[H2][A href="vny!://www.craigslist.org/about/best/den/235728006.html"]vny!://www.craigslist.org/about/best/den/235728006.html[/A][/H2] [H2] [/H2] [H2]The Time I Lost Control of My Bowels on the Water Slide[/H2]
Date: 2006-11-16, 10:56AM MST
My last few months have been racked with guilt and shame over a horrible incident and the need to purge myself has become overwhelming. So I turn to you for a compassionate ear.
Last summer, I took my girlfriend, I'll call her Beulah, and her son, I'll call him Eugene, to a water amusement park, attempting to nurture the bond that was forming between us. After a busy morning of paddleboats and bumper cars, we took a moment to refresh ourselves with a hardy lunch of chili dogs, cheese fries, and lemonade. Relaxing under shade trees, Eugene smiled a chili-smeared grin, as the sun cast its languid glow over the park. With the leisurely picnic ending, we hastily dispersed to the changing rooms, in anticipation of our next adventure—the giant water slide.
During our first run, I noticed a gnawing, internal discomfort, although the first sure signs of brown-capping weren't apparent until Eugene and I climbed the half-mile of stairs to the summit, for our second run. Unfortunately, I had taken the opportunity, to wear a most-revealing, blue Speedo, in the hope of further enamoring myself to the beautiful Beulah. Lord knows, I have the body to accommodate such a blatant, public display of manhood.
However, I soon began to regret my decision, for the sharp, cut of the elastic dug into my swelling, gaseous abdomen. My intestines were bubbling like a whirlpool. By the time we reached the loading platform at the summit, I was squirming in wretched misery. Considering my options, I surmised that taking the slide was far more promising than fighting my way back down the stairs, through the crowd. Thank God I was next in line. My trouble would soon be over. The only obstacle before me was an elderly German tourist, staring pensively at the wild rapids. With obvious reservation, he shuffled slowly toward the mouth of the blue tunnel. Beyond the point of pleasantries, I bellowed, "Come on, Pops! Shake a leg!"
Turning toward the acne-pocked boy who was managing the ride that day, he made a feeble attempt in his native tongue to communicate his apprehension. I had no other choice! The brown star pulsated—nearing supernova. The manager boy recoiled in shock as I pushed the old man down the slide, headfirst. Cursing me with hostile foreign jibberish, he disappeared around the first turn. In an instant, I followed, hurling myself down the slick, plastic vortex.
The fury of the slide was incredible. Rolling and spinning, I gathered speed quickly. The angle of the chute dipped to nearly seventy degrees, increasing my velocity as I careened from side to side, the water turning to white, angry foam. Ricocheting from a high, banking wall, the impact smashed me like some fecal-laden pinata. I lost control, discharging a foul, liquid trail.
A child screamed somewhere behind me, as I slid toward certain humiliation below. Frantically, I grabbed at the back of my Speedo, in a desperate attempt to flush myself clean. To my dismay, a fetid school of dung-guppies spilled into the churning maelstrom.
Nearing the final turn, the old man was standing upright in the tunnel in front of me, I'm sure, to exact some sort of revenge. His sinewy muscles were tensed, rage filled his dilated eyes. But with youth, and gravity, on my side, I swiftly took him out at the ankles. A palsied hand grabbed me as we tumbled out of the chute, and into the pool.
Moments later, a wailing boy fell behind us, riding the crest of a polluted wave. Thinking fast, I collared the old man, and dragged him onto the concrete deck. A lifeguard confronted us as people ran screaming from the pool in pale-faced terror. I explained to the guard how the old man had soiled the waters, how obviously the speed and excitement had proven too much for a man of his age and condition.
Unable to comprehend my story, or explain himself, the old man could only respond with a flurry of incomprehensible shrieks, vective, and obscene gestures. I suggested that he was hysterical from embarassment and that in the best interests of everyone that he be removed from the park—immediately.
The guard eyed me with suspicion, but had no alternative but to believe my story. Fortunately, the force of the waters had washed me thoroughly of any incriminating evidence. I gathered Beulah and Eugene, and made a dash for the parking lot. I'm sure the truth eventually surfaced, but not until we were safely on the interstate, heading back home.
[A href="vny!://www.craigslist.org/about/best/van/213492593.html"]vny!://www.craigslist.org/about/best/van/213492593.html[/A]
[H2]To the guy who crapped in my parking stall last night....[/H2]
Date: 2006-09-28, 12:22PM PDT
I'm tempted to start out by saying "You know who you are", but perhaps you don't. Maybe you're thinking to yourself, "I broke a loaf in someone's parking stall last night, could he be referring to me?" Maybe you're under the misapprehension that relieving yourself in someone's parking stall is something pretty much everyone does from time to time, like smoking a recreational joint or driving too fast, or eating prime rib. So, to all of you who took a dump in a parking stall last night, let me provide some identifying details to help narrow down which of you I'm referring to.
First, you are almost certainly male. Either that or you're the 1976 East German Women's Olympic Gold Medal Weightlifting Champion. There's a slim possibility you're a horse.
It's very unlikely that you're homeless. It wouldn't take a PhD in nutrition to figure out that your pre-poop meal was -- how shall I put this? -- adequate. Formidable. Representitive of all the major food groups. You get my point.
Still don't know who you are? Stall 146. Green level. Yeah, you.
So now that you know who you are, my message to you is rather simple: WTF?
