Attack of the Easter Grass, Part Deuce

DISCLAIMER:  This is Part 2 of a multi-part story.  Part 1 is directly below this blog.  Please read it first.


***

“Why, I dare ask, did you put Easter grass in the water bong bowl?” At this point, I could somewhat speak in a normal tone, as most of the poisonous gases had apparently left my lungs.


Sammy sat forward on the couch, a sly smile creeping up on his face. “Okay, okay,” he said, trying to suppress a laugh. “You’re gonna love this.”

I love the fact that you can actually coherently speak at this moment, that’s for goddamn sure.

“Keep going,” I snapped. I was still irritated that it had taken this long to get an explanation, and even more pissed that the water bong in my hand contained no actual marijuana.

“Well, you know how me and Africa and Abe Lincoln Emo Fuck always complain about Douchenozzle just coming over and smoking all our weed, right?”

I was indeed familiar with this situation. Apparently, Douchenozzle had come to the conclusion that he no longer wanted to pay for his marijuana, and would instead simply stop by and let Sammy and the gang smoke him up. Since the gang was much too nice to say anything about it to his face, they instead would complain behind his back at all times. I could only guess at this moment that the gang decided to seek revenge by placing Easter grass in the water bong.

“Let me guess: you guys put Easter grass in the water bong as some sort of ill-conceived revenge plot?” I don’t know why I asked; truth be told this was the only rational explanation to the scene I was now witnessing.

Sammy looked to be in a state of shock. “Dude! How did you know?”

I shook my head. “Just a good guess, I, uh, guess. Regardless, did you guys smoke the Easter grass too?”

“Yeah man, shit gets you high as fuck! Who knew, right?”

“How the hell are you all not dead right now?”

“Well,” Sammy paused, eyeing-up the water bong in my hands, “we kept passing it back to Douchenozzle every chance we got, so he probably smoked way more than me, Africa, or Alf” (Abe Lincoln Emo Fuck…the “e” is silent, don’t ask). “Then he sort of just passed out on the floor. About two hours after that we realized he might be dead. That’s when Africa and Alf took off and I called you.”

This was quickly becoming more than I could actually handle.

“Hey,” I asked, “you have any actual weed for me to smoke?” I figured that since the gang more than likely came up with their Easter grass fuck-up while smoking that the only way a solution could be properly invented would be with my mind under the influence as well.

“Um…no. But seriously dude, just take a few hits of that grass, it’ll fuck you up.”

For a split second I actually considered taking another hit from the murderous holiday decoration bong, but before I could come to a decision, Abe Lincoln Emo Fuck crashed through the back door.

“Holy fuck!” Alf screamed upon seeing Douchenozzle and Mr. Coppertone dead on the floor. “There’s a fucking corpse in here!”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I replied looking towards Sammy. “Didn’t you say he was here with you when this all happened?”

“Yeah,” Sammy said, “but he was high off the grass and drinking Vlad so he might be more fucked than Douchenozzle.”

I had to agree; Alf had a tendency of drinking and smoking to excessive amounts and not remembering entire days at a time. In other words, he was about as useless to me right now as a vagina in a gay bar.

“Eww, it’s still warm.” Alf was currently using his right hand to repeatedly poke at the back of Douchenozzle’s arm. “So, uh, guys,” he muttered, still poking, “do you think if I fucked this thing that it would make me, uh, well, you know?”

“What?” I asked. Leave it to Alf to make the situation even more fucked up. Exactly what I didn’t need right now.

“I’m not following you,” Sammy replied.

“Come on guys,” Alf whined, “ you know what I mean.”

“No, I’m pretty goddamn sure we don’t,” I said. I honestly had no idea where he was going with this, even though I probably should have.

Alf sighed for at least a good twenty seconds, then (finally) stated, “Okay, so if I fuck this body here, it would make me an un-virgin, right? It’s gotta count for something.”

Alf looked at us both with a smile that I can only describe as shit-fucking-creepy. In fact, that smile coupled with the idea of him fucking a dead man’s corpse would be enough to haunt my nightmares for the next ten years. Therapy included.

Silence took us all over for what felt like a millennia. Alf continued to stand there, his shit-fucking-creepy smile plastered all over his shit-fucking-creepy face.

“No,” Sammy exclaimed, finally breaking the silence. “I’m pretty sure it would just make you gay.”

“That so deserves a high-five, dude,” I said, putting my hand up in recognition.

Sammy returned the motion, the slap echoing off of Alf’s ears like a gunshot. While Sammy’s last comment was indeed funny enough for a high-five celebration, I was more excited by the fact that such a well thought-out and humorous effort from him meant that he might finally be coming down from his Easter grass high. It also meant that I now had a capable sidekick, and our chances of getting away cleanly with this entire fiasco were suddenly much, much better.

