Why I flush (before I go go)


Someone once shared a story (no it wasn’t me) over drinks and lowered inhibitions for the sake of continuing the pissing game of “OHMAGAWD SHUT UP I GOT THIS STORY.” And with that story, I learned to flush before I go-go.

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ORANGE MOCHA FRAPPUCCINOS!

Once upon a time, there was a friend dealing with mother nature’s call at a water park. And like most public restrooms, the line was long. But thankfully for our hero, a stall opened up instantly. They rushed into the stall and commenced having a go-go. And once they flushed, terror rose. Or not exactly rise, but stayed there. Their go-go wouldn’t flush. Thankfully it wasn’t rising, but the go-go deed was still there. The line of people waiting to go-go just grew-grew. And with an inquiring knock on the door, our hero rushed to clean up, vacated the stall and didn’t look back.

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Breaking Go-Go.

Since that day, our hero always flushed before they go-go.

You flush before you go-go to check if your go-go will actually go-go down the toi-go (toilet if you didn’t pick up what I was putting down-down).

So that’s why I do the same. But even with the sound logic of that safety measure…I was betrayed.

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Yeah, this didn’t happen.

It was that distinct time between the early morn and the late eve. The cold air stirred and lingered, forcing the two other camp enthusiasts (my best friends) to take shelter under their 23488675309 blankets and myself with just 2 blankets (a bad call). Our little campers awoke and nudged each other.

Restroom?

Restroom.

Jerico, wake up! We’re going to the restroom.

Okay.

Bring the keys.

We’re gonna drive?

It’s fucking cold!

You’re right.

Our male campers were greeted with an overwhelming sensation of warmth artificially produced from the space heaters. But even with the warmth, it wasn’t enough to keep the far from pristine toilet seats from retaining heat. So it stung our campers with a cold bite. Fuck it, our campers thought, we’re fucking camping and camping is fun.

I disrobed to make a go-go, which happened often during the trip due to constantly eating processed food and jalapeno and cheddar bratwursts. I even chose the same toilet I used all fucking day because it hasn’t failed me. I sat my cheeks on the seat, coping with the cold, and flushed to test out the toi-go.

And just like a clogged toilet that won’t flush but will instead send the water rising…the clogged toilet sent the water rising. And when it rose it did more than rose: it poured; it overflowed; it was like a waterfall of unsanitary go-go water, minus the go-go. It was just toilet water, no go-go or gee-gee (pronounced gi-gi with a hard g), but still fucking grody.

Cut to our female camper. From her respective restroom, she hears the cry of a beast cut through the night air; a beast in pain; a beast in suffering; a beast who just soaked their cheeks.

I stood there, wet underwear and all, with the puddle of water growing behind me. The other two campers laughed. I shuddered from the cold.

And that’s why you flush before your cheeks hit the seat; taking the flush before you go-go rule a step further.

Only you can prevent wet cheeks.

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The ride back to the campsite.

(Mildly) Best Prank


Thank you to Brian A. Klems from Writer’s Digest for this entertaining writing prompt!

This article is based on a true story. Though highly exaggerated for comedic purposes, the story still holds to be true.

Pensacola, Florida. Early Fall 2010.

The sweltering Swahili heat beamed unforgivingly from the sky down on the citizens of the U Won’t Fail university (also known as the University of West Florida, local competitor to the formerly known establishment People Just Chillin’/Pensacola Junior College now known as People Still Chillin’/Pensacola State College). Our antagonist of this story and his friends take shelter from the Haitian sun in their apartment and are greeted with a Jean Claude Van Fuckin’Damn It kick to the entrance door.

“Peter here?” asked the booku-fro clad gentleman named Sylvio Duval the third and three-quarters.

“SHIEEEEEEEEEEEET, nah son,” said the coconut bikini clad chief Lonex Louisdormama.

Our antagonist, Jerico “no H goddamn it” Magalagalahnes, sat next to chief Louisdormamasaymamasahkumahkusa giggling like an Asian school girl, in which him being Asian didn’t help.

“He good?” Duval asked chief LouisCKdor about the giggling school girl.

“SHIEEEEEEET, yah son,” replied the chief.

Duval the third and three-quarters then marched in as if he were a sheriff in a lawless town, surveying the scene for any flaws or possibilities for a crime to be committed. Little did he know, a crime would be to be committed in the future the crime to be but has not been but will be have been and will be when it is committed.

But for the meantime, the future crime scene had an XBox and a budget flatscreen TV across a budget couch with generations of gluteus maximus’ having shared the gift of sitting upon; a bare kitchen with an even barer fridge except for the ingredients for a breakfast of champions: milk and cinnamon toast crunch because the dwellers felt chilled cereal was better to its typical counterpart; and in that bare kitchen was an island table that served as a throne to the jewels of sir Peter “Jackson” Roehl: his doughnuts.

“Aw shiet, doughnuts!” exclaimed Duval as he opened up the box and took the last one. “He’d be cool with this right?”

“SHIEEEEEEET, yah son,” replied chief Louisandclarkador.

