BLACK PANTHER PROBLEM

I was talking to my Brother-in-Law, Huey Newton III, yesterday.  He is having problems with his wife (my sister).  He said to me “Rusty, man, I need yo’ help wit dis bitch rite he’re.”  Well, hold on a second…let’s rewind a bit and get some perspective.  You see, Musty, my older sister, and Huey met at a New Black Panther Party rally in Oakland, California in September of 1995.  Huey is let’s say…not very tolerant of the fact that I’m white.  I keep trying to tell him that the name Shrew is, from what my mom told me, a Ugandan name, straight out of Africa, and that my family carries a rare albino genetic code that makes us all just LOOK Caucasian; but he doesn’t want to hear it.  So be it.  He insists that whenever I talk to him I speak to him in Ebonics, not because that is the only language he understands, he actually has a PhD. in linguistics; he just thinks Ebonics was a ridiculous segregationist technique created by the white man and that since I am a ridiculous white man that I should be forced to speak it.  That’s fine with me; when in Rome right?  So, therefore, I just adjust my vernacular when I’m around him, just as you would switch to Français when in Paris.  Musty is, of course, fluent in Ebonics, and is much more versed in the enunciation and inflection of the Ebonic vernacular than I am.  I’m working on it though.  Now that you have some background on Huey, let’s get back to his dilemma:

[ME] “So wuss yo beef wit Musty, cuz?”

[HUEY] “Bruh, lemme tell u bout dis heffa! I go tuh fuk dis bitch lass night, right? She gon tell me “My pussy hurts from da lass time we had sex”, I say, WHU!? Fuck dat shit!

[ME] “For real dog? Damn, wuz she sore or some shit from yo black mamba?”

[HUEY]  ”Nah, Homey, I get ta talkin’ to dis bitch and she tell me, after like 30 minutes or some shit, that it ain’t da pussy that hurts, it’s that she ain’t in da mood.”

[ME] “WHU! Bitch betta recognize!”

[HUEY]  “Dog, I wuz mad as hell, and I said, whut chu NEED tah do, is wash dat stank as pussy! Dat shit smell  like a ferret’s dick, girl! Dats problee why yo punk ass daddy named yo ass Musty!”

[ME] “Oh shit son! Den whut?”

[HUEY]  “Bruh, dis bitch dun pulled a gat out on mah ass!  She said “You evah say some shit like dat again, and I’ll blow yo muh fuckin’ dick, right duh fuck off!”  Yo! I wuz like, Oh SHIT dis skeezy is for real!

[ME] “Dat shit’s legit homey!  So, whutchu gon du now?”

[HUEY]  “I’m gon apologize to mah boo.  She don’t need shit like dat comin’ from her man.  I bought some flowers and candy and shit, cause bitches love flowers and candy and shit, you know what I’m sayin’ Dog?”

[ME] “True dat.”

[HUEY]  “A’ight bruh, I appreciate you lettin’ me holla at chu.  Peace out.”

[ME] “A’ight homey.”

Now that wasn’t so bad was it?  Nothing but a simple little misunderstanding between a married couple.  It happens to us all.  The point is that we learn to understand and listen to what our partner is trying to say and respect THEIR point of view as well.   Peace out, Homey.

