Filler Episode One of Twelve until I use my Super Powers

I have noticed that the all the toilets at my University have been upgraded to the new "modern" toilets that have a motion sensor in them. Now, that in itself is kind of creepy, because it's only a matter of time before some whacked out asshole decides to place a camera in there and watch you pee. What's even creepier is that out of every bathroom I've visited at this university only two of them work: The two toilets in the Gay/Lesbian/Bi-Sexual/Transgender support lounge. Now that's not the strange part.

[It's watching you pee, and it likes what it sees...]

The Toilets Have Eyes, Coming to a theatre near you, November 2013

The strange part is that the toilets only flush if shake my dick off at the end of a long piss. Doesn't matter if I shit, I can sit down and stand up a million times or just do squats in front of the pisser, but it won't flush. But if I jangle my wang in front of them, they flush jubilantly. Oh well, such is my life. Wouldn't be the first person or thing that got jubilant at my moving wang.

I have received demands for more debauchery stories. Being that I am sometimes a symbiotic asshat, I will accede to said demands. Take a breif glimpse into my world and imagine the following scenerio:

It's [A non-incriminating date]. [Non-incriminating town], USA. About [Non-incriminating time]. You decide to whack it. You finish, barely anything comes out, and your dick feels kind of sore. Then you smell your hand:

-Cloves
-Pussy
-Gun powder/solvant

On your clothes:

-Cloves
-Perfume
-Whiskey
-Gun powder

And in the background, well you did just jerk off, so there's that awkward smell of cum in a sheet of toilet paper telling you to hurry up and flush it. This time you also fish the fresh condom out of the trash and flush it instead of just leaving it in the trash. You call it weird. I call it a post work wank.

[Hah! I bet half of you were expecting a picture of a dick! Wait... What?]

This joke is specifically funny because his name is Dick and depending on your political ideology and interpretation of the 2000-2008 presidency of George W. Bush, you may or may not find him to be a dick, A term used here as a slang term for jerk. Also dick is a slang term for Penis and I was discussing masturbation.

I have a knack for getting free stuff for free. My friend asked me to find a copy of the last seasons of Entourage. I had gotten a few bootleg movies from an attractive classmate of mine in the past. Except, while we were waiting for it all to copy to my external hard drive (which is possibly more nerdy than the pocket drive I now have), we decided to split a bottle of wine. A massage ensued, followed by making out, fooling around and me getting oral.

"Can you ask your friend from that Anime thing you do to get me Entourage?"

"I don't think he's the kinda guy that watches Entourage. Also... I'm not gonna bug my friend to D/L a bunch of shit you can watch online for free anyway."

"Oh C'mon."

"Really? Dude, just go online and do it yourself."

"Hey what about that chick you got all those movies from?"

My mind trailed off: Oh shit I know where this is going

"No I don't really think that's a good idea." Usually it's a bad idea to call someone up to ask them for free stuff AND sexual favors.

"Why not? She sucked your dick the last time she gave you stuff!"

"Cuz I haven't called her since --" Woops. I honestly don't know what I was thinking on that one, she was cute and nice and... (I'm fucking retarded) "Yeah, why don't I just call her up and go: Oh hey baby, wanna let me come over so I can steal your bandwidth and you can suck my dick? Yeah. Soooo fucking romantic."

"Fine, just go over to her place and take a shit on her chest and get me entourage."

"Wait, how the shit did we go from me getting oral and free shit to me taking a shit on someone's chest?"

Yes, that was a real conversation. Yes, it continued to go on, sometimes in circles, but the jist is I was expected to call this chick up, steal her bandwidth, deliver a Cleveland Steamer and stroll on out. If only life worked that way... well minus the pooping part. Maybe.
    

     
[Would you believe that nobody has Photoshopped a steamroller with the Stanley Steamer Logo?]

Nobody has Photoshopped a Stanley Steemer van that says "Cleveland Steemer" either. Fuck

As for now, I do not seek... and I will not accept an invitation to continue this blog post. So until next time, my young racketeers, you can vote more effectively with a few well placed dollars, than you can with a few well placed votes.

Booze, Used Condoms and Brass Casings. I Have a problem. Maybe. Probably. Most Definately.

I have decided, that just as FLO RIDA created a career for himself by naming himself after his state and singing about oral sex, I too will join the ranks of career singers, and using the miracle of auto tune I'll sing about excessive promiscuity and anal, while using a clever name that is deserving of my over inflated ego. I shall call myself: "Optimus Rhyme."

  

[Why? Because Fuck your noise, that's why]

This costume is economical because I can double dip as I take on my super villain alter ego: Optimus Crime

A while back, we got some sort of deal on carpet cleaning. This happens every few years and for a good week or two all of the rugs in the house disappear, only to return brand new and free of dog piss. It's weird to see the naked floor, but the lack of dog piss smell is worth it, especially since my wonderful dog, the Unipooper manages to piss through gates, box barricades and anything else that's designed to prevent him from spraying his piss all over the rugs in question. 