For continued approval, Duval turned to Jerico, who attempted to speak in between his effervescent giggling, but was futile as told by the confused look on Duval’s face.

Duval then left, not before making another Jean Claude GoddamnIt kick to the entrance door that did absolutely nothing since he had to pull to open the door because it made sense kicking the door from outside but he’s really just breaking their door kicking it from inside.

Minutes passed while the chief read up on his coconut stocks. Jerico continued to giggle, this time at the headlines of the chief’s paper. The air was then broken with the entrance of Peter Jackson (Roel). PJ greeted the two with a simple nod and walked over to his family jewels throne and opened the box.

“Hey, who ate my last doughnut?” he mildly shouted.

“SHIEEEEEEEET, Sylvio son,” said chief Julia Louisdreyfusdor. And on cue, Jerico giggled.

“Damn it Sylvio!” PJ mildly shouted.

This moment; this is something I could exploit for future use, thought Jerico. He continued to giggle while PJ pulled the entrance door in a mildly angry manner and mildly shouted Sylvio’s name into the outdoor hallway, making his way to his enemy’s quarters.

A week later.

Another box lays on PJ’s throne and again there’s one doughnut left. So our genius giggling antagonist boxed the doughnut in a tupperware and hid it in the pantry. He didn’t eat it nor did he throw it away; he’s no monster. After setting the crime scene, he needed one last puzzle piece.

“Just write ‘thank you’ and sign it?” Duval sat in his chair with a sticky note and pen on hand.

Our little giggler giggled at his face and nodded his head, incapable of making any attempts at spoken communication. Duval shrugged, did as he was asked, and handed the sticky note to Jerico. He giggled and giggled, where Duval was pretty sure Jerico said thanks somewhere in his giggle fit.

 

A couple minutes later.

“Damn it, Sylvio!” PJ mildly yelled as he burst through the quarters of Duval. Duval scurried to his feet from his chair, confused and afraid at the mildly angry PJ. And before Duval could scream in defense, he saw the empty box in PJ’s hands with a note reading “thank you,” signed by himself.

And our giggler giggled and giggled and giggled.

Don’t stop till you get enough fantasy (what is it good for)


There have been few occurrences throughout cinema history where a song became so memorable thanks to the collaborative efforts of a motion picture that featured the song.

Some of those great examples are My Heart Will Go On featured in the record-breaking Titanic, (I’ve Had) The Time Of My Life featured in the smash musical hit Dirty Dancing, and See You Again from the recent fast-paced (fast speed if you will) action flick Furious 7.

But nothing comes close to the influence this hit song had on this beloved 90’s action comedy blockbuster that started a trilogy of explosions and not understanding the words that are coming out of my mouth.

Modern day songbird Mariah Carey is known for record breaking hits and robotic like unrealistic facial and body features that defy modern day science and could only be explained by a deal made with the devil, a deal made with entertainment media overlord Ryan Seacrest, a deal made with martyred gorilla Harambe from the afterlife.

Carey’s hit single Fantasy is a 90’s favorite that sends millennials and alike into a bliss of nostalgia. But as for myself, it speaks to me on deeper levels.

 

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My spirit animal. Really.

The joy expressed in the young Chinese character Soo Yung’s car karaoke rendition of this hit song is contagious and inspires hope to those who are hopeless.

Many a times I have found myself at the brink of pure misery. Even desperation. But when I remember the great words of Carey sung by Soo Yung, I find strength from within to carry on.

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No greater words to invoke hope.

But when the words lose their meaning and it all becomes moot (because overplaying is a thing) I don’t fret for there’s another inspiring track from the same series of equally inspiring films.

No greater two words in the history of two words have ever existed: Jimon Lee.

The sophistication of Chris Tucker’s rendition commands attention. A trait evenly matched by the late great Michael Jackson.

Tucker’s suaveness and showmanship has uplifted me from the deepest of depths where any upward motion seemed impossible.

Not only did he teach me to not fear and give up; he taught me to not stop till I get enough.

With two great renditions from already great songs, you’d think there was no room for another great hit.

But in the great words of this nation’s founding father General George Washington, “You’re fucking wrong.”

“What is-isit gooda fo’,” spoken by the great philosopher Jackie Chan.

War. What is it good for? Absolutely nothing.

Same with being weak; being hopeless; being broken; being a pussy little bitch running away from your many debts.

Crooner Edwin Star asks in his hit single War, “Who wants to die?”

I don’t. Do you?

No? Then you pick yourself up, talk sweet and look fine, Jimon Lee, and question “what is it good for?”

Then you answer nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“-at least don’t hurt them.”


It’s a dark world out there. As we age, we tend to hold more truth to that sentiment. For some, they’ve learned at an early age and sometimes through unfortunate circumstances. So because of that dark absolute, what do we do?

Religion has laid down rules to help ease the uncertainty and lead by example a life worth rewarding in the afterlife and beyond. Different philosophies from greats (and not so greats) have given some the roadmap to life. And some adopt their own way of life crafted and influenced by their experiences and knowledge gained throughout their lifetime.