Me, Sammy, Africa, ALF, and the Easter Grass: Part Uno

Disclaimer: All names used in this story are fake…mostly due to a murder case that is still under investigation. Oh, except for Mr. Coppertone, the kitten. His name really is Mr. Coppertone...not that it matters because he dies like, five paragraphs into the story.

“You know,” Sammy said, lifting our victim’s round, fluffy kitten high in the air, “I read that the best way to murder someone is by using their cat as a contraceptive.”

I shook my head, desperate to alleviate the image of my friend wearing nothing but a hissing feline wrapped around his genitals. It wasn’t the first time my imagination had conjured up something similar in the dark, hellish regions of my mind. I just prayed that it might be the last.

“Will you put Mr. Coppertone down and come help me with Douchenozzle?” Granted, ‘Douchenozzle” was not the Christian name of the dead body that now lay before us, but, due to a certain murder case still being open, I’m not too sure how much detail would be appropriate before Sammy and I would have a guaranteed date in the “Don’t Drop the Soap Olympics” (that means “prison,” for all you non-intellectual types). I do assure you, however, that Mr. Coppertone was the actual name of Mr. Coppertone.

“Tell me again - slowly this time - just what the hell happened here.” Although Sammy had explained the story to me at least five times, I was still having a hard time fully understanding his stoned speech. “And put the cat down, please,” I added.

With a defeated and somewhat sad-looking shrug, Sammy dropped Mr. Coppertone on the coffee table in front of him. With a loud crash, Mr. Coppertone fell through the glass top of the table and rolled to a bloody rest on the carpet, a large piece of glass protruding from his cute, kitten head.

“Good job, fucknuts, that’s two things you’ve managed to kill tonight.”

Oh yes, I do assure you that Mr. Coppertone is full-blown dead.

Sammy opened his mouth to say something, but after thirty seconds of silence that I assumed to be his pot-addled mind trying to form words other than “dead” and “pussy,” I started to lose patience.

“Okay,” I started once again, trying desperately not to sound as pissed as I was at him, “explain again what happened. Without killing small, defenseless animals this time.”

Sammy, apparently broken from his weed-stupor, shouted “but you told me to put Mr. Coppertone down!”

“And I don’t really fucking care!” I screamed back. “How do you like them, apples?”

“Apples?” Sammy asked. “I’m hungry.”

I shook my head, desperate to leave the situation as quickly as I possibly could. I mean, shit, who wouldn’t?

When Sammy called me over to his house, I had no idea I’d be walking into a room with a dead body and eventually a dead Mr. Coppertone bleeding all over the tan carpet. Thanks to the misguided efforts of my stoned friend, I was now an accessory to murder unless I called the proper authorities. But where I come from, friends don’t let stoned friends get butt-pumped in prison. And Sammy was undoubtedly my friend.

And they're just the butt-fucking welcoming committee.

“Ok,” I said, kicking Douchenozzle’s head so that his face rolled around to where I could look him in his bloated eyes. “He’s blue. What’d you guys do, suffocate him to death?” I glanced over to Sammy, who gave me an “I don’t know” double shoulder shrug. He was also taking a hit from his beloved golden water bong.

“Give me that shit!” I yelled, grabbing the bong from his fingers. “This is what got you in trouble in the first place, stupid!”

With a dejected and saddened look on his face as if I had just murdered his brother, Sammy quietly whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I sighed. It was hard staying mad at the kid. Sammy was so high that me losing my temper with him would be the equivalent of yelling at mentally retarded children for not understanding physics. I would have to take this much, much slower.

“Sammy,” I enunciated slowly and carefully like one would to a stupid dog they’re trying to train, “please try to think about what happened to Douchenozzle.” This was it, the last time I was going to ask this question. If he didn’t answer it correctly, I would simply drive off and pray that he didn’t remember me being here in the first place.

Finally, with a look of extreme concentration or constipation, Sammy opened his mouth and responded.

“He smoked too much.”

I waited for more of an explanation. After ten seconds of silence, I decided to push the agenda.

“And?” I asked.

That look of constipation again on Sammy’s face. “No, that’s it. He just smoked too much.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.” I should have expected something like this. Leave it to these assholes to accomplish something that science had proven couldn’t be done.

“So you’re telling me, Sammy, that Douchenozzle somehow OD’d on marijuana?”

Sammy nodded his head excitedly. “Weird, huh?”

