RIGOR MORTIS DOG RAMPAGE

I met a man the other day named Faraji.  He is a Swahili man who immigrated to America from Tanzania.  Faraji  used to be in an elite branch of the now struggling Tanzania People’s Defence Force (TPDF), which is basically the country of Tanzania’s army.  We shared the cab fare to the airport and he told me a fascinating story about a very precarious situation he was in during the Uganda-Tanzania War of 1978-1979.  He was recalling how he was stuck on the top floor of a 3 story building in a city called Kimpala.  Out in the streets surrounding the building was a large group of well armed Ugandan soldiers.  He and a couple Libyan troops who were there with him were keeping the Ugandans at bay.  One of the men, however, was shot and soon died and the other was partially blinded by shrapnel.  So it was basically just him up there against a horde of Ugandans who seemed determined to try and wait him out from below.  He noticed that the floor that he was on must have been some sort of pet adoption agency or a kennel or something.  There were small dogs walking around aimlessly everywhere.  Faraji said there were at least 20 of them no bigger than a Pomeranian or a Scottish terrier in size.   After two days of waiting out the Ugandans and tending to the one blind Libyan soldier, the Ugandans grew impatient.  They began hurling bottles of what he described as a pepper spray type agent, but far more potent, in through the windows.  The smell was so intense that he gagged and threw up.  His eyes burned, his nose was bleeding, and his lungs were on fire.  He thought he was going to die for sure as he could barely breathe but didn’t want to give the Ugandans the satisfaction of his surrender.  They pummeled the floor he was on again, and again, and again with bottles of the noxious gas.  Bottles shattering so frequently against every wall and surface around him that it sounded like a hundred thousand coins had been dropped onto a trampoline.  After what seemed like forever the Ugandans abruptly stopped.  The gases slowly started to dissipate revealing the carnage caused by so much toxic air.  His blind brother-in-arms didn’t stand a chance.  He was defenseless against the onslaught and died of asphyxiation.   14 of the 20 small dogs had suffocated or succumbed to the poisonous fumes as well.  Faraji was still determined to stand his ground and held fast for two more days against the Ugandans.  Finally, he ran out of ammunition and was completely out of supplies.  Apparently the opposing force outside must have sensed Faraji’s gradually deteriorating situation; their plan for waiting him out was working.  The officer in charge of the horde outside ordered his men to take the building.  Men clamored up the stairwells, making their way towards his level.  Faraji, in a panic, and defenseless, looked around for a weapon of any kind to use.  He then noticed the 6 dogs that were still alive, but particularly, all the dead ones.  He grabbed one dead dog that was well into the stiffening stages of rigor mortis.  Like reshaping a metal coat hanger he bent all four stiff legs in-line with the body, straightened the back and the head into a point.  He managed to mold seven dogs in that way and was well into finishing his eighth one when the first three Ugandan soldiers kicked the door in.  Faraji wasted no time and grabbed two stiff-as-a-board dogs, one in each hand.  Like a Louisville slugger he cracked the first soldier in his temple crushing in the side of his head with a pomeranian, killing him instantly.  The second soldier died instantly, as well, as a rigid weiner dog spear was plunged doggie-shoulder deep into his chest.  The third soldier attempted to capitalize on the fact that Faraji was occupied with the other two soldiers and lunged at him with a knife.  Faraji saw him and swung around, back handing his throat with a Shi tzu, crushing his wind pipe.  The Ugandan fell to the ground wincing in pain and gasping for air as the few living dogs left pounced on him and ate his face off!  Faraji continued crushing the continuous tide of Ugandan soldiers that gushed out onto the third floor.  He smashed faces,  skulls, and rib cages with each dead dog until there nothing left but a floppy blood sack.  Then he’d toss it and grab the next stiff one and push on.  Faraji, by the end of the day, killed 35 Ugandan soldiers with 8 dead dogs ranging from Pomeranians to weiner dogs.  Needless to say, after a story like that, I paid the whole cab fare when we got to the airport because this motherfucker was either bat shit crazy or the baddest son-of-a-bitch on the planet.  I say screw Chuck Norris, if you can kill a squad of Ugandan soldiers with dead rigor mortis stiff dogs as weapons then you’re on a new level of bad ass.

LORD OF THE T.P.

I have a secret.  I take pleasure in listening to the ranting frustrations of people sifting through the toilet stalls in a public bathroom looking for a roll of toilet paper.   The kicker is when I’M the one in the stall with that ONE last roll.  It’s usually long after I have finished with my business and I am just sitting on the toilet reading the stall graffiti and just generally relaxing that they come in.  They curse under their breath as they go up and down the aisle of stalls, opening each one until reaching the last one, and then starting from the beginning again and repeating, as if the T.P. gnomes will replenish the supplies in the meantime.  Now, as I am typically the only one in the stalls, since I am the only one who successfully obtained that single roll of T.P., it’s pretty obvious, to outsiders, that I’ve got the goods.  So, what these jackasses always do is after rampaging their way in and out of the empty stalls, repeatedly, they stand right outside of MY stall door.  They know I have the T.P.   Their shoe tips damn near penetrating into my stall perimeter from under the door, as if testing some imaginary line in the sand.  I can hear them breathing and can almost sense the neurons in their brain firing, contemplating whether or not they should bother me for some of my T.P., and how they would even go about asking for something like that.  I just sit there as quietly as possible.  It’s like, if you were in a zombie apocalypse scenario and you were on one side of a door, of an abandoned house, that didn’t have a lock.  On the other side was a horde of the undead just hoping to tear a living human limb from limb, just one shove of that door away from getting to you.  Your only tactical option is to be as quite as possible; not moving; not indicating you are there at all, so as not to alert them.  The outsider finally realizes that decorum dictates that it is extremely rude to ask a fellow shitter for some of their toilet paper because of the potential for them to be in mid-shit.  How would you even transfer T.P. to them anyways?  How would you even determine how much shitting they’d be doing therefore how much T.P. they would need?  Are they a muti-wiper?  What do you do; hand them a wad of it or scoot the whole roll, itself, out from under the stall to them?  If you hand them a wad of loose T.P. then you just determined their fate.  If they get into their stall and the wad amount that you issued to them is not enough; they are screwed.  They’ll have to go caveman style and hand scoop it or sacrifice their underwear.   As far as pushing your T.P. roll out to them (which you would be an idiot to do) you would be screwing YOURSELF.  What if you then needed to go again, all of a sudden, or had leakage while standing up, then YOU’D be in real trouble.  I just sit in silence, that way I don’t even have to deal with that whole rigamarole.  If I WAS asked, though, I would ration out the T.P. like a King rationing out bread and cheese to his serfs.  “ONE double ply sheet, TWO double ply sheets, THREE double ply sheets, now be gone with ye peasant before I set the dogs upon ye!”  It gives you a sense of power and dominance.  Like having an elevated position in combat.  You have the dominant position and therefore all the outsiders must bow to you for offerings of T.P.   As Erasmus of Rotterdam put it, “In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king”, and as Rusty Shrew puts it, “In the public bathroom, the man with the last roll of T.P. is king.”