CUCKOO FOR CAT SHIT

There’s a lot of construction work going on in and around where I currently work.  They recently hit one of the sewer lines to our building, by accident.  This has left my fellow co-workers and I stuck with using Porta Potty’s for the foreseeable future.  In addition, it is hot as a cat’s cunt outside and the Porta Johns are becoming especially ripe as no one has changed them out in awhile.   Now, like most guys, I’m sure, or at least I hope, as I don’t want to be the only one out there, I take pride in the various places on this earth that I have masturbated.  In Bathrooms, in vehicles, in the forest, in a tool shed, up in a tree, in a McDonald’s deep freezer, etc.  The world is awash with my seed.  I’ll bet if you took a black light everywhere you went you’d be shocked at how much semen, not just mine, is on everything in this world.  Don’t look at me like that.  You don’t think that the mobile device in your hand right now, or the mouse you are moving has semen on it from the guy in the factory in Guangzhou, China that put it together?  You’re livin’ in a dream world, Neo. With the one child policy in China there is an imbalance of 120 boys born to every 100 girls (Schorn).  That means lots of guys that can look, but can’t touch; so they touch themselves instead; then your phone, mouse, or keyboard. So, since we all know you did NOT meticulously clean your phone when you purchased it; you now have a Chinese factory worker’s jizz on you, congratulations.  Back to what I was originally talking about; strange jack off locations.  So, I have a good view of the Stonehenge-like configuration of Porta Potties, from my office window, down there in the construction zone.  I say Stonehenge-like cause there are about ten shitters in a circle, facing outwards, I would assume it’s to facilitate maximum shitting efficiency from all angles of the worksite.  So, as I’m looking at the Potties I think to myself [ME1] “You know Rusty, you’ve never busted a nut in a Porta Potty before, have you?” [ME2] “No, Rusty, you know that’s right, I never have, good call.” [ME1] “Thanks, Rusty, shall we partake in a masturbatory session in the Porta Potty?” [ME2] “Oh, yes Rusty, that sounds delightful.”   So, I went down to the worksite, chose a suitable Shitter to utilize and shut the door.  I was immediately hit by the smell of blue Kool-Aid, gorgonzola cheese, burnt hair and of course shit.  Despite the smell, I whooped it out and started stroking, recalling women, animals, objects, etc., from my Jackabase (database from which you recall jack-offable pictures and/or scenarios).  Just before any images or scenarios had coalesced, in my mind for me to use, I looked down into the shit pit.  Down at the bottom, in a large pile, was a sunburst orange colored pile of shit that definitely was not human.  I concluded, while still stroking, that it could only be cat shit, as I have extensive knowledge of cat shit.  Then, while still stroking, I pondered as to how cat shit, and so much of it at that, got into a Port Potty in the middle of a construction site?  I imagined, while still stroking, that one of the workers who had to clean up stray cat shit around the site, finally got sick of it.  He gathered up all the stray cats, took them by the arm full to the Port Potties.  He then proceeded to squeeze there abdomens with both hands hard and fast.  The cats yelp “MRRRROOOOOWWW!!!” and it was over, the cat shits itself into the pit like a squeezed toothpaste tube, he tosses the now evacuated cat out the door to continue on with its day, and does the rest of them; no more work site clean up.  Still stroking, I conclude that that could be the only...only……only……….uuuunnnnngggghhhh…….uuuuuhhhhhh…uuuuuuuhh…the only way cat shit could have gotten into the shit pit, in a Porta Potty, on a construction site.  I think I just jacked off, in Porta Potty, to cat shit, that’s a first on top of a first, literally.  Does anybody have a tissue, this Potty’s all out! 

Sources:

1)      My memory

2)      Schorn, Daniel. China:Too Many Men. CBSnews.com. 2009. Web. (accessed

29AUG2011).

HIGH FIVE'N and DEEP SIX'N

I figured that I’d expand upon my Rusty’s Miracle Loaf small business enterprise, which is booming by the way.  If you aren’t familiar with Rusty’s Miracle Loaves refer to my post (Lake Shitticakapupupeepee from 24AUG2011).  I almost exclusively eat the Dollar Store white bread and GNC multivitamins.  I do this because TIME is MONEY.  I have a schedule of approximately a full sized loaf every three hours.  Upon producing and packaging the loaves I have a network of distributors of whom I keep in an underground status as I do not pay taxes to the Government.  I figure that the product I offer is not necessarily a manufactured product in the same way as let’s say a wooden chair or a car stereo would be.  I think that what I have for sale is more akin to prostitution.  A lady of the night sells her body for money.  She is not producing anything; she is just utilizing the natural function of what God gave her.  Her bodily orifices will perform as they were intended, for the most part.  With Miracle Loaves, my body is performing as IT was intended.  The prostitute was most likely going to fuck someone anyways, thus it stands to reason she might as well make some money while she’s at it.  I was going to shit anyways, so therefore I will make money as well.  The wooden chair or the car stereo were not going to materialize out of thin air, to be sold for profit, without the effort of a worker.  As my loaves are going to be created whether I like it or not, why not construct a corporate structure to take advantage of the situation?  For every $1 worth of bread I eat I produce $6 worth of nutrient rich shit for fertilizer.  That’s a 600 percent increase!  On any given day I’ll clear 200 to 300 bucks easy.  Not bad for just sitting on the crapper playing video games and reading Penthouse.  The toilet, not necessarily the bathroom, but the toilet, is my sanctuary, as it is with most men.  If I could do all my business from there I would.  

 As far as spending goes, I have to admit, I tend to splurge stupidly when I have extra money.  Lately, however, since I’ve been raking in the cash on this venture of mine, I wanted to treat myself. I figured since I’m on the crapper every three hours, I’d have something installed.  It is a robotic arm attached to the wall across from me.  It’s only function is to HIGH FIVE me every time I yell out “CHU-CHING!”, which just so happens to coincide with the DEEP SIX-ing of my shit.  For comic relief I had a live monkey head mounted above the arm which is kept alive intravenously utilizing a blood transfusing pump system installed behind the wall.  It just sits there and does a monkey scream in terror every time it sees the arm move to high five me.  The monkey head can’t do much else but scream in terror as it’s pretty much brain dead and running on the constant injections of adrenaline pumped into it to keep it functioning in a semi-conscious state, but it’s still hilarious!  Oh man, I feel another loaf coming on right about now, I gotta go and get paid! CHA-CHING! CHA-CHING!

