Ladies/Gentlemen

Sorry for the long delay. The blog is not dead as some of you may have thought. We are all alive and doing well. I normally will NEVER post a forward on the blog, but this was too good to pass up. Again, this is not mine or any of the writers work below:

HOW TO POOP AT WORK

We've all been there but don't like to admit it. As
much as we try to
convince ourselves otherwise, the WORK POOP is
inevitable. For those who
hate pooping at work, following is the Survival Guide
for taking a dump
at work.

CROP DUSTING:
When farting, you walk briskly around the office so
the smell is not in
your area and everyone else gets a whiff but doesn't
know where it came
from. Be careful when you do this. Do not stop until
the full fart has
been expelled. Walk an extra 30 feet to make sure the
smell has left
your pants.

FLY BY:
This is the act of scouting out a bathroom before
pooping. Walk in and
check for other poopers. If there are others in the
bathroom, leave and
come back again. Be careful not to become a FREQUENT
FLYER. People may
become suspicious if they catch you constantly going
into the bathroom.

ESCAPEE:
This is a fart that slips out while taking a leak at
the urinal or
forcing a poop in a stall. This is usually
accompanied by a sudden wave
of embarrassment. If you release an escapee, do not
acknowledge it.
Pretend it did not happen. If you are standing next
to the farter in
the urinal, pretend you did not hear it. No one likes
an escapee. It
is uncomfortable for all involved. Making a joke or
laughing makes both
parties feel uneasy.

JAILBREAK:
When forcing a poop, several farts slip out at a
machine gun pace. This
is usually a side effect of diarrhea or a hangover.
If this should
happen, do not panic. Remain in the stall until
everyone has left the
bathroom to spare everyone the awkwardness of what just
occurred.

COURTESY FLUSH:
The act of flushing the toilet the instant the poop
hits the water.
This reduces the amount of airtime the poop has to
stink up the
bathroom. This can help you avoid being caught doing
the WALK OF SHAME.

WALK OF SHAME:
Walking from the stall, to the sink, to the door after
you have just
stunk up the bathroom. This can be a very
uncomfortable moment if
someone walks in and busts you. As with farts, it is
best to pretend
that the smell does not exist. This very
uncomfortable walk can be
avoided with the use of the COURTESY FLUSH.

OUT OF THE CLOSET POOPER:
This is a colleague who poops at work and is damn proud
of it. You will
often see an Out Of The Closet Pooper enter the
bathroom with a
newspaper or magazine under his or her arm. Always
look around the
office for the Out Of The Closet Pooper before entering
the bathroom.

THE POOPING FRIENDS NETWORK (P.F.N):
A group of co-workers who band together to ensure
emergency pooping goes
off without incident. This group can help you to
monitor the
whereabouts of Out Of The Closet Poopers, and identify
SAFE HAVENS.

SAFE HAVENS:
A Safe Haven is a seldom-used bathroom somewhere in
the building where
you can least expect visitors. Try floors that are
predominantly of the
opposite sex. This will reduce the odds of a pooper
of your sex
entering the bathroom.

TURD BURGLAR:
This is someone who does not realize that you are in
the stall and tries
to force the door open. This is one of the most
shocking and vulnerable
moments that can occur when taking a poop at work if
this occurs, remain
in the stall until the Turd Burglar leaves. This way
you will avoid all
uncomfortable eye contact.

CAMO-COUGH:
A phony cough that alerts all new entrants into the
bathroom that you
are in a stall is called a Camo-Cough. This can be
used to cover-up a
WATERMELON, or to alert potential Turd Burglars. The
Camo-Cough is very
effective when used in conjunction with an ASTAIRE.

ASTAIRE:
An Astaire is a subtle toe-tap that is used to alert
potential Turd
Burglars that you are occupying a stall. This will
end all doubt that
the stall is occupied. If you hear an Astaire, leave
the bathroom
immediately so the pooper can poop in peace.

WATERMELON:
A watermelon is a big poop that creates a loud splash
when hitting the
toilet water. This is also an embarrassing incident.
If you feel a
Watermelon coming on, create a diversion. See
CAMO-COUGH.

HAVANA OMELET:
A case of diarrhea that creates a series of loud
splashes in the toilet
water. Often accompanied by an Escapee. Try using a
Camo-Cough with an
Astaire.

UNCLE TODD:
An Uncle Todd is a bathroom user who seems to linger
around forever.
This person could spend extended lengths of time in
front of the mirror
or sitting on the pot. An Uncle Todd makes it
difficult to relax while
on the crapper, as you should always wait to poop when
the bathroom is
empty. This benefits you as well as other bathroom
attendees.

-sinbad

This one’s from the vault. My friend Bill turned 21 a few years ago. It was probably the spring of ’04 if I had to put a number on it. For some reason we decided to go low key and just get a few people together and hit a bar. I guess it was mostly because Bill was already well on his way to full blown alcoholism at this point and the fact that he was 21 didn’t change much except to add new venues for his inebriation.

It was the standard fare for a 21st, we went to the bar, rounds of shots were ordered, beers were chugged and good times were had. Our core group consisted of myself, Bill, Bill’s girlfriend, a slutty girl that Bill would have been banging had it not been for his girlfriend, and my roommate Jim although we did not live together yet at that time. There were some other stragglers at various bars along the way and some dudes the slutty girl attempted to extract free drinks out of. (She ended up becoming a stripper and I’m pretty sure is probably now dead).

At our final bar of the evening, Bill was pretty much unconscious. Props to him for not hurling. The bar closed and it was time for the five of us to make our way back to the apartment building that Bill and I lived in. It was clear that Bill was not up for this journey which was only about five blocks. Jim and I had to help him. I really am surprised that we did not get stopped by the police while doing this as the most direct route back to the building was straight across the campus of our university.

Once back at the building, the real fun began. Our building was a complete shit pile and frequently the elevator would stop working. This was one such evening. Bill is not a small dude and during the journey from the bar, his condition got progressively worse. We dropped him on the floor in front of the stairs and told him he was going to have to start walking. His apartment was on the sixth floor and there was no way we were carrying his fat ass up that far. Bill didn’t move, he just sat on the floor making moaning and grunting sounds. Not wanting to abandon our friend, Jim and I decided that the best course of action was to start kicking him in the ass and yelling at him until he started to crawl up the stairs. This worked. It was slow, and lots of people came out of their apartments to see what was going on, but eventually we got him up to his floor.

