gross

From Panama With Love

I guess I should talk about this. It's still the source of bad dreams that wake me up during the night, even eight years after the fact. It happened when I was still in the military. Way in. I was sent to Panama on an MRT (a Maintenance Recovery Team) to repair a bird that went down out there. I had been there for about two and a half weeks when we finally got the parts in and made our repairs on the C-130. Typical procedure is that it flies home immediately and we as a crew hitch a ride on it. Well due to circumstances upon which I cannot comment, I had to stay behind for several more days, and would catch a bus to Costa Rica (ugh) and from there, fly into San Antonio. All good. I was staying in a cheap shitty motel on the outskirts of…

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The Long Way to Aquaintance

I was sitting in a bar, watching the tiny television in the corner. This isn't something I do very often. I stopped into this place to have a cold pint before meeting with a client of mine at the Internet Data Center right down the road. I was to be giving him a tour of the facilities and showing him where his equipment was racked. Anyway, I'm sitting in there enjoying my pint when a girl comes in and walks up to the bar. As she was standing there at the bar, right next to my stool, I casually looked at her, noticing she wasn't wearing much. She smelled like a cheap hooker – cigarettes and perfume, and perhaps a little sweaty. Her hair was greasy and matted and her tank top was stained and dirty. She leaned on her elbows against the bar, and I could see through the…

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I swear, I didn’t crap my pants.

I sit here, at home, in total humiliation – of the worst kind. I’ve read/posted in and even created my own threads about people shitting in their pants before. And I don’t know whether this is some sort of sick kharma, or if it was just my turn. Let me start by telling you though – I didn’t shit my pants.

I was sitting on the cool public toilet at work at about one o’clock – fortunately, it was after our company meeting – minding my own business and taking a pretty grizzly shit. I had been sitting there for six or seven minutes, I guess, and – having gotten bored with it – decided to play a cheesy java game on my phone. I reached into the pocket of my khakis and fished out my phone. And started looking for snake – or something equally as entertaining. I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees, and dropped my phone on the tile. It slid about two feet in front of my feet.

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Uh, you just blorted, dude.

We’ve all read about it happening to someone – hell someone even posted a picture of his shitty drawers in these here forums not too long ago. But has anyone ever seen it happen to someone besides themselves? I’d hope to God that no, none of us has. Well, I hadn’t. Until just now.

I went to the restroom and stepped up to the middle urinal, since the other two were in use. And I’m minding my own business when the guy to my right rips open a serious block of bad air, and I turn to look at him with a look of ‘damn, have you no decency’ mixed with ‘wtf – that sounded shitty’. And immediately, he makes a grunt sound – not like when you’re shitting, but like umf when you are trying to stop yourself from shitting. And suddenly he’s standing up on almost his tiptoes and his posture is super perfect, staring directly at the shiny tiles in front of him.

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How Not to Grill Steaks

Sometimes I wonder how I made it this far. I mean – I like to think of myself as at least a reasonably intelligent guy. Well, I know I’m not stupid. But last night I did something that made me believe otherwise.

Check this out. We had a party. There were like twenty-five people over, and the plan was to cook steaks for everyone. My grill isn’t really all that big. You can fit like six to eight steaks on it at a time. When I found out that many people were coming, I had to run to the store and get another six pack of steaks. I cooked almost twenty steaks last night. For real. I had every single one of my big ass platters (all three) out and was preparing these steaks on them. Marinade. Steak salt. Worcestershire sauce. Liquid Smoke. The works. These steaks kicked serious amounts of ass.

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The Hot Women Like Dorks

You don't stand a chance.Why do hot women like this always end up with nerds and losers? I mean, I’m a nerd. I know how to fix computers and I read a lot of books. But I don’t look like one, you know? At least I think I don’t. But I’m certainly not a loser! But seriously, I saw this chick the other day and she was hotter than a jalapeno on fire in Texas on the sidewalk in August. Or something. And the dude she was with was a short, oddly lumpy, frog-faced dude who looked like he never showered. What in The Elephant’s name is that shit all about?

One of my best friends is knockdown drag-out gorgeous. She has the body of a – well, a great body, and has a good head on her shoulders. And she told me one time that most guys are too intimidated to ask her out. So she is single most of the time. Then here comes compuboy who has nothing to lose, so he starts asking at the top. And guess what? Bada Bing, Bada Boom. He gets himself a hot chica. At some point in their lonely single lives they say to themselves, “I’m going out with the very next guy who asks me.” So there you have it, fellas. Start asking out all the hot chicks. One of them is bound to say yes sooner or later.

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The Turd Burglars

Have you ever been sitting on the can in a public restroom, peacefully enjoying your solitude, when all of a sudden the bathroom door swings open and a whole crowd of people come in? Doesn’t that piss you off? You kind of like to be alone and do your business, so to speak, without the element of pressure or hurriedness. In relation to that, if – for some reason – you cannot be alone in the bathroom, the only element that somehow comforts you, is the privacy you attain by the enclosure of your stall. And the security you feel in that privacy is the simple twist lock that keeps the door from swinging open.

If, however, this lock is compromised, all security, privacy, and comfort flee in an instant, as you are left fumbling to cover yourself as a stranger attempts to enter your stall. This happened to me.

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Sharp As A Knife

On my way out the door, I reached into my pocket for my keys.  That wasn’t where they were. That was, however, where my pocket knife was. I always carry it there. It’s a slim line CRKT knife that feels comfortable when clipped in your pocket, all the way to the edge. It has a nifty little knob through the back of the blade that enables the wielder to open it with his thumb quickly, and most importantly, one-handed. Evidently, my key ring had grabbed that knob when I had originally pulled them from my jeans pocket. So the knife was locked open, sticking straight up out of my pocket.

I looked at my hand, because it had felt funny going into my pocket that last time. Nothing. I look down to see the knife sticking out, and then look at my hand again. And like a dam had been compromised, the blood poured from the open laceration in my thumb. I haven’t seen blood flow that freely and quickly since Joint Endeavor. And I had never seen blood flow that freely from my own body.

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