The Musings of a Cwazefou

Friday, February 16, 2007

Seamen

I don't have much of an update in terms of Cali (sadly, still no orgy, resume, job, hope for survival, etc.), but i do have an anecdote regarding living with my female friend,V, whom I have absolutely no intention of sleeping with.

this incident occurred within a couple of weeks of moving in:

I had just gotten out of the shower and was in my loft talking on the phone.

I heard my roomie, V, come home from work and she went to her room to do god-knows-what.

A couple of minutes later, she sprinted up the stairs to get my attention.

She seemed really excited about something and was motioning that she needed to talk to me about something urgent, but I was on the phone and needed to stay on.

Not able to hold it anymore, she started writing the message on a blank piece of paper.

Since she was in such an excited state, my curiosity got the better of me and i hung up the phone.

"What the hell do you want???"

Just so you know, V and i need to share the bathroom and shower.

During the course of my shower earlier in the morning, I had managed to step on the stopper which prevented the shower water from draining. I didn't notice as I was showering, so i didn't bother letting the water drain out.

V was laughing as she handed me her note and it read as follows:

"I don't wanna put you on blast, but I walked into the bathroom just now and it smelled super sperm-y. And I was thinking that I was just imagining things or that I'm a perv. But I walked in again and looked in the tub and the stopper was down and saw the water and the floaties in there. So can you please put your hand in your own semen water and unplug the tub? It's cool. Masturbation is natural. Jesus did it too. :)"

I immediately said this to her and I'm going to say this to you right now.

There's NO WAY in hell that I would do that activity in the shower knowing that she, or anyone else for that matter is going to be walking around with bare feet. That's just not kosher and although I am a monster on many different levels, I have considerably more courtesy than that.

while laughing, I calmly explained that fact to her.

She pretty much ignored everything that I had just explained and said, "No, Jimmy. I understand. it's OKAY that you have to do that sometimes. I understand. it's OKAY."

Beginning to be annoyed by her insistence, i said, "Bitch, I know it's okay to jerk off. Men all over the universe have been doing it since the dawn of time. And I'm glad that you understand that. Really, I am. What you now need to understand is that I only flog the dolphin in two places: one is in the comfort of my own loft and the other is onto your pillow cases while you're sleeping. But that's it."

She said while nodding her head, "okay, that's fine. I understand that now and believe me, IT'S OKAY. Could you just go and drain the water and run the shower for a while to wash off your man-goo remnants."

Mildly agitated and not wanting to talk to her anymore, i figured that I might as well go and investigate.

We went down to the tub together and I stuck my head in the shower area.

Typical of shower water, the standing water was cloudy due to the soap, shampoo, dead skin, dingleberries etc.

Honestly though, the smell was definitely sperm-y.

it was undeniable.

I told her that, "although i'm only familiar with my own, personal brand, it definitely smelled sperm-y".

She responded with, "Oh. I KNOW. ALL sperm smells like that."

"I guess I'll have to take your word for it then. Slut."

Barring the possibility that there's a phantom ejaculator in our midst, I stuck my hand in the unfertilized water and took out the stopper.

As time went by, I was still confused by the situation.

Say if I had really unloaded into the shower and let my soldiers swim about unencumbered, would it even smell like that?

I wouldn't think so.

But even so, what would cause that smell?

12:02 am - 142 views - 14 eProps - 7 comments - email it

Sunday, October 29, 2006

there's kim jong il...

and then there's me jong il...

remember: kim jong il...

me jong il...

any questions?

11:57 pm - 9 views - 34 eProps - 18 comments - email it

Friday, November 25, 2005

After turning the tender age of 24 on this past, November 20th, I can now, officially say that I've been "black-out drunk".

And let me tell you, from what others have told me- when I'm black-out drunk, it's not a pretty sight.

But this story isn't about what I don't remember (others can clue you in later).

This apalling story is about what little I do remember from that magical evening.