I found a recliner in the corner of the room and threw myself into it. I had the feeling that it was going to be a long night. Sammy, still high as fuck, laid himself down on a couch and began singing Tegan and Sara songs to no one in particular. This, I thought, was as good a time as any to have a smoke.

I took the golden water bong that I still held in my hand and put it to my mouth. Lighting it, I took a huge hit, hoping the weed would magically produce a solution to this horrible mess I now faced. Instead, I was greeted with the warm breath of death itself as it crawled down my throat and into my lungs.

Immediately jerking forward, I began to violently cough. It felt like my throat was a random German city that was being firebombed by the British Airforce.

“Holy,” cough, “fuck!” I managed to squeak across my vocal chords. “What,” cough, “in the fuck,” cough, “is this shit?” More coughing.

“Oh!” Sammy exclaimed, suddenly broken from his shitty karaoke act on the couch. “That’s Easter grass.”

“Easter grass?”

“Yeah, Easter grass.”

I somehow saw this coming. Don’t even ask me how, it’s just sort of a sixth sense I’ve gotten from hanging with Sammy for so long. Whether it was the time he broke his foot falling into a 2 inch ditch while drunk boxing at a party, or the infamous day he somehow managed to survive a full-blown 60mph ejaculation from the driver’s side window of his former Mercury Cougar, what should surprise me with Sammy just simply didn’t anymore. In fact, Easter grass in the water bong didn’t even rank a 3 on the “Weird-Shit-Sammy’s-Done-10-Point-Scale.” Still, I had to find out why there was Easter grass in the water bong if I were to even begin to hope to solve the problem of a dead Douchenozzle and save Sammy from a butt-fucking bonanza in prison.

But could I actually save him? 

FIND OUT NEXT TIME I HAVE THE TIME TO FINISH THIS STUPID SHIT...IN OTHER WORDS, TO BE CONTINUED!

PROOF THAT EVERYTHING YOU LOVE WILL EVENTUALLY BE RUINED BY PEOPLE WITH VAGINAS

It is a well known fact that anything of interest in this world will eventually be tarnished by the raving hordes of estrogen-filled meat-carcasses that are known as teenage girls. Throughout history, every dark period that’s ravaged mankind has somehow been smeared by the bloody taints of screaming harlots desperate for the attention that daddy never gave them. Hitler? All because Eva Braun wrote a letter at the age of 19 on how much she hated Jewish people. Nudity? Yeah, not anymore, Eve. Now I always have the constant nagging of the Catholic Church in the back of my mind reminding me that I may go blind every time I participate in a late-night Cinemax jerk-fest. African American slavery? You can thank lazy white girls who didn’t feel like doing their own chores. The war in Iraq? Total Bush (which is, you know, another word for the vaginal area).


You see, the point I’m trying to make here is that teenage girls have been responsible for a lot of terrible shit. Lately, however, their sick and twisted abilities to cause pain and destruction have been shifted towards well-established forms of awesomeness. What exactly does this mean? Think of your favorite thing in the world to do (excluding masturbation). Perhaps it’s skateboarding with your pals or playing in a band; maybe you enjoy bird watching or growing a garden. Regardless, you must come to the realization that someday everything you know and love will eventually be shit on by the overall collective of millions of teenage girls worldwide. In fact, that massive dump has already begun.

How Things with Vaginas have Ruined the Pittsburgh Penguins
The Pittsburgh Penguins are the 2009 Stanley Cup Champions. Basically, this translates to “if you don’t have $200+ to spend on an individual ticket, then you’re shit out of luck when it comes to getting a decent seat in the Mellon Arena.” Yet if you do somehow happen to find the Holy Grail of the hockey world (seats for under $150 that don’t have an obstructed view of the ice), you’re still going to have to contend with the AIDS infected population of the teenage whore. Yes, that’s right, teenage girls are now spreading like a viral plague throughout the NHL, mainly due to the fact that the players are like, such hawties. Seriously, these bags of disease may not be able to logically deduce where center ice is, but hey, they only came to make horrible puns about wanting to “get pucked” by some dudes “wooden shaft.” Seriously ladies, you could at least be more creative. Although I will admit that the “creative” side of a 15-year-old girl’s brain usually consists of taking stock photos of players and then poorly photoshopping in gangsta jewelry and liquor they’ve never even touched in real life. A whole bucketful of glitter-vomit later and you have an A+ 9th grade art project. Let’s face it: no one wants to see that even in their worst nightmares.

Wait. They’ve actually made shit like that already? You’re kidding me.

And this is why Sidney Crosby killed himself.

Fuck, do I hate you bitches.