Side Note: You wouldn’t believe me if I told you how much time and effort I put into creating the bathroom scene picture with the robotic arm and live monkey head using nothing but MS Paint.  Too long is the answer, far far too long, but it does look awesome though. 

HURRICANE STRENGTH HEMORRHOIDS

Have you ever tried and succeeded in shitting into a bag?  I have and have.  Now, I’m not talking some large trash bag or some pseudo toilet set up, or even shitting in a hole and then scooping it into a bag like when you’re camping.  I’m talking squatting over a quart-sized Ziploc sandwich bag and shitting into it with the precision of a diamantaire trying to create an Asscher Cut diamond.  Why didn’t I just shit in the toilet you ask?  (sarcastic and condescending tone) “Well…ummm…the Hurricane, maybe….?”  You see, I was trapped by Hurricane Irene in a room about 12ft by 12ft; don’t ask why, it’s a longer story than you’ll want to read.  Having a sudden onset of “Punching Midget Bowels” (see my post THUNDER POO from 15AUG2011) I debated between braving the gale force winds and certain death or shitting in-house.  I opted for shitting in-house.  Frantically, I scurried around the small space looking for the essentials: something to shit into; something to wipe the shit off with; and something else to put the something I shit into…into, to reduce the smell.  I found some cloth rags, some scraps of paper towels, an old TPS report and I even sacrificed one of my socks for the cause.  Now, not only did I have to squat over this bag and shit into it, but because it’s was a sandwich sized bag, I had to hold it with both hands.  Last thing I needed was to miss the mark and shit on my hands or have an unexpected blow out which would rip the bag away from me.  So, squatting, I had my left hand in front holding one end of the bag and right hand in rear under my ass holding the other side of the bag.  I held it open and went for it.  Operation Soft Serve was a success!  Oh shit, wait! I have to pee!  I forgot!  I always have to pee right as I’ve finished shitting...can’t….stop….it,…too….late!  Operation Golden Shower was in full affect.  In a moment of clarity, I realize what needed to be done.  I release my right hand grip on the now poo-filled bag and with my left quickly jostle it into an inline position with my dick.  Oooooohhhhh….that’s nice.  As I am sitting their urinating atop my own shit, into a Ziploc bag, in a small confined space, during the middle of hurricane, I can’t help but feel like a mangy homeless dog squat-shitting on someone’s pristine lawn in the suburbs.  Phew, finally I finished.  I wiped my ass, sealed up the bag with the convenient Ziploc bag seals; yellow stripe, blue stripe, makes green stripe and we’re all set.  Operation Irene, which is the overall name for both Operations Soft Serve and Golden Shower, was a complete success.  Now I just gotta figure out which mail box to put this Ziploc bag full of shitty-piss into.      

AS QUIET AS TWO GORILLAS, ON PCP, IN A LIBRARY

Have you ever tried to be EXTRA quiet for whatever reason; not to wake up the spouse, baby, dog, whatever, but you just ending up making a SHITLOAD of noise instead?  I came home this morning, unusually early, and realized that my wife and baby weren’t up yet.  Finally, some quiet time to myself.   I went into the bathroom to change into my lounge shorts that were on the floor.  Figuring, while I was there I'd take a piss.  So I took a piss, and being the considerate husband that I am, lowered the toilet rim, which slipped out of my fingers and SLAMMED down onto the toilet making that wincingly loud “PAAAAP!”  I stopped in my tracks, listening for the sounds of rustling in the bedroom, “Phew!” nothing…. good, back to what I was doing.  I start to put on the shorts, thrusting my first leg through while balancing on the other.  The problem was that there was a pool of water on the floor that I couldn’t see because the light was off.  My single balancing leg immediately lost traction on the wet floor and flew out from under me.  I attempted to catch myself but my leg was still tangled in my shorts and I hit the floor and side of the bathtub like a cow dropped from a second story building onto a fruit stand, “PUUH-DOOOM!”  I’m starting to feel like I’m in an original BATMAN TV series episode; BOOM! POW! BLAM!  After busting my ass, I nurse my sore areas while sharply yelping a muffled “Motherfucker!”  Standing up, I hobble my way out of the bathroom and head to the bedroom to put my ear up to the door.  I wanted to see if I could hear the baby crying or rustling without going in.  As I limp over through the dark hallway I trip over a vacuum left out by my Wife and like an amateur pole vaulter I lunge forward, smashing my face directly into the door handle.  The rest of my body hits the middle of the door causing a massive “KA-POOM!” that, within the bedroom, must have sounded like a WWII Nazi bunker getting hit with a 500LB bomb.  I hit it so hard with my face that it knocked the door itself out of alignment with the frame.  My wife jumps out of bed; the baby shit’s itself and starts crying; and cats are flying through the air like Hacky Sacks at a Nirvana concert and I am face down in the carpet with a concussion.  Needless to say, my anticipated quiet time became anything but quiet.  Fuck me, right?