The story regarding the cumulative hour and a half of what I remember of that night is as follows:

I arrived at Tonic around 11pm Saturday night for my birthday funeral, resigned to accept my fate.

Already feeling the effects of a double shot of Henny from earlier, I knew all too well that this night was going to end horrifically.

And by "horrifically", I mean like "100 dead babies in a blender" terrible... or funny, depending on your sense of humor I suppose.

Within too short a period of time, I had a vodka, tequila, jager bomb, Irish car bomb, petron, and a couple of other assorted drinks, courtesy of a bunch of dirty son's of bitches and wenches that fail to contribute anything positive to society.

Now this collection of beverages wouldn't have been so bad if it were spread out over an evening or so…but I took this group of lovelies within a span of 14 minutes, maybe.

From that point on, things started to get a little hazy.

Of the sporadic snippets of time over the course of the next 4 hours, I do remember clearly:

     -throwing up briefly and easily in the bathroom at Tonic- kind of like a warmup if I were going to participate in the Continuous Regurgitation event in the '05 Up-chuck Olympics .

     -getting into a car to go to my buddy, Bao’s apartment not farther than 10 minutes away, after Tonic closed.

     - taking a shot of Absinth thinking that, “I’m already fucked to high heaven. Why not just top off the brewing shit-storm with a little green, hallucinogenic cherry?”

     -thinking about how I watched all of the other people on other birthdays vomiting, with their heads practically dipped into the toilet water, I used whatever strength that I could to prop myself onto my elbows while emptying my guts in Bao's bathroom. "Hell yeah, I may be releasing my innards, but at least I’m doing it with class."

     -someone pouring water into my mouth and yelling at me to drink it as the water dribbled, pitifully down my chin.

And now… for the coup de grace

At some point in time, my handlers took a break and I was left alone in the bathroom to stew in my vomit-riddled, misery.

I was crouched there, holding onto the toilet for dear life, thinking not only about what wonderful friends I had and how lucky I was, but also about how I wanted to die a quick, swift death.

My pondering and fond thoughts of suicide, however were interrupted by a tremor in my stomach.

Even in my wretched state, it took me .2 seconds to realize that the rumbling wasn't due to hunger.

Yes, ladies and gents, I had to shit. BADLY.

I tried to get up to lock the door, but being in the state that I was in, hunched over for what felt like an eternity, my legs were absolutely useless to me.

Taking the only course of action available to me- I made my way over to the bathroom door.

Like Rick James after he got his legs beat by Eddie and Charlie Murphy, I used my elbows and propelled myself across the linoleum, with my gimpy, disabled appendages trailing behind me and cursing my very existence the whole while.

Reaching the door, I pushed myself up and blindly fumbled about for the lock, like a 43 year-old virgin frantically trying to remove a bra in the dark.

From there, I crawled back as quickly as I could knowing full well the type of ridicule that I'd receive in the event that I didn't make it back to drop off my nuclear payload in time.

Using whatever reserves of strength I had, I climbed up and somehow managed to unbutton my pants and plop myself down on the seat.

I let loose a blast of watery diarrhea into the poor, porcelain receptacle.

The explosion shook me to the core, but by God, it was beautiful.

What transpired next, however, was somewhat, less than beautiful.

As a matter of fact, one might even go so far as to say that what happened next was "foul beyond belief", "mildly fucked up," or possibly even, "ri-god-damn-diculous."

I was in the middle of passing another serving of R. Kelly's doo-doo butter through my system when Mr. Tummy decided that he needed to fuck my shit up even further.

Mr. Tummy was not content with just poo'ing- oh no, Mr. Tummy wanted to go for the gusto.

Mr. Tummy, understandably angry with the way that I had been treating him all evening, decided that he wanted to get some hot, double excretion action going.

Oh yes.

I was going to throw up…and try as I did, I couldn't move.

I struggled mightily, but I could. not. move. AT. FUCKING. ALL.

With my muscles done for the evening, I just closed my eyes and waited for the moment to come.

I was calm, almost serene as I sat there awaiting my fate.