Once on the sixth floor, Jim and I decided that since he had gone up six flights of stairs, Jim was capable of propelling himself down the hall to his apartment, so we employed the same motivational technique that we used on the stairs and got him moving. At this point we had a pretty big crowd assembled as there were some parties in the building that had shifted to the hallway to witness our spectacle. Finally Jim and I got Bill into his apartment and left him on the floor next to his bed.

Jim and I went down to my apartment to recover, drink more, and laugh at Bill’s expense for a while. After about an hour, we decided we should go up and check on him. We went up to his place but he wasn’t in his room. The door to his bathroom was closed and there was no response when I knocked. I tried to open the door but it was stuck, after some considerable effort, I was able to get the door open enough to stick my head in. Bill was passed out on against the door and there was a big wet spot on his crotch. Jim and I could not stop laughing. We invited some of the neighbors in to take a look and then left him there for the remainder of the evening.

The next day was even better. Bill came down to my apartment looking particularly hung over. He walked in and commented, “Man, I wish you guys had turned on my air conditioner, when I woke up this morning my pants were all wet from sweating in them all night”. It’s been a while since I’ve laughed that hard. He was not pleased when I informed him of the source of the humidity in his pants.

-Ice Man

Now that I find myself living through my mid-twenties I’ve come to realize certain things that come with getting a little older: the good looking physique I had when I was 17 probably isn’t coming back, hair is starting to grow in places that I always hoped it wouldn’t, and the idea of getting married and having children is becoming an inevitable reality.

As for the physique and funky hair growth, well I don’t think there’s all that much I can do about that. As far as being a husband and a father, now that’s something I think I can be pretty good at. In respects to being a husband, I think I have lived through enough trial and error relationships that I can figure that out, but a father, well that’s something I’ve only began to think about.

Now as a father, it’s going to be my job to help encourage my children and allow them to participate in activities that facilitate their growth. Maybe they’ll be really good at math, want to join a basketball team, or even be into boy scouts. That’s all fine with me, but the one thing my child will never be allowed to do is take karate lessons. Have you ever met anyone cool who took karate lessons? Now I know we all wanted to take karate lessons after seeing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: The Secret of the Ooze, but none of us made it passed the third week before quitting. We retired our white belts just as soon as we put them on. Then there was that one guy who participated in karate all the way until he was 18. Just admit it, that guy never had much going for him.

When I was in High School, there was this kid; we’ll call him Karate Kid. What Karate Kid lacked in stature, he made up for in ego. This was the kind of kid who still was hazed in his senior year of high school by guys younger than him. It was so bad that I even think teachers at our school were fairly annoyed by his presence. Personally, I tried my best to not hang around Karate Kid. I always tried to be nice to everyone, but for some reason I just couldn’t force myself to look past how much I couldn’t stand this guy. His normal comebacks always had something to do with how he was a black belt and he was doing us all a favor by not kicking our butts. Now I’m not a fighter by any means, but I was always knew I could take Karate Kid if the situation ever arose.

That day came in gym class my senior year of high school when Karate Kid was spouting off at the mouth about something during gym class. I then took it upon myself to put Karate Kid back in his place with a snide remark. This upset Karate Kid. He flashed his normal “black belt” credentials and got in my face. Normally I would just back down and avoid confrontation, but on this particular day I had, had enough of his unwarranted arrogance and accepted Karate Kid’s challenge.

Now this fight was over before it began. Karate Kid came at me and in a flash. I threw him to the ground and put him into submission. His karate moves were useless. It was not my intent to hurt Karate Kid, but just to teach him a lesson. What I ended up doing was embarrass him. I held him on the ground and emasculated him like a much older brother would do to his littler brother. At one point, I think I even held him down and hung a big loogie over his face only to suck it up right before it fell on him. He squirmed like a fourth grader getting his lunch money taken. Once I let him up he didn’t fight back; he knew that he lost.

Who knows, maybe I was the arrogant one that day. Word is, after that day, Karate Kid had a new outlook on life and really turned the corner. I hear he’s a really likeable guy nowadays. Maybe I did him a favor, but at least I know my kids will never venture down the same road that Karate Kid did.

-Costanza

Ask any guy out there what his primary sexual fantasies are and I guarantee you the list will be topped by two things, two chicks at the same time and anal sex. Regardless on their views about the cleanliness and morality of putting it in the pooper, all guys are at least a little intrigued by the idea. Seriously, why else would it be in nearly every porno I have encountered, and not to brag or anything, but I’ve encountered a lot of porn in my day.

This story begins as many do, in a bar, drinking heavily. Near the end of the evening my friend Bill and I had been making casual conversation with a woman who was reasonable looking but probably in her mid 30s and definitely not the type you want to take home to meet your mother, or even your friends for that matter. The three of us were having a good enough time though and decided to go back to the building Bill and I lived in to continue our evening. I rode with the girl from the bar to show her the way which was a harrowing experience to put it lightly. I could write a whole other article about that ride alone. In the end we made it. As we arrived, a girl from the building, whom I had previously attempted to bone, was also arriving. I waved to her and we went on our way.

As the evening progressed, it became clear that the girl from the bar was not planning on leaving any time soon and that she was intent on boning one of us. I was trying to figure out how to get out of this situation because Bill had a girlfriend so I knew he was going to dump her on me and then I’d have to get rid of her. Finally, we ran out of liquor, so the bar girl and Bill went up to his apartment to get some more. I was left alone in my apartment to figure out a game plan. At that moment, the solution literally walked right in. It was Alice, the girl we had seen when we got to the building. She came in and we started talking and I got out some beers I had kept hidden from the bar freak. I was pretty drunk and as I mentioned had previously tried to bone this chick, so I was laying it on pretty thick. We started making out and then right in the middle, there was a knock at the door. I went to the door and it was Bill, alone. He looked at me with this scared look on his face and said, “Dude, I don’t know what to do; as soon as we got up there she took off her pants. Now she’s standing in my apartment naked and I think she wants me to fuck her.” I pointed to Alice and told Bill that I was sorry but he’d have to figure out a way to get rid of the freak because I was busy and closed the door. I’m going to claim he’s the one that invited the freak back anyway, so it was really his mess to clean up from the beginning.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand, Alice and I get back to it and end up in my bed. Score, it’s going to happen. We get naked and just as we’re about to start, she whispers in my ear, “Do you want my pussy or my ass?” I was at a loss for words. You normally have to hound a woman for months to get her to give up access to the dirt star and here this slut is willing to open it up before we’ve even had normal sex. I was in a conundrum. I always had a fascination with anal but had never tried it. This was certainly an opportunity to say the least. Something about it wasn’t right though, it was too easy. The way she had offered it up without any hint of desire for it on my part didn’t compute in my mind. It was too slutty. She was too slutty for anal sex. To this day I wonder if it was the right decision, after all I did continue to hit it off and on for the next month or two. I could never go for the ass though; she had spoiled it on that first evening.