LAKE SHITTICAKAPUPUPEEPEE

I have always had aspirations of owning a farm.  For now, though, I am relegated to my back yard.  I have set up a small garden area where I grow squash, tomatoes, radishes, etc.  Next to that I have several rows of corn.  I used to use a Native American technique which is to add a small fish (a guppy or something similar) to the seed hole thus introducing a burst of nutrients from which the plant can feed as it grows.  Kinda like the original Miracle Gro.  This, however, started to get a little tedious as my garden grew larger; plus I was decimating the population of my kid’s goldfish bowl as going back and forth to the local pond for more guppies got to be a pain in the ass.  So, I had to come up with a solution.  “D’uh!” I said to myself.  I could just go and buy some fertilizer or manure from the garden shop in town. 

            The manure worked out great but it started getting pricey.  Then one day, I was sacrificing butt babies to the porcelain god, when I flushed the toilet, it clogged, and started overflowing.  “Aw fuck!”  I shouted as the toilet gushed forth like a geyser pouring onto the floor of the bathroom and immediately out the door.  The chocolate river ebbed and flowed through the hallway, then across the hardwood of the living room on its way to the kitchen.  I panicked and grabbed one of my cats, knocking it unconscious by whacking it up against the wall and dropped it in front of the tide of turds as an organic sandbag to slow it, but it was no use.  I figured if I added more cats I could halt the rush of shit water so I started whacking cats against the wall like their species depended on it.  Five unconscious shit soaked felines later and the deluge still just continued right around them.  I thought to myself “If I only had more cats! Fuck!”  The surge of fecal fluid trekked across the glued down squares of linoleum flooring in the kitchen and headed for the screen door in the back.  I could only sit there in disbelief as the river of rank finally exploded through the mesh of the screen door leaving solids on one side and a liquid colon cocktail on the other to flow down the steps.  Finally, one of my cats regained consciousness and, remembering it’s emergency flooding training, ran to the bathroom, gripped the toilet input water valve wheel with its teeth and rightee tight-eed it.  The flow at the bathroom end had ceased.  The business end of the tsunami of shit, however, concluded its path of destruction in my garden by flooding it completely.

            All I could do was let the waters of the newly formed Lake Shitticakapupupeepee drain into the ground over the next couple of days.  I threw my hands up in frustration and avoided the garden for a full week.  Upon coming back to till the soil, rip out dead plants and start the garden fresh, I noticed that not only were my plants not ruined; they were flourishing.  The squash and radishes, despite a brown hue, looked amazing.  The tomatoes looked like plump ebony goodness and the corn like…well; it looked like really good corn; with corn on it.  That’s when it hit me!  Why the fuck am I paying for manure when I’ve got it for free right here!?  In fact, apparently, my shit is so bangin’ that if I can get a garden to look this good, I could even sell this stuff.  So that’s what I did; I sold it.  I started eating a loaf of white bread and a multivitamin every day then followed it with a Metamucil chaser to speed things along.  I was a human fertilizer assembly line.  I had it down to three hours between shits and thanks to all the white bread in my diet it came out in perfectly firm logs ready for plastic wrapping.  I call it Rusty’s Miracle Loaf.  They are selling like hot cakes and on top of that I get Government tax breaks for falling under the Green Business Initiative.  So, I get paid and veggies get made.  Ain’t America great?!

DEEPTHROAT BAGHDAD

I do a little freelance photography for the New York Times, every once in awhile, more as a favor to them than for work, but it helps keep me occupied.  So, there I was, out in a makeshift tent city within a hurriedly set up Marine compound about 15 miles to the East of Mandali, Iraq, and about 65 miles from Baghdad, snugged right up on the Iranian border.  I woke up to the sound of sporadic gun fire in the distance as happened about every other morning during the 2 weeks I was there.  Inside the large tents, at least for the journalists, civilians, red cross, etc., we had air conditioning and almost pleasant accommodations.  By about 1000 in the morning I was cleaned up and getting ready to head out of the relative cool of the tent.  Cool as in, 87 degrees; which beat the hell out of the 122 degrees outside of the tent.  I stepped outside, stretched my arms to the sky just as I imagined the Babylonian king Hammurabi might have on his mornings under the same skies centuries ago.  I opened my mouth and began to yawn……YAAAWWWWNNN GGGGGAAAAHHHHHGGGGGGG!!!!!  (GAG!) (COUGH!) (GAG!)