Whatever, no big deal. Most of the time I'm informed of this and move all the furniture and roll the rugs up, then carry them to the strange gap between our living room, dining room, foyer and the staircase upstairs. I don't rightly know how to explain this gap, but it's certainly not large enough to put to any good use, it's sort of just there, as if the architect dropped his cigarette on the blueprints and the construction company just made some shit up left a big empty, useless space in my house to cover up his fuck up.

[This is clearly the worlds most cutting edge Architect]

You know else smoked lots of cigarettes? The soldiers in Stalingr-- just kidding, that joke's dead... just like the soldiers in Stalingrad!

Now, one day, I come home, oblivious to my surroundings because I'm tired from dealing with people that smell like hobos all day. I trudge upstairs ready to jerk off and take a god damned nap. As I step into my room, I notice that my nice black and red, golf themed rug has disappeared. So just like my house has a big empty spot, which is now freshly carpetless (much like an ideal fuck and chuck) my room now too is carpetless. 

Okay that's fine, right. Some dust bunnies, the occasional scrap of paper and -- shit. Fucking condom wrappers. Like seven of them. All of them were obscured from sight under my rug.Well, my parents are well aware of my debauchery. The rug dude probably high fived her and my poor mother probably assumed that it was only seven times. Right? No big deal.

I decide to take advantage of this situation to clean my room, get all the dust out of, well, everywhere, pitch the pile of water bottles that accumulate between my bed and my nightstand in an attempt to stave off the next morning's hangovers, you know, the usual. As I'm piling everything into a bag, I stumble across ammo casings that made their way from my range bag to obscure places in my room. Okay, whatever. There's a few I can use to reload, and there's some I can't. Pitch those. Behind my bed I find a bottle of vanilla vodka.

[My exact internal dialogue]

When did I kill a bottle of vodka?

Oh right, with what's her face

(Brief recollection of her face and I remember to add her to the spank bank for the day)

I finish my cleaning and go to my trashcan. I pop it open, toss in the ammo casings and prepare to drop in the trash bag full of dusty Swiffer things, water bottles and assorted papers and junk I don't need. I see two used condoms. Old used condoms. Condoms that I didn't put there. I'm talking, from several months ago. Sitting at the top of the trash can, resting on top of two cardboard boxes. And on those boxes? Bulgarian Cyrillic. Why do I have small boxes with Bulgarian on them?

[If the term "7.62mm METAK" has nothing to do with Ammo, I'm gonna fuck someone]

Actually, I'll probably do that anyway. I might have a problem. Maybe. Probably. Definitely.

Yeah, that's right. Surplus ammo boxes and used condoms. Now add the bullet casings and bottle of vodka. I'm sure I'm on some sort of watch list now. Also, a joke I once made to my friends about This Web Comic pretty much being about me, came true. 

Used Condoms? Check
Booze bottle? Check
Bullet casings? Check
Being stalked by a time traveling web comic artist? Not sure for sure if Check.

And I thought Zombies were my biggest worries.

[I was going to make a Zombie joke, but Google Images gave me This]

Scantily clad women and guns are only two of my four core tenants in life, but only 1 in 4 is necessary to trigger my ADHD

BONUS CONTENT:

(Brought to you by today's sponsor: Raging ADHD)

And now for today's cutting edge humor: 

So, a Nazi walks into a BAR...

[Brat-a-tat-tat-tat. Wizz! Bang! Pew Pew! "Ach Mich Lachen!"]

Hey, at least it's not a Stalingrad joke

 

We now return you to your irregularly scheduled, 

debaucherous asshat blogging away on the internet.

Food for thought: If zombies are your biggest worry in life then either you're taking life too easy, or you're a mental abortion. Or you're me. Given my history pretty much all of the above is probably valid. Wait, self-deprecation on my narcissistic blogging project? Hell must have frozen over Stalingrad jokes must be funny again.

Okay, so a Nazi walks into a DP-27...

[Брат-в-Тат Тат Тат Wizz! Bang! Пью Пью! "Ach Mich Lachen!"]

You funny guy, Comrade.

That may or may not have been intentional. You know, in case some mental abortion didn't get the bonus content joke. Or maybe I just can't stop the WWII references and humor and have a problem. Maybe. Probably. Definitely. Anyway, I'm getting bored with this, so I'm gonna go get piss drunk and fuck someone. Maybe. Probably.... yeah... I have a problem.

So until next time, my riveted readers, I'll be not searching for a Sex-a-holics group anonymous. Or should I be? I could... fuck, I do have a problem. I'm so using my subjective reality powers on this one...