Things start happening and clothes begin coming off. It was either the sight of The Keg with no clothes on or the obscene amount of liquor that Stevey had during the course of the evening, but one of those two scenarios acted as the catalyst that sent him on a bee-line to the bathroom.

One of his friends, Birdman, happened to be dating a girl who lived in the same house as The Keg, heard a commotion from one of the bathrooms that sounded like someone was vomitting. Birdman made his way to the bathroom only to walk in on Stevey curled up with the toiled and completely passed out. Bird tried to help Stevey up but it was to no avail, that was until The Keg showed up with an inquiry as to the condition of her 'man'.

"I don't think Steve's feeling too well. I mean he's really throwing up pretty badly. I think I'm going to take him home." said Birdman, clearly concerned over the state of his friend.

The Keg, taking one look at the situation in front her realized that it could be many years until her next opportunity to hook up looks at Birdman straight in the eye and shouts, "Tell him to brush his teeth and meet me in the bedroom!"

Alas, Steve slept over for the night.

When You've Gotta Go...

It's my first solo meeting with one of my clients' and I am supposed to be there at 1:30. I take an early lunch and head over to their office which is only 2 blocks from my office. His name is Art and while I have talked him on the phone before, I have never met them in person. He's a nice older Jewish man who looks like he would be more comfortable sipping mai-thai's on a beach then in an office building in Manhattan. He offers me some water and we get started.

The meeting is going fine, we're talking about this and that when I feel a grumble in my belly. I casually adjust my weight from one cheek to the other, thinking nothing of it...but it starts getting worse. I hastily put my elbow up on the conference room table and prop my head up with my hand.

As he keeps talking about his product, which happens to be eyeglasses, I start losing focus and begin to transfer my attention to the situation that is occuring deep inside my bowels, which is worsening rapidly. I realize that this is no temporary discomfort and that it is only a matter of time before I have to take a break.

The hand that was holding my head up on the table has turned into a clenched fist and my brow is sweating like I've just run a marathon. I begin to squirm, moving this way and that and trying like all hell to supress this anxious turd from surfacing during this meeting but I am fighting a losing battle. After a few minutes of this endless charade Art asks me, quite politely, if I am OK. While I am very far from OK I respond by saying, "Yes, but can you just tell me where the bathroom is?" He flails his arms in contorting directions but I am in a full gallop out the door before he can finish. I power walk through the hall, butt clenched, and see a door that looks like a bathroom and burst right in.

I frantically undo my belt and throw my weight directly on the toilet. Not a second goes by before a cacophony of sounds starts flying from my particular stall as a rush of relief pulses through my body. Amid my 'damage' I must have not noticed the door open because when I opened the stall door a middle-aged woman was standing right in front of me, washing her hands.

"Are you new here?" she asks me with a look on her face that was part puzzled and part horrified.
"Actually, I don't work here." I replied, realizing that I'm the world's biggest idiot.
"Ah, well this is actually the ladies' room. The men's room is right down the hall."
"Yeah, I kinda figured that out."

I return back to the meeting a few moments later and my concerned client asked me how I was feeling. I replied that I was much better and witheld my story about shitting in the ladies' room and making it smell worse than Vlade Divac after a triple-OT loss. Thinking nothing of it we continued with our meeting until Art decided that there was a financial question and beckoned the accountant to come in.

"This is Darlene, the accountant here."
Extending my hand forward to shake hands she turns to Art and says, "Thanks Art, we just met about 5 minutes ago in the bathroom."

Incest Beast Meets His Match

It's a random Thursday night during freshman year. Me, Kibbles and the Beast are trolling around campus looking for things to do so we hit up the party at one of the other dorms. The three of us walk in to a humid room full of heinous women and weird dudes. Hard alcohol is on the menu tonight and not much else and besides the complete dearth of attractive women it seems like it's actually a good time.

So we start mingling and it is unsaid amongst us that the three of us are going home together as any guy that takes a girl home from this party may as well take her back to her natural environment of the zoo. Now, when guys are met with the prospect of ugly chicks and booze they tend to get friendly with the latter and that is exactly what we did. 4...5...6...7...who knows how many shots we did but it was enough for us to lose track of one another in a rather short period of time.

About a hour and a half goes by and Kibbles stumbles up to me and tells me that it's time to go back, well he doesn't so much tell me so much as he does shout, gesticulate and drool it but I get his point...it is indeed time to go. But, the Beast is nowhere to be found and assuming that he went back already, alone, we too make our way back to the room.