A HUGE black fly flew directly down my throat and landed just beneath my tonsils!  Now just for clarification, these aren’t the flies you may be used to in America.  If you have never been to Iraq or just in the Gulf/ Mesopotamian region in general, before, there is something you need to know about the flies.  They are fucking HUGE!  The best size analogue is the eraser of a pencil…..take that and double the size and that’s what was buzzing away furiously deep in my throat.  I felt like I had inhaled Tinker Bell’s drunken hairy Italian cousin Benji Venito.  This creature, who I am calling STEVE, was buzzing and squirming around in an attempt to crawl back OUT the way it came.  It was already past the point where the gag reflex would be activated.  I had a choice to make as STEVE crawled slowly up my throat; its fluttering wings reverberating in my ears via my sinus cavities.  I either had to swallow this fucker or hack him up.  Since he was so far down; I opted to swallow.  I manned up, took a huge dry gulp and my throat muscles forced STEVE down deeper.  The thing that I could never have known is that STEVE came from a long line of proud warrior flies with a lineage dating back to the ancient Persian Empire.  His great ancestors were sucking nutrients out Cyrus the Great’s camel’s shit.  STEVE, despite losing serious ground, began to claw and buzz his way back up.  In a panic, I immediately swallowed STEVE back down a second time.  Once again, STEVE fought back, “I KEEL YOU! YOU MUDHUFUCKA!”  he said, in defiance, as he now leaped and bounded up my esophagus.  Finally, with my salivary glands now running in overdrive, despite the dry weather, I porn star gulped one last time.  STEVE’s long line of nobility ended, that day, with me, amongst the chyme within my stomach.  He was a strong fly; a determined and proud fly; and he was also a big fat nasty hairy fucking fly!  Good riddens STEVE maybe you shouldn’t fly down people’s fucking throats dipshit!

LIFEGUARD HIERARCHY

When it comes to lifeguards in this world, I have found that there is a hierarchy.  You have the Baywatch California lifeguards who are hand selected, go through rigorous testing, and are professional and vigilant.  Then you go down the food chain a little bit to the YMCA pool lifeguard who is still fairly professional, requires a good swimming ability, is semiannually tested in basic water safety as well as CPR and basic life saving of some sort.  After that is the local neighborhood outdoor pool lifeguard.  This may be an actual full time employee position or just a local high school/ college kid summer job.  Minimal training in basic CPR and pseudo swimming ability is all that is really required.  They may or may not be in the best of shape, as this is not a primary job of theirs, and professionalism is dependent on their (GAFF) “Give A Fuck Factor”.   If they GAF then that’s good; if they don’t GAF, who’s gonna call them on it? 

Then you have THIS GUY…. whom I noticed today.  This is the bottom feeder; the tape worm; the primordial ooze of the lifeguard hierarchy.  The Motel outdoor pool lifeguard.  This guy was a real winner.  I saw him and had to stop my car, pull over, roll down the window, turn off the radio and devote my full attention to understand him.  He was magnificent.  Overly tanned, good sized gut but not necessarily fat just, portly, I guess is a good word.  He had “taught fat”.  If you don’t know what that is, then next time you’re naked in front of the mirror jump up and down; anything that flops like a pancake or keeps jiggling when you stop is NOT taught fat.  Taught fat feels and acts like the hard casing on a Honey Ham; its fat just not flabby fat.  Anyways, you fuckers got me on a tangent explaining taught fat; back to the Motel Pool lifeguard.   So, standard red lifeguard shorts, he ACTUALLY had the white sun tan lotion just on the nose (I shit you not), and he was sifting the dead leaves, bugs, cats, and other foreign objects out of the 15 FT by 8 FT pool with that netted pole sifter thing.  Now this is at 1130 in the morning on a Sunday.  No one’s gonna be in that fucking pool, guy!  Who are you planning on guarding that a sign that says “No life guard on duty, be careful” couldn’t take care of?  No one is the answer.  He was sifting that pool for himself, to quench his honey ham gut after a long afternoon of getting even more unnecessarily tanned.   This guy had the most meaningless of the lifeguard species’ jobs.  Was he gonna watch anybody; save anybody's life; keep someone from drowning in the 3 feet of motel pool water?  What can I say…  I was in awe of the bronzed Buddha, so, of course, I immediately reserved next weekend at that Motel  and will soon enough get to experience the uniqueness of this guy, myself; this lowest life form on the aquatic life savers totem pole….the Motel pool lifeguard.