As for Bill, he came down the next morning mad as hell. He didn’t end up having to screw the freak but she did stay the night. I wonder if the girl he was dating ever found out about that.

-Ice Man

What is a drunk dial? I mean, I have dialed many a women late in the evening, but what for? Do I have a purpose? Not really. So why? I guess the main reason I drunk dial is because I am an idiot.

Lets get to the basics of a strong drunk dial. All you amateurs out there, take notes, or print off this article and carry it with next time you go out.

Rule #1 – You must be hammered drunk:
None of this I went out for 3 beers shit. You need to be rumbling stumbling drunk before you are ready to drunk dial. You should have consumed at least two types of alcohol as well ( a shot, beer, wine, cocktail…). This will ensure you have the proper liquid courage you will need for the following steps.

Rule #2 – You always call the opposite sex:
If you are a dude, why would you call another dude? If you are a girl, why call another girl? Ladies, don’t be that one girl who makes a fool of herself on her cell phone yelling at “her ladies” about how crazy you guys needs to get. You will sound like an idiot, and people like me will make fun of you.

Rule #3 – Say something you have always wanted to say:
This is a huge factor when drunk dialing. Its like being able to get free information from someone. It is ok to put your heart on your sleeve at this point because you are drunk. And if you make a fool of yourself, you can always blame it on being drunk. Its perfect.

Rule #4 – What do I do if the person I call isn’t drunk?:
Easy. Start yelling and don’t stop. Then proceed to make fun of them for not being out and then picking up the phone from someone they could 99.9% guarantee was drunk dialing them. They are more amateur than you are.

Rule #5 – Don’t leave voicemail:
Why would you? What good or purpose comes out of leaving a voicemail early in the morning? If the person calls you back the next morning, you can make up any number of excuses to get out a drunk dial conviction. Seriously, be creative with your excuses, they may impress the right person.

Rule #6 – Do not drunk dial in front of people:
This should be obvious, but I need to state it anyway. You don’t want other people thinking you are lame and that you still drunk dial. Do it in the confines of a bar bathroom, your house, or while going home.

Rule #7 – It’s ok to steal phones to drunk dial:
If you have friends you like to play pranks on, always take their phones and call ex-girlfriends, old hookups, parents, or their bosses. You can always downplay this by saying you meant to call someone else and that your finger slipped due to your drunkness.

Rule #8 – Once in a while it is ok to claim an emergency:
For the extremely desperate person, faking an emergency will work to get your receiver to come meet you, pick you up, or deliver food. However, you must be careful when using this method because this can really piss some people off.

Rule #9 – Have fun with it:
Remember, the more you drink the more you can drunk dial. As you are drinking your liquid courage, your creative juices will begin to flow and more ideas will come through. Don’t be afraid to try new things and mix it up every once in a while.

These are my drunk dialing rules.

-sinbad

I live and work in a semi-major southern city. My office and apartment are literally around the corner from one another. This lifestyle is fantastic. My car is safely tucked away in a parking deck and on average I see it about once a week. In minutes, I can walk to the main bar district in the city and should I be unable to walk back afterwards, it’s five bucks to take a cab home. Metropolitan living really has its advantages and I am surprised more young professionals in my area have yet to embrace it. You see, the city is what they call transitional. This means that 40 years ago it was a thriving urban center but throughout the 70s and 80s businesses and residents fled to the suburbs leaving empty office space and abandoned warehouses and buildings. During the last ten years businesses have been returning and investors have dumped huge sums of money into converting the empty buildings into luxury apartments and condos to attract people not unlike myself. The thing the city is having difficulty shedding is the reputation it gained during its lesser years as a cesspool of gang violence and murder. The truth is, it is very safe now but the myth is perpetuated when sheltered suburbanites venture downtown and encounter the homeless. One such vagrant fills his days in the alley outside of my apartment building. We have come to refer to him as Crazy Man.

Crazy Man: The first Encounter

I first met crazy man before I moved downtown. There is a Mexican restaurant that my coworkers and I frequent and Crazy Man spends a good deal of his time in the alley outside of the restaurant. One day on the way to lunch at the restaurant, Crazy Man was standing on the corner and as I walked by him, he looked at me and said “I want to go to the crack house, that’s right, the crack house”. My coworkers and I continued into the restaurant barely able to contain our laughter.

Crazy Man: The next Encounter

About a week after we met crazy man, we were back at the same restaurant (they have a special I particularly like on Thursdays, so I go there just about every week). While sitting in the restaurant eating, I noticed Crazy Man was outside. He was holding a cup and looking in through the massive windows that make up the front of the restaurant. After about five minutes, he walked in repeating “It’s a crazy man, a crazy man”. (This was when he got his name). Crazy Man walked through the restaurant to the self service soda dispenser. Instead of filling his cup like a normal patron, he lifted the metal grate where the spilled ice and overflowed soda fall and filled his cup with the leftover ice and soda mixture that reside down there before melting and going down the drain. He then replaced the grate and left the restaurant.

Move-in day: Getting to know Crazy Man’s real Personality

In late August my roommate (who happens to also work in the same office as me) and I decided we wanted to move back downtown. We chose an apartment around the corner from our office in a newly converted former commercial building. This building is located next to the Mexican restaurant previously mentioned.

Putting it politely, my roommate’s mom is a worrier. She is one of the sheltered suburbanites mentioned previously and is definitely convinced that the two of us are going to get killed living downtown. On move-in day she was lending a hand with the process. Mostly she held the door while the two of us carted things to the elevator and then into our apartment. On one such trip while my roommate and I were upstairs, Crazy Man emerged from the alley. A car had just parked at the curb and its occupants had exited the vehicle and were standing next to it on the sidewalk. Crazy man walked into one of members of the group. This made Crazy Man very angry. He started shouting “you motherfucker, god damn motherfuckers, shit, god damn shit motherfuckers.” The trouble was, he was walking away from the person he had bumped. We’re not sure what was going on inside his head but we’re reasonably certain whatever it was, it was only loosely based on reality.

