On this page, I’ll post various stories and short anecdotes about all the stupid things that I do, say, or that happen to me. They’re all true, and most of them are painfully embarassing. With any luck, I will have so mangled the code on this page that no one will ever find what’s written here. Most of these stories are from the Juvenile Comedy forums, so they’re pretty short and sweet. Enjoy.
The Maestro’s Recipe
A few years ago, I nearly killed myself. I had this squirt-top bottle of oven cleaner–I guess the aerosol was a little out of my price range–that I kept right on top of the oven, you know, for emergencies. One night, I was fantastically trashed and decided to make myself some bacon and eggs. All the preparation went (relatively) well- that is, right up until I had to move the oven cleaner out of the way so that I could put down my plate of bacon. Apparently, I switched places between the two, and melted the bottom of the oven cleaner bottle practically off.
In a fit of panicked, drunken ingenuity, I poured the remaining oven cleaner into a slender glass bottle that sat on the back of my stove. After eating just my bacon–the eggs, after that, seemed a little too much to ask for–I went to bed.
Upon waking the following morning, I decided to make some pasta to absorb the remainder of the rotgut that was still sloshing around in my stomach. I thoroughly cooked the noodles, strained them, sprinkled on some basil, and drizzled olive oil over the whole mess. Three bites in, it occurred to me that I never once had any olive oil in my house. The bloody vomiting was probably the best part of the rest of that weekend.
I realize now that oven cleaner looks nothing like olive oil, and all the basil in the world could never mask that horrid scent. I further realize that it’s probably a lot safer to eat half-cooked bacon and eggs with melted plastic in them than it is to eat fully prepared pasta with oven cleaner as the main base for sauce.
I fell asleep in my computer chair earlier tonight, and had a wonderful dream about Jessica Alba and, for some reason, Luis Guzman. When I woke up, my pants were not fitting correctly. Thinking it was my cat sitting on my lap, I swatted at it…
…and karate-chopped myself in the cock.
I have since confirmed that my penis does not have four legs, does not purr, and looks nothing like my cat Milton. I have also confirmed that to be this stupid is mathematically impossible.
At work today, I was insanely busy, with minions and superiors calling and paging me all morning, so I took to carrying around my immediate supervisor’s cordless office phone in my pocket. I have been sick, and was slightly disoriented, so when I had to pee, I just took the phone with me to the bathroom, instead of returning it to the cradle.
While urinating, I accidentally dropped the phone into the urinal, but because it was one of the water-saving kind, it didn’t get very wet/pissed on. I squeezed off the stream, reached in, pulled out the phone, and decided, in a fit of characteristic genius, to just place it on the ground beside the urinal until I was finished.
I continued to pee, and heard my name paged several times over the intercom in about three seconds. I had almost finished when my second-ranked minion charged into the bathroom to tell me that Minion #1 had hurt himself by falling off of something (Minion #1 is a little stupid. God knows why he’s number one.).
I turned to speak to him over my shoulder.
My aim wandered…
…And I pissed all over the phone lying safely on the ground next to the urinal.
Lost and Found
I lost my cellphone today at work. Using the cordless office phone, I set about finding it with the help of my two least-stupid minions. After a while of dialing and redialing my phone, I grew aggravated. Turning to Minion #1, I shouted, “How do you expect me to hear my fucking phone over that goddamned loud-ass ring…”
I pulled a fast one on myself; instead of the phone holster or my right pocket, I had put the cellphone into my left-hand pocket, which I neglected to check on the sensible grounds that I never, ever, put my phone in my left-hand pocket. That’s just a stupid place to put a cellphone.
I was at work today when last night’s Mexican food alerted me of its desire to leave. Its urgent desire to leave. In short, I had to crap, badly.
So I was on the toilet, doing my business, and playing “Galaxy Balls” on my phone. Many minutes passed, like 30 or so, along with much more food than I remember eating last night. It’s really kind of amazing how Spanish rice increases in mass after about twelve hours in your colon.
I finished up, and went about the business of.. Well, wiping.
(Hang on, guys. Before I wind this down, I have to say this: I’m not fat. I’m six feet tall, and weigh about 175 pounds. There’s no real reason why this should have happened.)
After having completed the necessary cleaning, I stood up to pull up my jeans.
I made it about halfway before I realized my feet were totally numb, and I fell flat against the stall door. The latch mechanism popped loose and I fell out cock-and-balls first on the floor, bare, freshly wiped ass pointing straight up.
Luckily, the bathroom was empty at the time.
The worst part about this? I had to actually crawl on that disgusting, sticky floor to get into a position from which I could adjust myself. After five long minutes, with electric pins running through the soles of my feet, I was able to stand again. I ended up nearly showering in the sink, so horrified was I to have been face-down on the floor in a semi-public restroom.