TECHNICOLOR MIDGETS

Do you remember those ball pits, like they had in places like Chuck E. Cheese’s?  You know, it was an open pit filled about 3 to 4 feet deep with hollow plastic colored balls.  You’d jump in through some orifice suspended above the pit and sift around amongst the balls, pretending to drown in the balls (not meant to be a joke but still funny), swimming in the pit, hiding from your friends, and just generally carrying on.  Well, as fun as it was…..there’s a dark side to the ball pit.  About 2 years ago I was part of a South American country to country tour promoting my Exotic Cheese Company (it’s a side project I’m doing just for fun).  My partner, Carlos, and I had just wrapped up a long day of meet and greets with the local businesses in the area and decided we wanted to go out and blow off some steam. 

Of course, this isn’t the first time I’d been to Ecuador so I wasn’t looking for the usual tourist spots…I wanted the seedy underbelly; the good stuff.  So, Carlos and I go to this spot he knows about.  He says to me “El Rusto, have chu ever been to a cock fight?”  [ME] “I would ask which version of the noun COCK you are referring to, but in either case the answer would be YES.”  [Carlos] “Well, El Rusto, chu have no seen nussing yet den, I haf for chu something muy especial!”  [ME]”Oh really, well Carlos, you have me intrigued; lead the way.”  After a short period of walking through corrugated steel walled corridors that flowed through the various shanties we came upon a rusty steel door. It had been painted a brilliant red once, long ago, but was now faded and corroded, and you could hear faint howling and garbled sounds just beyond it.  [Carlos] “This chit makes eh cock fight seem like a tea time partee wit chur leetle niece.”  Carlos thrusts the door open to reveal a large room with a pit in the middle that is completely surrounded by tiered benches.  On-lookers are placing bets and screaming from upon the benches into the activity in the pit below.  The pit was filled to the brim with colored plastic balls.  “Is this a shitty Ecuadorian Chuck E. Cheese’s knock off?” I said to myself.  There are two ropes leading into the balls, which were secured to cleats just outside of the pit.  I was trying to figure out what all the screaming and shit talking from the bleachers was about, as I couldn’t see anything amongst the balls.  At that moment I heard a loud shriek come from within the ball pit and a tiny fist, cut off cleanly, still clenching the dagger it was apparently holding, came flying out up into the crowd.  The crowd suddenly went silent.  One of the ropes then snapped taught against the cleat.  A man came running up, untied the rope and hauled up what was attached to it.  It was a dwarf, sweating profusely, with blood, which was not his own, covering him. 

It seemed obvious that he must have been the victor in whatever was going on down there in the depths of the balls.  The other rope was hauled up and what was left of a midget came up, limbs dangling by just the tendons and pieces falling off, and quite clearly dead.  [ME] “Carlos, what the fuck is going on here?”  [Carlos] “Eese fucking meedgit fighting El Rusto! Keep watching; my favorite fighter is coming up, El Gaupo eez heez name.”  

 El Gaupo is a primordial Dwarf which, if you don’t know, aren’t exactly very imposing looking as they are considerably smaller than even a dwarf.  Don’t let the looks deceive you though, El Guapo is a beast. They pitted him up against a full grown Laron Syndrome dwarf.  I thought for sure El Gaupo was gonna get fucked up as Laron’s don’t usually have the disadvantage of disproportionatly short arms and legs, as many typical dwarfs do.  They both jumped into the pit, disappearing into the balls; you can imagine the terror running through each of them as they sift through the balls unable to see anything.  They were completely covered by the balls.  It’s like hunting a panther through a dense Technicolor jungle hoping your reflexes are faster than its when it pounces on you.  Suddenly, a loud howl erupts from the pit!  A thick constant spray of blood comes shooting out of the balls and just like the sprayers at the Bellagio in Vegas, swayed back and forth and all around.  The howling continued to get louder and louder until a loud crack of what could only be the femur of one of the contender’s legs is heard.  Then another bone crack, followed by sheer terror screaming.  Then, when we could barely handle the blood curdling howls a moment longer, came a loud hacking sound and gargling.  Then complete silence.  Once again, the rope went taught.  They pulled on the rope and out came El Guapo!!  He was completely soaked in blood, intestines, brain bits; you name it, he was covered in it.  He had the Laron dwarf’s full head by the hair in his left hand, followed by nothing but the full spinal cord attached to it, which he had, apparently, ripped out with his bare hands.  They tried to pull the Laron dwarf’s body up, but the body must had been in such bad shape that the rope had nothing to attach to anymore.  So, Carlos was right, Technicolor ball pit midget fighting blows cock fighting, of either kind, out of the fucking water.  Next time you're in Ecuador ask around, you just might get to experience a Technicolor Midget fight of your own, I highly recommend it.