Some notes on Crazy Man

I have lived downtown for five months now. During that time, I have learned a great deal about Crazy Man. Turns out, his name isn’t Crazy Man, it is Rodney. Rodney spends his days in the alley between my apartment building and the Mexican place. Mostly he sits and stares at the wall. Sometimes he sweeps the alley with scraps of cardboard, other times he rearranges the contents of the alley. Frequently, Rodney likes to sing. He usually wears jeans with the legs rolled up just above his ankles and has a rotation of faded t-shirts. He has long scraggly hair that is washed out from years in the sun. He wears a bandana around his forehead most days to keep his hair out of his face. The odd thing about Rodney’s appearance is that somehow, he always has clean socks. His socks are bright white every day. They were doing some construction on the building that the Mexican place is in which provided a great deal of entertainment for me as Rodney interacted with the construction workers. Occasionally, when he is out there by himself, especially on weekends, Rodney gets mad. I’m not sure what sets him off, but he will throw things and yell and then eventually storm off to who knows where. There are some videos of this odd behavior. I suppose this is a good time to mention that Rodney does not live in the alley. We are not sure where he lives, though we did follow him one evening when he left. We lost him about eight blocks away in an area that contains a half way house for crazy people. It is possible he lives there. We will follow him again one day and try to confirm it. Rodney keeps a pretty regular schedule though, he shows up in the mornings around 6 AM (singing and yelling which generally wakes me up) and he leaves just before it gets dark in the evening. It’s almost like hanging out in that alley is his job. He is rarely there on the weekends but occasionally, I guess when he has extra work to catch up on, he’ll show up on a Saturday or Sunday.

One final note, if it was not evident from what I have written, it is clear that Rodney is a schizophrenic. He clearly sees things that the rest of us cannot. You will understand this when you watch the videos. The videos were taken from the window in my living room. Because we are many floors above, Rodney cannot hear us open the window and so is not yet aware that we watch (and video tape) him from above.

Check out the video and enjoy.

Ice Man

The Beach and the Hooker

What is it about Myrtle Beach that is just so trashy? There are some nice places to go, a few delicious restaurants, definitely some good golfing, but there’s something about it that is just a little off. If you’ve lived North of Florida or South of New Jersey, then you’ve been there. No matter how you got down there, you had an interesting experience while you were there. I was no different.

It was early in my college career, and like many other college students, I was broke. Spring break had come around and I just didn’t have enough cash to go on a trip to Florida or going skiing out west somewhere. So I just decided to take the days off from school and pick up some hours at the sandwich shop I was working at. About half of the break was over and I was pretty down about the idea that I wasn’t going to be doing anything exciting, when my friend (I’ll call him Ben) came to the rescue and told me to come crash with all of his buddies down in Myrtle Beach. None of us had a lot of money, but you can always find money for gas and booze.

So as fast as he had sprung the idea on me, I was on my way to the beach and imagining what the trip had in store. It’s not a very long drive from my little college town, so before I knew it I was already smelling the salt of the ocean breeze blowing in through my car windows. This state of euphoria was interrupted when my buddy Ben called me on my cell phone. Ben told me I should hurry, because a friend of ours had decided to purchase a hooker for the night. Now our friend was a pretty good looking guy, he had no trouble getting women, but for some reason he decided to go the risky route and listen to the cab driver’s sales pitch for the evening. For one hundred dollars the cab driver could have a woman at our hotel room within an hour. That strikes me as a little bit cheap for what I would imagine the going rate for hookers are these days.

I hurried to the hotel, not having a clue of what was in store, and opened the door to a room full of guys with the strangest looks on their faces. I guess they thought I might be the prostitute when I opened the door, but when they saw me it was a combination of both relief and disappointment. I walked into the room and said hi to all the guys, but the fact of me getting there was almost an afterthought. It was kind of like waking up on Christmas morning and having to wait to open your presents.

We all sat there on the hotel beds and chatted while we awaited the arrival of our “Pretty Woman.” Let me tell you, that once the knock at the door came, it was not Julia Roberts on the other end. If you can imagine the skinniest version of a trailer park girl, then that was her. Well at this moment, I had absolutely no idea of what was about to happen. We all just sat around and kind of looked at each other waiting for the other to make a move. Then that’s when the financier of the evening decided to kick us all of the room so that he could have fun with his lady of the night.

Imagine all of our disappointment when we realize that we’re not even going to get to laugh about what all he is going to. So the rest of us all grab a few beers and go chat on the porch. After finishing our beers and getting a good buzz on, we decide we want to go to a pancake house and get some late night food. We all go back into the room to find our friend just finishing up with…well whatever he was doing. And he says that he’d like to come with us to get some food. Now here’s the awkward part. The hooker doesn’t see where she fits in all of this and decides to invite herself to the pancake house with us. Now that’s kind of intimidating. How could you tell the hooker no?

Well the pancake house was full of funny moments of us trying to embarrass the trailer queen, but that’s not the moral of the story. Once we finally arrive back to the hotel it’s time for the prostitute to settle up the bill and get her ride home. She pulls out her cell phone, that she must have stolen from Zach Morris, and calls her mother to pick her up. You can imagine the field day I had with this poor girl. Let’s just say we didn’t take the time to “build her up.” Our friend, who’s idea this all was in the first place, senses the tension of the moment and decides to take her into the bathroom for round two.

This time, we’re actually in the room while all of this is going on. I must have giggled like fourth grade school girl for 15 minutes. Once we could hear that things were wrapping up in the bathroom, all of us guys thought that we’d pretend to be asleep so that we could distance ourselves from the awkwardness of the evening. Once they came out it was time to settle up the bill. She asked our friend for the 100 dollars, but there was a problem. He only had 40 dollars on him. What happens next, I’ll never really understand how it happened. This doesn’t upset the girl; she simply just pleads for 10 more dollars so she can pay her “manager” his portion. So our friend starts to ask us all for the ten more dollars, but we’re all pretending to be asleep. He gets louder and louder and starts yelling at us to help when in a collective motion we all start busting out laughing. Someone in our group felt bad and pitched in four more dollars.

The girl ended up leaving the room giving up double the goods and fifty-six dollars in the hole. At least she got a free breakfast out of it. Needless to say, we’ve never let this guy live the events of that night down.