After jiggling the lock for a good 10 minutes trying to open the damn door we manage to get into our room where the lights are off, shades are drawn and the bed is shaking. Seeing as our other roomate would feel more comfortable in the Science Center on a Thursday night we assume that the Beast is having convuslions. We flick the lights on to see this creature caressing the Beast. Now, you don't get the nickname Incest Beast without the requsite amount of hair on your back but this girl had the Beast down 3 to 1 on the folicle count. Not to mention she looked like a mutant freak who might have been born in Chernobyl's Reactor 3 as well as having a face worthy of a cubist Picasso painting. I'm not sure if the Beast realized what was in his bed and if it was legal but he poked his head up and muttered 'Uhhhhhh...what's up guys?' While the answer to his question may have been his little winkie, Kibbles and I answered with a mouth-gaping 'Uhhh...nothin' man...see ya.'

Not only did we leave the room but I think we may have left the area code fearing that the hand of God would show up at any minute and with his index finger extended towards our dorm room say in a very stern and serious voice: "No!"

The next morning the Beast played dumb, saying that he was so drunk and that she made so many quick moves that he had no choice but for Kibbles and I, it was the most henoius walk-in each of us had ever had.

The Patron Saint of this Blog

 

Just Your Average Destroyed Television

If you happened to be on the Upper West Side of Manhattan this weekend you may have been awoken by the sound of a small explosion...an explosion caused by myself and Lucky Charm.

We were all the way downtown at Coochie's get together when The Guy, who was being sexually assaulted by Katie at the time, asked us what our plans for the rest of the night were. We really didn't have any idea so The Guy asked us, with Katie now blatantly groping him in public, if we wanted to go to some party uptown. I don't know if it was the LI iced teas or the 980 soco and lime shots that Lucky and I had, but we agreed.

The taxi up was uneventful and we got to the upper west side with ease. But what do Luckyand I see the moment we get out of the taxi? Lo and behold it was a lonely television perched up against some garbage. Tif and I looked at each other and said "Let's do it," so we picked up the TV and proceeded to drop it much like I would drop Kibble's first-born child if he were ever inclined to let me hold the little fucker. Nothing. We picked it up again and tried to smash it on its side. Again...nothing. Finally we throttled the piece of shit, climbed up a few stairs on some brownstone and hurled the TV with the screen aimed toward the sidewalk. It was a beautiful noise, it mamoth thud and just a heavenly explosion. I turn around and look at Greg and he's smiling and all I can think to myself is 'Fuck, I should have dropped the damn TV on him!'

How Many Chucks Does A Woodchuck Chuck?

A while back, I was hooking up with a girl, let's call her Liz Woodchuk. Not to say that my standards are anywhere as low as Boppers, but that was not my shinning moment. Anyway, for those of you who don't know, Liz was still in full control of her V-Card when I was with her and she was rather reluctant to let it go. A little birdie once told me 'the best way to a woman's v-card is to invite Senor Cuervo to the party'. So one night in Febuary I get a hold of a bottle of tequila and me and Liz start doing shots together. One thing leads to another and we start fooling around. She's on top of me and she makes it known that she is "ready". So she goes down on me. Now, for those of you who haven't had the pleasure (which I believe is everyone privy to this email list minus Greg), Liz Woodchuck give head just like her surname would in the forests of Narnia. It was like getting blown by a food processor. I, quite loudly, tell her to stop. And she tells me that she quote "wants to do it." So we start "doing it". Now, if you think getting head from her was bad, imagine having sex with an assorted collection of dead flounders. I could have sworn she had sandpaper...in her vagina. So she stops at my request. So we're lying there and me, not realizing this is her first time mainly because I'm an insensitive prick, asked her to go down on me. She looks at me and starts crying, saying how she can't believe that I would ask her to do that after her first time. I told her that I forgot, mainly because I was in so much agony that my balls had turned the same color of Bobo's face after Anotnocci smoked him in the face with a chair (remember that fiasco?). So she leaves and I'm left to my own devices (a bottle of hand lotion and some kleenex). I turn the lights on and look down at my formerly gray underpants...which now looked like the underpants of a D-Day soldier who had been shot in the groin. When I say there was blood everywhere I mean there was blood FUCKING EVERYWHERE! My sheets, my shirt, my underwhere, it looked like a fucking double-homicide in my room. So the next morning I called Liz and told her what had happened, I thought she was seriously wounded and maybe a bit dizzy because she had lost so much blood. And so I hear her denying it on the other end of the phone, so I ask her how the fuck did all this blood get on my sheets and her response was "I think I got a bloody nose" Well...I can pretty much say that was the end of the Woodchuck relationship thank god, and now I'm whipped.