I CAN SEE YOU

Ghosts creep me the fuck out, but it’s not for reasons you’d think.  I would say that I am not, particularly, scared of ghosts, although I can’t say for sure.  If I woke up to one rattling chains, moaning, and drooling ectoplasm above my bed I’d more than likely run away screaming like a little bitch, leaving my wife and child to be possessed or whatever it is that ghosts do.  I’d come back with a priest and some flowers later and fix the situation.  My biggest problem with them is their creepiness.  I imagine that all my dead relatives are around me at all times as ghosts just meandering around seeing what it is I do all day.  It’s like trying to read a book with someone resting their chin on your shoulder and breathing heavy.  It’s fuckin’ creepy.  I imagine that some little cousin of mine, that died in a car accident, somewhere, is standing there in the bathroom watching me make crinkle faces trying to shit out last night’s Jalapeno meat loaf surprise; or my Aunt Suzie, who was a preschool teacher, discovering that I like to trim my ass hair in the sink mirror (See post: Amazonian Ass Hair on Arbor Day, 27jul2011); or that my dead great- grandmother is watching me when I jack off in the closet while asphyxiating myself with a shoe lace.  I sit there masturbating and crying “I’m sorry grandma-ma, I’m sorry!”, and she is just looking at me in shame, shaking her head.  It’s really unnerving cause on one hand….I’m gonna jack it, ghost or no ghost, it’s gonna happen….but on the other hand…. If my religious belief structure is right, I’m gonna see all these people who have been watching me my whole life from the other side, after I die.  Can you imagine going to the afterlife and your dead uncle Marty saying:

“Boy, what in the hell were you thinking shoving that fluorescent light bulb up your ass, in 2007, while you jacked off?  You didn’t think that shit was gonna break!?” “Maybe if you weren’t so stupid you wouldn’t have had anal leakage for the next 37 years after that.” 

 I’ll have to deal with that shit for eternity!  Would that be considered hell, then? 

HOT ROMANIAN TWINS (PART DOUĂ)

(Conversation continued from Part One)

[ME] So, I’m still having a hard time wrapping my head around this.  Let’s say Ioana is giving her boyfriend a BJ?  What are you doing, Stefania, while she’s doing that?  Are you playing fucking Scrabble or something?  I mean seriously!

[Stefania] Well, I have always enjoyed playing the flute and the saxophone.  It’s actually the perfect time for me to practice my music as I can’t do much else.

[Ioana] Yeah, and when Stefania is playing her music it’s almost like me and my boyfriend have our very own soundtrack and Stefania gets time to practice for her recitals.

[ME] Well, what if..um…Ioana’s boyfriend…isn’t…..how should I put this?.... accurate.  I’d think that’d wreck your concentration a little bit, Stefania, not to mention fuck up your hair.

[Ioana] Sometimes it happens; we’ve come to accept it.  Besides, Stefania’s boyfriend couldn’t hit the side of a barn if he was 4 inches from it. 

[Stefania] he he he, that’s true…

[ME] You’re telling me that while Ioana is BJ-ing her boyfriend you are jamming away with your music, completely oblivious to what’s going on 2 inches from your nose?  You know girls; I have to tell you….this shit blows my mind.  I mean you say you don’t feel each other up or anything sexual like that but what about in the shower? Ioana, you have the right arm and Stefania has the left arm.  I’m sorry, but someone is rubbing titties and someone is rubbin’ coochy, there’s just no way around that.  You can’t tell me that there ain’t some tinglin’ goin on, some thunder down under when you soap each other up in the shower….you know what I’m sayin’?!... It’s like when I play that game THE STRANGER where I sit on my hand until it’s numb, then jack off, it’s like someone else is doing it.

[Ioana] You’re stupid Rusty, but alright I admit it, I HAVE felt up Stefania while she was asleep a couple times…

[ME] jack pot….

[Stefania] Ioana! How could you!  If you were feeling me up in my sleep then what about all those times you said your nipples itched and you needed them repeatedly pinched?  Was that….?

[Ioana] Yes, Stefania.  I’m sorry.

[Stefania] Well, I guess it’s okay…it WAS kinda fun, I suppose….

[ME] Are we about to get it on?

[Ioana and Stefania in unison] Shut up Rusty!  I think it’s time for you to go, now scoot!

Alright, so I’m a little off my game when it comes to these Siamese Twins but I have another set of twins that are even better than these two chicks.  She’s / They're crazy; she has one body but two heads with each side of the body controlled independently by its respective head.    Stay tuned for that one…… 