As the sound left the room, I mind turned inward, summoning my power animal.

It was a bunny and it said, "Fuck."

Mr. Tummy convulsed once.

Twice.

The liquid forced itself between my parted lips.

Sounds of liquid splashing off of the toilet seat was the only thing I heard, loud and clear.

I also felt my pubic area (cock, finely trimmed, circular pubic patch, and squash-sized, titanium balls) get noticeably wetter.

My pants coincidentally felt like they had just a little bit more weight to them as well.

I opened my eyes, looked down and my last clear thought before the darkness completely enveloped me was, "Dude, I just vomited all over my genitals."

And yes, my parents are oh-so very proud of me.

This evening alone is proof that, not only does God exist, but he absolutely enjoys fucking with me.

-----

After laying in bed all day Sunday, without stirring, showering, or eating, I finally had my first meal around 7pm and then jumped on the computer.

A couple of minutes later, with the day's email, news, and porn finished, I jumped onto my xanga and looked over the most recent entry and comments.

As I was perusing, I received the usual im's from well-wishers and people who forgot that it was my birthday.

On top of those messages, I got a couple of curious ones that said, "How do you like your new tattoos?"

Seeing as to how I haven't showered or changed yet, that question not only puzzled me, but prompted me to ask, "What tattoos?"

"Oh. THOSE tattoos. I always wanted a fucking vagina on my shoulder. Thanks, Assholes."

Within my previous entry, my eyes caught a glimpse of this little golden nugget that I had written only a couple of days prior:

"Watch me as I vomit on the sidewalk, cute girls, my shoes, small animals, people, and if you're lucky, possibly my genitals."

Life is so full of little ironies.

It just kills me.

Moral of the story: Don't be friends with anyone that has any artistic ability.

And for any of you that were actually there, please feel free to include any of the things that I did that I don't remember.

Happy holidays.

11:10 am - 14 views - 50 eProps - 31 comments - email it

Friday, September 23, 2005

As I was walking to the station this morning, I saw my train in the distance, rapidly approaching.

I started sprinting because I knew I had about a minute to get down the stairs if I had any hope of making it and getting to work on time, aka. 5 minutes late.

As I ran toward the turnstile, I had my arm fully extended with my trusty T pass in hand and quickly swiped the card through the reader.

The realization that, perhaps I swiped the card a little too hastily hit me around the same time that my twig and berries slammed into the bar of the turnstile.

My torso didn't immediately understand what the holdup was, but as I leaned over the bar (Which stayed in place so wonderfully, I might add. Beautifully constructed, those things are.) the familiar feeling of pain and nausea resonated from my junk and crept through my nether regions.

My body rested there for what seemed like an eternity, convulsing slightly, for a little bit.

I was not really conscious or caring of the other lolly-gaggers that were no doubt, giggling around me.

The sound of the train entering the station snapped me back to attention and even with that minor setback, I think I could still make it.

With my visibly weak hand, I swiped my card, slowly through the reader this time and limped towards the stairs.

The clock's ticking and I've got about 25 seconds to make it to the door.

25 Seconds: Doors of the train open and people on the platform are jockeying for position. I grab the railing at the top of the stairs and start hobbling down. I wonder if hurling myself down the stairs would be worth getting to work on time/ taking away the pain from my hurting man-basket.

19 Seconds: People on the platform clamoring to get in, finally move out of the way so that the people on the train can get out first. I dismiss the thought of hurting myself further and gently take baby steps down the stairs, being mindful not to tear my damaged sack.

15 Seconds: People are coming up the stairs opposite of my side are looking at me curiously. I attribute that to the fact that I have a thick spit forming on my lip and look like I want to vomit. Halfway there.

8 Seconds: People have finished boarding my train. The platforms empty and I'm almost at the bottom. I give the conductor a pleading look and as he's leaning out of his little window, he gives me a kind, gentle smile. I return a weak smile and hope that the Angels of Mercy watch after his future, low wage-making children.

