longarm
Car sold back to original owners
This is a rant from a blog I follow from time to time.
I still laugh everytime I read it.
I think he is a very colorful and creative writer!
Gibbering Horror
May 17th, 2011
I think I may have decended to a new low today.
I clogged one of the pressure assist toilets at work.
The type of commode where you can almost flush a whole roll of asswipe without taking it off the cardboard first.
I almost took a photo. I decided against it, not to spare the tender sensabilities of the three sporadic readers I have left, but because the throne in question is what Og refers to as an Animal Shitter, and if the woman I love saw where I rest my hairy *** at least once a day I fear shed burn my underwear and make me start exfoliating my glutes with an angle grinder.
Ten minutes into my shift, the Gurgle of Doom® started percolating in my bowels: a portent of oncoming fecapocalypse I have learned through experiences I would pay good money to mentally repress to never ignore.
After a deceptively routine pinch and waddle up the stairs into the dank cave they call the mens room at my job, my bowels started churning and spasming as I dropped trou and threw my *** at the seat praying that I managed to align my chocolate starfish over the bowl and not straddling the rim the results of which would split the ocher paste gushing from my nether exit into fetid ribbons of pure evil: like a deluxe playdoh playset designed by Caligula and a Japanese **** director.
As the chills raced down my sides, a small, hopelessly doomed nugget of normal, solid scat stopped the flow for a split second a Gandalf of grogans it was: defiantly stamping down a piece of half digested peanut and screaming YOU SHALL NOT PASS!! before being swept away into the abyss.
Oh noble brown warrior: we hardly knew ye. My underwear and dignity thank you for your sacrifice.
Im pretty sure the next ten minutes were prophesized in the Necronomicon, as my colon spewed forth things human plumbing was never meant to contend against. A mixture of what appeard to be coffee grounds, sausage casings that suspiciously looked as though something had chewed its way out of them, grape nuts, 10W-40, and barnacles scraped from Cthulus taint.
Then. The. Smell.
I believe the smell saved me, if teetering on the brink of madness can be considered saved. Normally halfway through this horror, I would have toggled the handle for a mercy flush to spare any unsuspecting coworkers lung damage and to keep the remainder of my hair from falling out.
Not this time. The human olfactory sensors and related portions of the brain are not equipped to translate non-euclidean eighth dimensional stench of this level. All I remember is that I was paralyzed: smelling colors I cant describe pulsating to a rhythm of discordant steam powered bagpipes accompanied by maniacal laughter that sounded an awful lot like Vincent Price using my vocal chords as dental floss.
My eyes unfocused and my legs shaking from breathing the oxygen depleted fumes, I flushed: Only to see the swirling gibbering horror surge up to the edge of the rim and stay there, as if the plumbing itself recoiled from what I had wrought in terror, but yet unwilling to allow it to escape and harm the innocent. Had I tried for a mercy flush, the outer layers of my *** may have dissolved in the toxic morass.
If there is a Congressional Medal of Honor for toilet plungers, the one at work deserves two.
I should really just never eat chorizo again.
I still laugh everytime I read it.
I think he is a very colorful and creative writer!
Gibbering Horror
May 17th, 2011
I think I may have decended to a new low today.
I clogged one of the pressure assist toilets at work.
The type of commode where you can almost flush a whole roll of asswipe without taking it off the cardboard first.
I almost took a photo. I decided against it, not to spare the tender sensabilities of the three sporadic readers I have left, but because the throne in question is what Og refers to as an Animal Shitter, and if the woman I love saw where I rest my hairy *** at least once a day I fear shed burn my underwear and make me start exfoliating my glutes with an angle grinder.
Ten minutes into my shift, the Gurgle of Doom® started percolating in my bowels: a portent of oncoming fecapocalypse I have learned through experiences I would pay good money to mentally repress to never ignore.
After a deceptively routine pinch and waddle up the stairs into the dank cave they call the mens room at my job, my bowels started churning and spasming as I dropped trou and threw my *** at the seat praying that I managed to align my chocolate starfish over the bowl and not straddling the rim the results of which would split the ocher paste gushing from my nether exit into fetid ribbons of pure evil: like a deluxe playdoh playset designed by Caligula and a Japanese **** director.
As the chills raced down my sides, a small, hopelessly doomed nugget of normal, solid scat stopped the flow for a split second a Gandalf of grogans it was: defiantly stamping down a piece of half digested peanut and screaming YOU SHALL NOT PASS!! before being swept away into the abyss.
Oh noble brown warrior: we hardly knew ye. My underwear and dignity thank you for your sacrifice.
Im pretty sure the next ten minutes were prophesized in the Necronomicon, as my colon spewed forth things human plumbing was never meant to contend against. A mixture of what appeard to be coffee grounds, sausage casings that suspiciously looked as though something had chewed its way out of them, grape nuts, 10W-40, and barnacles scraped from Cthulus taint.
Then. The. Smell.
I believe the smell saved me, if teetering on the brink of madness can be considered saved. Normally halfway through this horror, I would have toggled the handle for a mercy flush to spare any unsuspecting coworkers lung damage and to keep the remainder of my hair from falling out.
Not this time. The human olfactory sensors and related portions of the brain are not equipped to translate non-euclidean eighth dimensional stench of this level. All I remember is that I was paralyzed: smelling colors I cant describe pulsating to a rhythm of discordant steam powered bagpipes accompanied by maniacal laughter that sounded an awful lot like Vincent Price using my vocal chords as dental floss.
My eyes unfocused and my legs shaking from breathing the oxygen depleted fumes, I flushed: Only to see the swirling gibbering horror surge up to the edge of the rim and stay there, as if the plumbing itself recoiled from what I had wrought in terror, but yet unwilling to allow it to escape and harm the innocent. Had I tried for a mercy flush, the outer layers of my *** may have dissolved in the toxic morass.
If there is a Congressional Medal of Honor for toilet plungers, the one at work deserves two.
I should really just never eat chorizo again.