-Costanza

So first a little background:

At my university, every year at Homecoming each fraternity teams up with a sorority to make floats for a parade. Seems pretty normal. Well basically everyone in the parade is hammered every year and it turns into a huge shit show. My house got teamed up with Chi-O for the parade (defiantly not our first choice, or even second choice for that matter… they would have been about fourth or lower on the list). The girl who was in charge of making the float for from Chi-O is being a huge bitch to all of our pledges that are making the float (no actives are involved). Also, I should mention that this girl has very large breasts, but this is most likely due to the fact that they match her sizable gut. Before the parade, the girl is drinking heavily as would be expected and during the course of the parade falls off the float and gets partially run over by the trailer. Hence her name for the rest of eternity, “Curb Check”. (She didn’t get hurt though for all of you that care)

On to the interesting part of the story…

We are having a work session at the House which that particular evening consisted of alternating between the pledges getting worked and then cleaning. During the time they were being worked, the actives would fuck up the house in any way that we could think of, thus creating more work for the pledges during their cleaning break. Well somehow, Curb Check is able to get in the front door of the house during a clean. She walks in and is a huge mess, drunk as hell and only wearing jeans, shoes and a zip-jacket done up about ¼ to ½ of the way with no shirt on underneath. So Curb Check walks up to my friend and tries to kiss him and is telling about how much she likes him. He proceeds to grab her arm and remove her from the building. She comes back in a few minutes later, (we didn’t have a workable lock on the door) and tries to go after another friend with similar advances. She keeps saying how she knows what is going on in here (the pledges) and she doesn’t care. After she is removed a second time, this time with ever more force, I am picked to be in charge if she does happen to come back in. As someone who is not particularly a good hazer, I don’t mind this. Hey some of us are built to fuck with and tweak out on kids, others aren’t. When I see here trying to get back in I go outside and walk her down to another sorority house down the street. She is crying at this point and the girls from the other house seem me with her and assume that I have done something wrong. I explain what is going on and Curb Check demands to see her friend in the house we are now at.

After about 20-30 minutes of waiting with her, (I can’t take the chance of her coming back to our house) her friend finally comes out and they talk for a little bit. They decide that I should walk her home, which I agree to do. On the way home she is blabbing about this and that and all I can think about is how to get this drunk, topless, ugly-ass girl home without anyone I know seeing me. Oh yeah, she made me feel her boobs more times that I care to count or remember. One thing I thought she said that was particularly funny was that her grandmother always taught her that men should walk on the outside of women (the side closer to the street) when walking down the side walk. She made me do this for about a block and then abruptly made me switch sides. Kinda odd, but she was hammered and ugly, so I didn’t want to take this time to ask many questions. We see a few deer on the way back to her house and I know at this point that I am going to have to deal with this girl for longer that just dropping her off. She tries to kiss me several times and from there I know it’s over.

We get back to her house and she takes me inside and we make out for maybe 20 minutes (hey I hadn’t gotten any in a while, give me a break). Another of her sorority sisters is also making out with a guy in the living room pretty much right next to us.

She then leads me downstairs because it is against Chi-O rules for guys to go upstairs. (I think this has to do with Ted Bundy and his killings at the University of Florida Chi-O house). She sits me down on a couch and then proceeds to give me a very drunken and almost painful blowjob. As soon as I am finished, I stand up and she sits on the couch. I think that she was assuming that I would reciprocate. There was noooooo way in hell that this was going to happen. I walked back upstairs to be greeted by the girl who had been downstairs earlier. She said in a somewhat accusing, but also jokingly manner, “Did you go upstairs at Chi-O?” With the quickest response that I think I have ever given, I said “no” and hauled ass for the door and home.

So I think that I have gotten away with it, and I do, for a while. But because girls talk like they do, everyone finds out that I was the one that took down the Curb Check.

Inigo Montoya

For most people, the term hazing usually triggers a mental image of college boys yelling and screaming at puny little 18-year-old boys, forcing them to chug concoctions of toothpaste, meatloaf, pickle juice, and other substances which a girl could not come up with if she tried. Yeah, that’s what I used to think of until my friend pointed out to me that I haze cab drivers with ridiculous demands. When I tried to claim that it was just a one time thing, she started rattling off all the times I hazed cab drivers and so I decided I had to put this in writing.

So you get in a cab and tell the driver where you want to go, they drop you off, they give you a fee to pay, you pay it and get out, right? Wrong. That is not how it works with me, not when late night dance parties, cigarette-smoking, late night food, and being short on change is involved.

As I started reminiscing about all of my cab ride experiences, one particular time came to mind. It was about 1AM when my friend and I decided we were tired of the bar scene and were going to head home, so we split a cab. We dropped her off first because I decided I wanted to swing by our local neighborhood bar to pick up a pizza on the way home. I drunkenly called the pub, placed an order for a veggie pizza, the cab driver dropped off my friend, and took me to the bar.

When we arrived, I told him that the pizza would not be ready for another ten minutes and demanded that he turn off the car so that the meter did not run up my bill. He turned the car off without argument, believe it or not. It was a non-smoking cab but we had time to kill so I asked him if I could smoke in his car and he said no. When I asked him why not he told me he would get in trouble with the cab company. I assured him that everything would be okay and he just needed to get an air-freshener; I lit my cigarette, he said nothing, and I won the battle. About ten minutes after sitting in the driveway of the pub, I asked him in my kindest tone if he would take my cash inside the bar and get my pizza. People were still there and I did not want to run the risk of seeing anyone I knew who might question why I was by myself, intoxicated, retrieving a pizza at 1:15 in the morning and getting back into a sketchy van.

Without hesitation, the cabbie got out of the van, took my cash and went inside to pay for my pizza. While I sat there in the backseat of the van trying to be discrete about this pizza mission, the sliding door swung open and all of the lights in the cab turned on; the cab driver handed me my remaining cash and pizza and I saw a crowd of people at the bar just staring at me sitting in the back of the cab. I waved to the bouncer who I had made friends with at a karaoke bar as I grabbed the door and slammed it shut in the hopes that no one else spotted my pathetic state of laziness. As we drove away, the cab driver could not stop laughing because his other fat-ass of a cab driver buddy (one that I have crossed paths with in previous cab ride experiences) was making snide remarks about the “piece of shit” that could not get out of the cab and get her own pizza.

In closing, the only two conclusions I made were the following: one, the veggie pizza was delicious and, two, I really do not care what that colossal cab driver was saying about me. I have witnessed him almost hitting a telephone poll when driving inebriated kids, one of them being me, from one place to another and making inappropriate phone calls to one of my friends after-hours to see what she was up to because he was bored; maybe he should be the one considering his ranking on the “piece of shit” scale. As for me, I can say my only regret is that I wish I would have gotten this particular cabbie’s number; he has a “can-do” attitude that needs to permeate the rest of the cab-driving universe.