5 Seconds: As my foot hits the platform, the doors of the train close and somewhere on the other side of the world, a baby cries, a kitten is run over by a car, and an ugly couple has just conceived a doubly, ugly baby.

Alcohol is an adequate salve for my balls right?

Anyone care to administer the treatment?

4:21 pm - 2 views - 29 eProps - 15 comments - email it

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Let me start off by saying that this is not a method of boasting or fishing for compliments.

This is just a statement of facts and what I'm feeling.

I've got a lot of acquaintances and very few friends.

Of those acquaintances, an inordinate number of them happen to be female and many of them don't really know of each other.

In social settings, I guess it would be safe to say that I'm seen with girls more often than not... and that can lead to misunderstandings... and misunderstandings can lead to hate and hate... can lead to anger or whatever...

Referring to me as a "Pimp" will warrant nothing more than a taste of my non-pimp hand.

So I was at Tonic this past Saturday where Quincy and it's sister city, Umass Amherst were out in full effect.

Through other acquaintances, I was actually able to meet a couple of new girls that also weren't too rough on the ole' eye sockets.

The problem that I normally have when I'm talking to a new girl (aside from the visible cold sores on my forehead) is that, usually a random female acquaintance would walk by and smack me on the ass or bump into me or pinch my flub or something and walk away without even looking at me.

The new girl would look at her, then give me a look that said, "who was that?".

I'd just give a quick explanation that so and so was an acquaintance and hope that that was that.

But then there are other things that mildly annoy me.

Take last night for instance.

I was talking to a new girl and a male acquaintance walked by and jokingly told her, "Don't talk to Jimmy. He's a pimp."

I laughed because that kind of thing happens once in a while. No big deal.

I just did my best to explain to her that he was a liar. A nice guy, but a God-damn, dirty liar and a sheep-fucker.

To try and dissuade her of this opinion, I grabbed another acquaintance of ours and asked him what his opinion of me was.

I didn't even phrase it any special way. I simply said, "Tell her what I'm like?"

Without any prompting or any prior knowledge of the conversation or of what had just happened, he looked at her, looked back at me for a second and said plainly, "Pimp".

And she just gave me this look.

It wasn't a great look, but it wasn't exactly a bad one either.

That second incident alone was kind of funny by itself, but it wasn't until the third person did pretty much the same exact thing that it started to get annoying.

Already 5 minutes into convo and she thinks I'm lying to her... which may or may not be true, but that's not the point.

I tried to explain that they were just a bunch of crazy, guys high off of crack and life, but she didn't believe me.

It also eventually dawned on me that trying to explain myself also makes things look even worse.

------

I arrived home that night at 4:15 in the morning and during my drunken stupor, jotted down some things that were floating around my mind.

Among that list of floating tidbits was a list of girls that I had danced with during the evening.

After I had the list, it verified pretty much what I've known for a long time.

Not counting the girls that I had danced with for less than a song and ranging between 1-4 songs, I realized that I had danced with 14.5 girls on Sat night.

I won't reproduce the list now, but of the 14.5, 12 were a mix of friends and or acquaintances and 2 were the ones that I had just met.

So I may not be a pimp, but I'm most definitely a dance-whore.

And I'm okay with that.

Oh yes, and regarding the .5 for you mathematically inclined, yet conscientious readers out there...

I saw her and I just had to do it.

Whaddaya want from me?

Truth be told and unlike women, it's not all about size for me.

And besides, he started it.

Okay, okay.

He was drunk and I instigated alright?

This buddy of mine was drunk, stumbling about, and like the little devil that appeared on his shoulder, I made him the entry man so that he could draw away her defenders just so I could get in.

She was also an excellent dancer by the way.

Some of you ladies could have learned from her, I'm sure.

And besides...

Who doesn't like a hot, potato bread sandwich on a Saturday night?

Just don't ask what we used as the fish-sauce, substitute.

1:08 am - 16 views - 66 eProps - 36 comments - email it

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Seamen

there's kim jong il...