As for myself, I’ve always felt that our purpose in life, our duty as human beings, is to help others along the way, and if we can’t, at least don’t hurt them.

Our prime purpose in this life is to help others. And if you can’t help them, at least don’t hurt them. – Dalai Lama

For everything we do in life, there is effort behind it. It’s practically science: For every motion, there’s a force behind it. With that being said, why do people put effort into hurting others? Is it all for personal gain? Or acting out on personal insecurities or unresolved inner turmoil? Or the common denominator: because someone had done the same to them?

It could just be the way I was raised, which my mom taught us to always mind ourselves and not give in to those who lash out or take out their frustrations on you. I guess because of that upbringing, I never understood the whole sense of going out of your way just to hurt others.

Now, given there are situations where some could be hurt by grossly ignorant or negligent actions of others, which is still not to be condoned in my personal opinion, but I’m speaking on the conscious intention and effort of hurting others.

I’m a big boy and yes, I understand why some people hurt others but even then. Why? We all have an expiration date on this life we live and no matter how much we like to think the world revolves around us and ourselves only, we are not alone in this world. There are other breathing, thinking, feeling souls in this world going through this crazy journey called life. The world, hell, life itself, is already hard, so why make it harder for somebody else? Why not put that wasted effort on putting others down, towards a positive force for the good of not only yourself or the other party, but the whole world.

Realists pessimists and similar types tend to romanticize the idea of the world being a dog eat dog world. And here’s the thing: it is. It really fucking is. But so fucking what? Why contribute to it? Why add to it? Because you think it’s a moot point to be the bigger person and help others as opposed to bringing them down? Because no matter how much good you put into this world, someone will hurt you and take advantage of your kindness?

You see, that’s where you draw the line. How dare you mistake kindness for naivety. How dare you mistake kindness for weakness. How dare you mistake kindness for a waste of effort when you could be creating a better world not only for yourself but for everyone else.

How dare you chose the easy way of being an asshole instead of a force for selfless, altruistic good.

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…and as always, don’t forget to smile and be happy =)

 

 

 

Nightmare #572 (It’s a funny and kinda gross post)


It happened again.

A stench so unformidable, yet familiar, lingered in the air.
The chatter of the public heard from a distance was guaranteed not so distant. The pressure of the ticking clock grew as the seconds turned to minutes.

I was taking a dump during my break at work.

 

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Thanks, Howie.

 

I rushed myself, following the procedure I always do when it comes to public dumping (flush beforehand to test the toilet, flush for every dump and after I wipe), and that’s when it happened.

I always laughed at the idea of the situation; the ridiculousness of the scenario…and I finally found myself at the (butt) end of a joke. I came to the last three sheets of toilet paper.

 

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This image haunts me.

 

It was three sheets. Three. Fucking. Sheets. Not necessarily a hail mary (that’s a one sheeter shitter), but definitely a predicament. I folded it for durability and security to not soil my hands.

In my hands, in my hands again. 

With no confidence, I brought the poor excuse for wiping material to my cheeks. But fear stopped me in my tracks. Was I ready to use this? I had to fully plan out every wipe. I had two rounds TOPS with the folded three sheeter, with folding it again, and that’s with a high risk of contaminating my hands.

Then I had the brilliant idea!

Shit, Jerico, just call the store from your phone! It’d be one hell of a funny story but you could get someone to grab you some toilet paper! 

I did the awkward shuffle with my pants down to grab my phone. Not in the right pocket, which is fine cause it’s usually not there. Okay. Check the left pocket…

 

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Swiping left and right as I wipe.

 

Utter. Fear.

Nothing. Not there. My phone is on the table in the backroom.

At this particular moment, the trolling fates have called upon me to partake in their ritual of toilet humor embarrassment. And they’re having a fucking ball.

This is the part where I imagine the scenario I’ve always joked about, where you do the awkward box step with your pants down to your ankles, moving with desperation to a destination that will hopefully have solitude in the form of ass wiping material. And though you move with desperation, you pray that you don’t have any excess fecal matter from your pooper that could run the risk of following the rules of gravity and trickle down your legs.

But I didn’t submit to the box step. I bit the bullet. I looked the fearsome dog that is fear itself in the eye and accepted the possible consequences for my blind recklessness mistaken for pure confidence. I gave myself a pep talk. I became my own hypeman.

 

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Key & Peele. Rap Battle Hype Man sketch. Classic.

 

I was ready to do what needed to be done. It was about to go down. History was going to be made. Books will be written about this exact moment and people will shout my name as a source of inspiration for when they find themselves in the great turmoil of not having toilet paper.

But then by chance, I thought…yup.

There was a backup roll. Just shoved all the way up the dispenser where you can’t see it.

 

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I see you trying to hide and shit.

 

But there was a lesson to be learned here: always have faith. And just like faith…you can’t always see it, but it’s there. And if it’s not, then the last person to poop screwed you over. Or better yet, left you shit out of luck.

 

 

What I say and what I do

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