- Miss Robinson

Ladies, I don’t know about you, but us guys, we tend to do that…well…a lot. And yeah, I am talking about what you’re thinking of. I tend to think its just human nature, but maybe we’re just disgusting pigs.

In college, roommates tend to know their roommate’s schedules better than we know our own. I always knew that I would have some personal time on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from 11:30 to 12:25 and then on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 1:30 until 2:15. I know it is pathetic, but that’s just the way it is.

One particular night my roommate was leaving on a trip. His friends wanted to leave around midnight, so as I was getting ready for bed, he was getting ready to leave. Midnight came, he said goodbye, and went on his way. Laying there in bed, drifting off to sleep I began to feel the urge. Now I wasn’t happy about getting the urge; I was ready to go to sleep. But when you get the urge, there’s no turning back.

I got out of bed and went over to my desk to take care of business, but this day was different than most days. I didn’t take the same precautions that I typically would, because my roommate had left about fifteen minutes prior to go out of town. As I was sitting there, fully exposed to the silence of my room, I hear the door open. I was in the heat of the moment and had no where to go. I got caught. Now I’m a good sport about these things, because I can see the humor in the situation, but I was completely embarrassed.

My roommate showed no mercy. He could have walked back out; he could have given me a second to shield myself; he could have done anything other than what he did – he ran down the hall to tell all of my hallmates what had just happened. So to defend my honor I threw on a pair of mesh shorts and ran shirtless down the hall after him. Needless to say, everyone had a good laugh at my expense.

-Costanza

This past summer a few of my college buddies all came to visit me to have a guys night out on the town. Everyone came over in the early evening and we grilled out and began drinking a few beers while we decided where to go.

While in the process of narrowing down a bar, one of my friends just told the rest of the group that he had consumed two Xanax pills in order to make the night a little more interesting. I don’t know much about prescription drugs, but I am pretty sure he just took a double of a daily dose, and planned to consume more alcohol on top of the pills.

We make it to the bar, where the music is blaring and there are too many guys and too few women. The beers and shots begin to flow when a table finally opens up, so we grab it while its still available.

We sit down and continue our conversation and order another bucket of beers. I see a cute (yes, not ugly) girl on the dance floor, so I decide to make my way over and see if she can hang with my sweet dance moves. She could defiantly hang, and I figure we danced through about two or three beers before I realized that I needed to cool off for a few minutes.

I go back to the table, open another beer before I notice something not right out of the corner of my eye. I turn my head to get a better view and see my pill popping friends head is down and is being held up by the palm of his hands. I reach over to see if he is passed out and shake his arm and the only sound produced was a loud moan and grumble combination. He lifted his head up for a few seconds and a trail of drool was going from his lip to the floor of the bar. I couldn’t help but start to laugh and even got a few of my other friends involved in this bizarre sense of humor.

After a few more minutes of poking fun, I noticed my friend really didn’t look well, so I told him to go to the bathroom and throw up. He got up (drool chin and all) and managed to walk to the bathroom. After 10 or 15 minutes of my friend having not returned I grew worried and walked into the bathroom to check on him. I looked in the first stall and there he was, dry heaving his brains out, with the bathroom attendant a few bar customers watching in awe.

When he stood up, he fell back down, so I had to help him up. I had to carry him and his vomit covered chin back to our table. I tried to round up the rest of our crew, but I wasn’t quick enough. Word had spread from the bathroom attendant that my friend was drunk and puking, so the bouncer tossed everyone out of the bar. Typical.

We make it to the front of the bar, carrying our friend and wait for the rest of our party. Meanwhile, my friend decides he needs to vomit again. Where am I going to tell him to go? We are standing next to another bouncer who is checking ID’s and are surrounded by cars since we are in a parking lot. I tell him to vomit if he needs to, and not to hold back. And the dry heaving begins yet again, this time in front of a line of people waiting to get in the bar.

My friend is making enough noise to steer some customers away from the bar, so now the bouncer get involved by telling us to get off his property. I tried to explain that we were off bar property, and were in the parking lot, but he didn’t want to listen. He said he was going to call the cops if we weren’t gone in the next two minutes.

My friend and I picked up the pill popper and began walking him back to my apartment. We didn’t make it more than 3 blocks before pill popper claims he couldn’t walk anymore. He faceplanted right into the lawn of a church and began throwing up again. (note: this was a Saturday night around 1am, so church was in less than 8 hours). I couldn’t help but laugh a little, and as I looked around, I noticed a police officer was directing traffic on the corner, and cars passing by began honking at my friend who was throwing up, again.

The police officer walked over and asked what was wrong. I didn’t think replying with “food poisoning” was a great idea, so I just offered that he had a little too much to drink and we were on the way back to my apartment 3 blocks away. He said if he wasn’t off the lawn in 3 minutes, he was going to jail. We all tried to pick our friend off the lawn, but he wouldn’t stop moaning and groaning about how he couldn’t walk any further and that he didn’t care if he went to jail. Great.

We manage to get him up and we continue to walk back to my apartment. I really don’t know what I was thinking during this next part, but I wanted to see how drunk/messed up my friend really was. He had just fallen into another bush a block from my apartment and the moaning was becoming unbearable. I picked up a stick and threw it in the direction of his groin area. WHAM! He didn’t move. We all couldn’t stop laughing after that happened. Our friend was sitting in a bush, and had just had a stick thrown at his nuts.

We FINALLY make it back to my apartment. There are about 6 of us there and I have no idea what to do with my friend. I get a really bright idea by handing him an old bathing suit and putting him in the shower. I figure the warm water will either sober him up or will add to his state of delusion, which he would appreciate. He sits in the tub and I crank the water on for him and walk out. Two reasons this was not a good idea: 1) I only have 1 bathroom, 2) he kept moaning. FUCK!

I went in to use the bathroom (the shower curtain was closed) and as I flushed the toilet, my friend became screaming uncontrollably about how the water was burning hot. I had no idea what he was talking about and by the time I put my hand to the water in the shower, it was a normal temperature. I really thought my friend was going crazy by this point.

Another person went to use the bathroom and the same scenario occurred, my friend was screaming his lungs out about the water. You see, since I live in a 1 bedroom apartment, and it had never occurred that the toilet flushing and the shower water were connected. When my friend would start screaming everyone in the living room would start laughing to the point of tears. Most of us were drunk by this point and I promise, hearing a grown man scream about hot water after what had happened earlier couldn’t have topped the night off any better. I believe all of us continued to flush the toilet for the next hour or so and fell asleep with him going “pleeeezzzz, waterrrrr, hottttttt, stoppppp”.