Let me get something across to you. For nearly 4000 years, humans have developed the habit of pooing in toilets. Pooing elsewhere is generally considered at best inappropriate (I'm being generous here), and usually raises the eyebrows of mental health officials, particularly if you're in the vicinity of several 24-hour restaurants more than willing to accomodate your 7-pound growler in exchange for nothing more than a cup of coffee. But, apparently you declined to exert the minimal effort it would have taken to retain your butt shuttle for a block and a half and avoid brown trouting where my Goodyears are supposed to go. If you really feel compelled to fashion a grunt sculpture in a parking stall, you're more than welcome to shell out the $146 monthly fee for a stall of your very own -- plenty of space to for you to deposit fly-infested brownies to your heart's content. You could even entertain guests. Until then, see if you can catch up to the rest of the human race and cram a cork in it, pal.
One more thing. To the guy whose (evidently) brand new Dockers discovered the potato a split second before his eyes did -- I feel your pain, man. At least you weren't wearing flip-flops.
[A href="vny!://www.craigslist.org/about/best/wdc/240186599.html"]vny!://www.craigslist.org/about/best/wdc/240186599.html[/A]
[H2]7 Habits of Highly Annoying People on CL m4w[/H2]
Date: 2006-11-26, 5:03PM EST
Post day after day with no response? Post but only get spammers and porn sites? Answer a post and never hear back? Frustrated, lonely, tired, married and wondering "how hard is it to get a friggin' handjob ferchrissakes?"
If you can't figure out what's going on, you might be guilty of one of the 7 Habits of Highly Annoying People on CL M4W. (Ladies, many of these could apply to your ads as well, I just am not familiar with them).
Habit 1: Starting your post with a plaintive "Are there any normal women/men/humanoids left?"
The answer, my friend, is a resounding NO . Maybe it's because of global warming, or 8 years of Republicans, but all the normal folks moved to Canada or some shithole like that. So shut the f*ck up and deal with the remaining hoopdidoopal misfits like the rest of us.
Habit 2: Starting your ad by saying that you're heartbroken over an ex and go on to detail how she cheated on you lied to you broke your tender little loving heart etc and now you just want to find someone nice to replace THAT BITCH and to take your mind off her.
Um, do I look like your f*cking therapist? I didn't think so. Go out with your mates, get piss drunk, text the ex that she was a shitty lay and had a fat ass, and get over it like a man. Otherwise, I'll charge you 120/hr like my therapist does to listen to my bitching and moaning about my exes, and I'll still dump your sorry ass because whiny does not equal sexy.
Habit 3: total,compleetlack Of anYpunctuashion skillz,,that makes, me, wonder if you are , a, Nigerians Scammer . OR YELLING ABOUT HOW SENSITIVE AND KIND YOU ARE AND HOW YOU WANT TO MARRY A NICE NORMAL GIRLWHY CANT YOU FIND ANYONE NORMAL HOW COME NOONE RESPONDS??!!!
I'll tell you why—it's because no one can understand a goddam word you're SHOUTING. Settle down, and remember, capitalization, periods, and the proper use of the comma are your friends.
Habit 4: You say "I promise you won't be disappointed." How the f*ck do you know? What if I am looking for a 6'7" red headed trapeze artist who likes to shove popsicle sticks up his ass while yodeling? Every time someone has said "you won't be disappointed," I inevitably am.
Habit 5: You post the same, overly earnest, long winded ad EVERY DAY FOR MONTHS. Dude, you know who you are. Clearly, it's not working for you. I suggest a different approach. Besides, I don't have time to read your friggin dissertation. Brevity is the soul of wit and all that crap.
Habit 6: You post repeatedly, using the same picture, but with different ages, categories, descriptions of who you are and what you want. What, Dateline's "To Catch a Predator" wasn't enough for you? Crreeeepy.
Habit 7: You are looking for a Girlfriend Who Squirts. Jesus H. man, you also won't give up. I'm tempted to buy a water pistol, stick it up my vagigi and let er rip all over you just so I don't have to see your f*cking post one more time.
Okay folks, that's all, back to your regularly scheduled program.
[H2][A href="vny!://www.craigslist.org/about/best/tor/223403423.html"]vny!://www.craigslist.org/about/best/tor/223403423.html[/A][/H2] [H2]Dudes, don't shower/shave with your kitten...[/H2]
Date: 2006-10-20, 3:41PM EDT
I have this cat whom I found as kitten, too young to have been weened properly and sick - without intervention he wouldn't have survived on his own much longer. I nursed him back to health, had to hand feed him for awhile, and I became very attatched to him. He's now really healthy, a beutiful orange tabby and we get along great, but our relationship hit a very rocky point one morning. We've patched things up, reasonably well, but memories of this particular morning will always haunt us - particularly me.
But now the point: I shave after I get out of the shower. I throw a towel around my waist, but other than that I shave naked. Like I said my kitten - let's call him Butters - is hanging out in the bathroom the whole time. At this point he's maybe 4 months old, still young, but full of energy. He's playing, doing his thing, and eventually he starts rolling and playing around my feet. 'How sweet,' I think. 'This is a great cat.'
Next thing I know i'm on the floor, curled in the foetus position with blood dripping down my chin from a razor cut and Butters is hiding out behind the porcelin throne, starring at me with huge, dialated eyes.
yeah, he went there.
Dangling objects + kitten = kill.
For those who still haven't caught on, while playing around my feet Butters must have looked up and seen the ole' twig and berries, and decide that it would be a great idea to give the danglies a swat. He had good aim - very good aim...
I don't understand masochists.