GOLD DIGGER

I’m gonna defend a normal human practice right now that is, not only, misunderstood but even considered shameful in some places.  No one wants to admit that they do it or have done it, but we all know it happens.  People have been doing it since the dawn of time and they are doing it at this very moment.  Picking their noses; that’s what we are talking about.  Look at you, so curious while reading, yet now you cringe and go “Eeeeww.”  Who are you to judge?  As Stone Cold Steve Austin once said, “Let he who is without Sin, cast the first stone.” Whether you are a thumb-index clipper or a 3 digit deep excavator we’ve all done it in some form or another.  My wife always says to me “That’s nasty Rusty! Why don’t you just blow your nose?”  I suppose if I had loose illness boogers then, yes, a napkin and blowing my nose would suffice.  My rebuttal to her, however, is usually “What am I suppose to do about the calcified crusties; the petrified boogers; the stalactites and stalagmites of snot; or the thin sheets of beef jerky mucus that are firmly attached but have a slippery coating so it takes like fifteen swipes to get it out a’ there?”  “Well, what about THEM Miss ma’am?!”  To that expert argument she knows she can never win and just rolls her eyes and throws me a small bottle of hand sanitizer.  Pah! Hand sanitizer?  Is this a joke?  I throw it, immediately, at the nearest cat to me with full intent on inflicting as much minor damage to it as possible. 

Just so you know picking my nose is like a ritual now.  I look forward to it, and go at it with zeal.  I have the “Five finger swipe.”  This is where you start with your index finger and pick and swipe, then continue one after the other with all fingers in a row.  The pinky is the smallest and since the bigger fingers have done the heavy excavation and breaking free then the pinky, as it is more precise, can pick and scoop in detail.  The thumb comes in at the end as a nostril rim wipe.  Now, of course, if the first five finger swipe didn’t succeed, then the process begins again.

Sometimes I’ll do the “Jab, Hold, and Pull.”  It’s a pretty bold method mainly used for those slippery/hard sheets of snot stuck to the walls that won’t come out.  Using any finger you thrust it at the booger sheet and press into it, you hold your finger there (this allows time for the mucus to fill into your finger print grooves giving a solid lock like Velcro), then you gently pull and the entire sheet should come out firmly attached to the finger tip.  Voila! Then do clean up with the Five Finger swipe.

See, you’ve learned that you are not alone AND you’ve learned some new techniques to boot.   Aren’t you glad you read this post?

HOME MADE VIDEO USING MSPAINT (just for fun)

HOT ROMANIAN TWINS

I know I’ve never told you this, but I used to be ONE of TWO Siamese twins.  Yep, you heard me right.  Weird hu?  Well, fortunately we didn’t share any vital organs as we were joined at the genitals sharing only ONE penis and three testicles.  My brother Dusty, as fate turned out, got the short end of the stick, literally.  Let’s just say that Dusty was able to get his wife pregnant but had to use a Medela breast milk pump and a turkey baster.  So, anyways, we were fortunate, but for those Siamese twins connected at the head, hip, rib cage, or any other non-surgically operable part of the body….what is their life like?  Haven’t you ever wondered?  Hell, I AM a fucking Siamese twin and I’m curious! So you DEFINETLY should be!  So I hooked up with a set of Siamese twins online who happened to live in Cluj-Napoca, Romania.  After the long flight, I landed and met them at a local eatery, had a few kürtös kalács, and got to talking.  Their names were Ioana and Stefania.  Both girls were connected at the head (side of the temple both facing forward for the most part) and connected at the ribcage.  I was curious, so I just started asking questions:

[Me] So, when you get horny what happens?  Are you allowed to get each other off?  ...because you ARE sisters but technically you COULD also be considered the same person as you share a brain, a heart, a lung, and a breast.

[Ioana] Shut up Rusty, that’s gross, we don’t feel each other up.  If we want to masturbate we just do it on our own, but not to each other.

[Stefania] Yeah, I’ll just put on my IPOD or watch a movie while she does her thing.

[Me] Really?  Cause that’s kinda hard to ignore, even your peripheral vision would have to catch a little bit of it.  Plus, what if Ioana gets really saucy and starts climaxing?  You’re connected at the fucking head and chest! Her undulating would totally fuck up the Danielle Steel novel you’re trying to read or the ending of your True Blood episode.

[Ioana and Stefania in unison] We just make it work; let’s move on to something else.

[Me] Alright, what about men?  You both are definitely two hot Romanian chick(s) so have you ever, you know, hooked up with a dude or dudes?

[Ioana] I have a boyfriend right now and he…

[Me] Whoa, hold the fuck on.  You just confused me.  So, if Ioana has a boyfriend, that she fucks, doesn’t that technically make him YOUR boyfriend too, Stefania?

[Stefania] Not if I have MY own boyfriend, which I do.

[Me] Uuuuuhhhh……soooo…… that’s like a quad-way in the bedroom.  That’s fucking awesome! Are they tag teaming, switching places, is it like a relay race and they hand off the KY jelly when they switch?

[Ioana and Stefania in unison] What do we look like Rusty? We aren’t sluts; each of our boyfriends has sex with their own partner.

[Me] Of course, of course.  I’m sorry.  How absurd of me to even think something like that.  Alright, well then….. which one of your boyfriend’s shares the middle of your three tits?..........

Side Note: There’s more to this conversation, I just had to cut it short…. until next time.