-sinbad

I really don’t even know where to begin with this next story. It has been talked about constantly between my friends and I over the past 4 years and people always ask at the end “did this really happen?”. Yes, it really did.

I forget how the night began, but I do know that a group of my friends met up with a group of girls at a local bar for drinks. As the night went on and guys began staking their claim on which girl they were going to try to shack with, everything became clear. This was one of the few nights I wasn’t confined to the ugly girl, but the next morning, I wish I had been.

I remember last call, and then having the bright idea of inviting everyone back to my house to see how far I could extend the night. Sure enough a few of the girls (including mine) decided to come back for more drinks. Could it be this easy? Yea, it really was.

We make it back to my place when another light bulb went off in my head (this next sequence truly shows the mind of an intoxicated college male) and I figure I want to get my girl alone. “Would you like a house tour?” I say in a drunken slurred state of speech. I remember her laughing and then smiling, then raising herself off the couch, 1-2-3 GO!

We make it to my bedroom where I decide I want to watch a movie, hoping she doesn’t realize that the TV in the living room is twice as big and that I just shut my bedroom door. I cant remember what movie I put on, but after I did, love was in the air. I couldn’t see straight, but I could see well enough to kiss my Saturday night flame. About 20 minutes later, loud bangs on my bedroom door and the sound of her friends screaming “the cab is here, were leaving” interrupted us. She asked if she wanted me for her to stay. What do you think? Its 3am, we were just making out, and this could be going somewhere. I reply “Yes, that would be great, I’ll give you a ride home in the morning.”

She asked for a pair of shorts to sleep in, so I handed her my favorite pair of my Universities basketball shorts for her to sleep in and gave her a shirt. Thirty minutes later, we passed out, movie still going, roommates still drinking and telling stories.

The next morning started off pretty typical. I rolled over and noticed the girl was staring dead into my eyes (ummmm HI!!!!) I tried to make her think I wanted to hang out with her again, but we all know this isn’t true. Yes, guys are deceiving.

I took her home, and then headed back to my house, drank some water, ate some cereal, then went into my room to tidy up a bit. I was getting my clothes ready for the wash, when I saw the pile of clothes the girl was wearing. I went to pick them up when I noticed something wasn’t right. There was an odor coming from the clothes she was wearing. I double checked the floor before I took further action, just to make sure I didn’t have a plate of food behind my chair; I didn’t.

I took the pair of shorts, and took a sniff, it wasn’t 2 seconds later that I began to dry heave so loud I heard my roommate start moving around in his room. The smell was so terrible that I took another whiff, and after that I felt that I was going to vomit. I cant to this day describe the smell, besides that it was definitely like a dried up patch of onions, turds, and sweat.

I ran over to my roommates room and began banging on the door. No way was he going to believe me. I told him the story, and MADE him smell the stench of 40 junkyards and garbage heaps. He began dry heaving. The smell was not capable of being produced by a normal human being. After about 10 minutes of dry heaving, laughing, and finally gathering our senses, (during this time we threw the pair of shorts on our other roommates head while he was sleeping. He woke up smelled them, dry heaved, didn’t find that funny, and then punched me in the arm.) we threw the shorts away and went to lunch.

Sinbad advice: girls, please shower before shacking up with a gentleman…unless you hate him.

-sinbad

My final year of high school, I wanted to have the best spring break possible. My closest friends growing up decided they all wanted to go to Cancun and I told them I was definitely in. It sounded too good to be true except for the fact that my parents weren’t on-board with the idea. They told me it was too dangerous and since I’m a pitiful girl who cannot fend for herself, my parents offered to take my best friend and me to the Bahamas, land of the reefer.

Back to the chase-- the parents, my friend (we will call her “Sara”) and I got on the plane and took off for Atlantis, where screaming children, hot men who are married and still looking, and women whose skin is so leather-like you could make a Louis Vuitton purse out of it awaited us.

Once we arrived to the resort, Sara and I did all we could to keep our desired wild spring break in-check, but the hotel bars and lobby lounges just weren’t cutting it anymore. We had had enough of receiving bizarre, creepy looks from 60-year-old men chewing on their stogies and drinking their scotch, so we decided one night that we wanted to go inland for some real fun. My parents were skeptical about what happened on the “big island” and told us to never venture outside of Atlantis so we didn’t inform them of this what-seemed-to-be amazing decision at the time. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen movie, “Holiday in the Sun,” but they snuck out of the Atlantis so we thought, if they can do it so can we.

We took a cab to Nassau to this allegedly “posh club” called Waterloo (really it looked like a large bathroom at your local 7-11) and for about the first hour we were at this club, we stood around a pool located in the center of a massive crowd of people and chain-smoked cigarettes while staring at strangers and not knowing what we had gotten ourselves into. Naturally, due to our high levels of discomfort, we collectively decided we wanted to get waste-faced and be bad asses. Because a 17-year-old is so knowledgeable about alcohol, I ordered one shot of Bacardi and no chaser; please keep in mind I did not know Bacardi is rum and I also did not know there is more than one type (strength). So the bartender handed over a shot and provided a chaser of Sprite. Being the hardcore bitch that I was and still am, I refused the chaser (“Man, I don’t need a chaser” I believe was my phrase of choice) and downed the shot with a strong attempt to show no pain in my facial expression. Immediately I looked at the bartender who is laughing and yelled “What the hell was that!” Obviously I took the chaser. So I was 17 years old at the time, could get hammered off three Solo cups of beer, and the bartender gave me a shot of 151.

I proceeded to run to the fence that enclosed this so-called posh club and felt insanely nauseous where I found myself standing next to this ultimate frat star jamming his fist down his throat and puking his brains out. Sara ran to get me water and came back to my rescue while I seriously contemplated vomiting and perhaps doing a somersault over the balcony to numb my body from the alcohol-induced sting. Once my frat friend finished his puking marathon, he looked at me and extended the same fist that was just in his throat to introduce himself. Then he extended his fist to Sara and we both reluctantly shook it because his friend was hot and we thought for some reason one of us just might have a chance to hook it with him. But where would we hook it? The room we were staying in which was adjoining to my parents room? We didn’t exactly have our thoughts in order but we sure did look pretty.

So we went inside to break it down to Busta Rhymes’ latest jams where this homeless-looking stranger of a guy was poll dancing and staring at Sara like he was going to take some serious advantage of her. Keep in mind his limbs were moving like normal humans limbs just do not move. Perhaps his bones were made of play-do or elastic; either way, Sara was not feeling the groove with this iPod commercial wanna-be. Oh, and the fact that we were dressed like the biggest prudes ever with large chunky wedge shoes and matching floral outfits from Express probably wasn’t helping out our game and only attracting the uppermost status of pedophiles. To avoid this oddly behaving character, she sprinted up the stairs to request a song from the DJ; meanwhile, on about the fourth step, she slipped and landed straight on her back and completely ate it. Her legs were covered in this bathroom floor-like black dusty substance, she was hobbling around because she probably had just broken her tail bone, and it was at that moment that we decided it was in our best interest to leave.

We took a cab back to Atlantis where my father was waiting by the casino, more pissed off than I have ever seen him. He asked us where we were and we blatantly lied and said we were outside; meanwhile, there were janitors running around everywhere with vacuums so loud we couldn’t hear ourselves talk, or probably form sentences for that matter. “The casino closed over an hour ago and there is no one up besides the people who work here,” my dad said to us as he took a full bottled water and chucked it across the hallway. He knew we were not telling the truth but we didn’t want to ruin the rest of our spring break gone wild experience so Sara and I stuck to our guns and lied until it was forgotten.

- Miss Robinson

I am not a doctor, nor am I trained in any form of medicine. However, I do know enough to self diagnose myself with a rare disease known as “The ugly girl syndrome”. I don’t know how many people are affected by this disease, nor do I know if there is a cure (besides banishing all bars where a possible ugly may exist.)

The disease is quite simple. It starts out with a male who travels to a bar alone, or with a group of friends. Our subject begins drinking and eventually you spot a girl from across the bar who he feels is perfect, and dreams about taking her home to meet his mother.

Our subject walks over, maybe asks to bum a cigarette, and buys her a drink. Our subject is now lost, and has entered the point of no return. He is lost in the drinks he has consumed, and he cant remember what questions he has asked her since he first sat down. Another round of drinks is ordered and some tacky mid 90’s song comes on that the girl loves. So they dance. It is at this point that the syndrome is at the highest point, because our subject informs the lady that he lives only a few blocks away and that they should vacate the bar.

I speak about the syndrome because I am one of the worst sufferers. I don’t know what has been programmed in my brain to where I only flock to the section of uglies at the bar. It doesn’t even make sense to me, because I love beautiful women. One of my close friends has said its an “efficiency” solution, which is crazy to me, but it makes sense. (the efficiency comment is made because ugly women will never turn you down, meaning you are always at 100%.)

Just last night I was in the UGS trance dancing with a girl who reminded me of Medusa (snakey hair, weird eyebrows, terrible clothes, etc). I swear, I knew what I was doing, I knew where it was leading, but I kept on dancing, kept on making conversation and all of the sudden the make out session began. I could see my friends who were 5 feet away, laughing and pointing at me (great feeling, I swear). I came home later that night to join the debate of who was uglier, the girl I was dancing with (my girl won the gold medal), or the girl currently asleep with my roommate. I could only imagine what the girl who was spending the night would be thinking if she woke up. What am I doing with my life?

A few months ago I have flocked to a girl who was wearing a backless shirt who needed to be in football uniform or a moo moo. Seriously, her back was seeping mounds of flesh and she was flaunting it. It was so bad at one point that my friends were gathered behind me taking pictures of her and laughing. Then other people at the bar starting taking pictures. Seriously, picture that; Flashes going off on a bar patio and people laughing. Terrible. It was like the paparazzi was taking advantage of my medical condition. I think she may have been missing a tooth as well.

You see the problem with the UGS is that the male is never in control. He knows what is going on, but cannot stop it. The force is far too powerful. Its like being under the influence of anesthesia, and being conscience of what is happening, but not having the ability to speak.

I know it may be odd to make this request, but with all the awareness ribbons out there, which color would you use for this?

-sinbad

It was the end of freshman year of college, and like many freshman, I was looking for a summertime job. A friend of mine had recommended that I look to take a late night shit with a well known, global, mail-carrying service as a worker on the loading dock. It seemed like an easy way to work a couple hours per day and make a decent salary, so I agreed.

My pal set me up with an interview time and the employer asked that I be there at 11pm on Sunday evening, as this was the shift that I would be working. That particular Sunday was the same day one of my good friends was moving away from our college town. He asked that all of his friends come over to celebrate by drinking beers and watching a NASCAR race at his house. This seemed innocent enough. I figured I would go over there, have a drink or two, then when all was said and done head over to my job interview. But as we all know, college-aged men don’t just have one or two. My one or two turned into three and ended somewhere near…well too many. To my amazement, I take a look at my watch and see that it is well past time to stop drinking before I head to my upcoming job interview. A rational man would just cancel the interview, but not this man.

On my way over to the interview I am thinking of ways to sober up; no time for a nap or some greasy food, so gum will have to do. As I arrive to the loading docks and the watchman points me in the right direction I’m thinking to myself, I don’t know how I got myself into this situation. I end up seated with the supervisor and charming her with some of my good ol’ boy stories and have her eating out of the palm of my hand. Who knows maybe she was an alcoholic and didn’t even notice the stench?

The information and interview portion is over and now it is time to take a tour of the warehouse. That seems simple enough, right? The tour is long and seems to just go around and around. This is a problem. What can someone who’s been drinking not do? Go very long without having to use the bathroom.

As I walk around the warehouse with the ten or so people in my group I start to get desperate. Looking back, I probably could have just asked someone to use the bathroom, but that logic doesn’t fly when you’re inebriated. I clumsily made my way to the back of the group, and once I had a little distance, I began to urinate in the middle of the loading dock floor. To this day, I have no idea how none of the workers loading trucks all around me didn’t say anything to me, or no one from my group simply turned around and pointed me out. As I finished up my business, I zipped up and ran away from the mess that I had made. I snuck back into the rear portion of my group and finished the tour.

The greatest part of the story is that I was later offered a position as a late-shift worker by the company.

-Costanza

Welcome fellow internet browsers, stalkers, and freaks to a website which takes aim directly at you. This site is meant to showcase the writings of a few friends who seem to lead normal lives, but have encountered many of the abnormal mishaps you only used to hear about.

Take a few minutes and read what the team has compiled and feel free to post the link and share it with your friends. This site will be updated weekly.

-sinbad