Why “Emo” is a Dirty Word (just like “tampon”)
There was a time in the 1990’s when a certain type of music developed in the punk underground. It was called “emo,” and bands like Sunny Day Real Estate and Mineral nearly perfected the art of writing emotional lyrics over brooding chords that was truly an enjoyable experience. Fast forward over a decade and now the word “emo” is associated with such douchenozzle’s as these:

Our lives are like an endless track of pain that can only be expressed through terrible fashion choices.

I can’t tell if these people are actual teenage girls, but hell, I sure as fuck can blame those terror-bitches for this whole fiasco.

Here, let’s do a lyrical comparison:

Sunny Day Real Estate – Seven
sew it on. face the fool.
december's tragic drive
when time is poetry and
stolen the world outside
the waiting could crush my heart
the tide breaks a wave of fear
and brave songs disappear to the secret
voice of dawn this last time
raise my eyes. you'll taste it in time
the right words in time.
the mirrors lie those aren't my eyes
destroy them raise my hand
reflected in savage
shards a new face a
soul reborn.

And now for today’s popular trash:

All Time Low – Damned If I do Ya (Damned If I Don’t)
I fought it for a long time now
While drowning in a river of denial
I washed up, fixed up, picked up
All my broken things

'Cause you left me
Police tape, chalk line
Tequila shots in the dark scene of the crime
Suburban living with a feeling
That I'm giving up everything for you


Oh, oh, oh
How was I supposed to know
That you were o-o-over me?
I think that I should go (Go!)
And something's telling me to leave but I won't
'Cause I'm damned if I do ya, damned if I don't

I particularly enjoy the lines “police tape, chalk line/tequila shots in the dark scene of the crime/suburban living with a feeling….” Yes, I can truly feel the pain this rich, white suburban boy is going through at this very moment due to the lyrical genius of his word play and rhyme. The question he is struggling with is quite the epic fiasco as well: do I fuck this bitch in the ass or do I stop the spread of herpes here and now? I’m torn as well; I know this is a terrible song and it was only written because brainless things with vaginas just love to sing and dance, but really, can I honestly loathe something that is secretly pushing the idea of one-night-stands that will more than likely rip the hearts out of teenage girls?

Nah, I still hate this shit.

But it does go to show you that these chicks are so stupid that they’ll even listen to songs about their own degradation! Amazing! And it only gets worse!

Not simply content with ruining an entire music genre, these little slutbags have managed to combine everything that they love into one-gigantic-fuck-fest of a musical mishap. Taking their unfortunate taste in bad crunk music, drinking, partying, and nu-wave emo, teenage girls pushed for the creation of their idea of the perfect band. And in 2008, that menstrual horror was vaginally discharged onto the unsuspecting world at large.

Seriously, girls, I have to hand it to you; this is great music to be raped to.

“Hey, remember Nosferatu? Yeah, neither do I.”
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, vampires and werewolves and other grotesque legends were considered, well, grotesque. No one wanted to bang a vampire, and fucking the neighborhood werewolf could get you a bestiality charge at best and a quick death at worst. Now, with such literary trash as Twilight littering bookstores everywhere, it’s suddenly become cool to have sexual relations with a guy that’s more interested in drinking your blood than sticking anything inside of you. This, to be honest, is the most baffling of all the teenage girl takeover events. The hockey guys I can get; they’re big dudes in good shape. Hell, I’d probably fuck Sidney Crosby myself. As for the music, well, girls just have horrible taste in everything so them creating a literal shitstain on the music industry isn’t really all that surprising. But vampires? Really? I just don’t see the appeal.

He’s got five inches with your name on it.

I’ve honestly contemplated this baffling scenario for months now and I’ve only been able to come up with two logical conclusions (and when I say “logical,” I really mean “batshit insane”). First, a lot of chicks think serial killers are attractive pieces of man meat. Perhaps the fear of vampires (they do kill you, ya know) is like the adrenaline thrill of dating a convicted murderer. I mean, that kind of makes sense: having no logic whatsoever, girls everywhere are sexually attracted to dangerous men.

However, my only problem with this theory is that it’s fucking boring. And let’s face it: the truth is never boring (I learned that from Fox News!). Here’s the real truth behind the love of Twilight: teenage girls are insecure beings. Sure, they have a ton of power in the entertainment industry (as seen by today’s music trends and the entire programming of the CW, MTV, and VH1), but they’re so fucking clueless and worried about what Jockstrap Jimmy is going to think about their new thong in 3rd period to pay attention to anything outside of their own peripheral vision. So, what’s the cause of all this insecurity?

Drum roll, please.

Periods. Menstrual cycles. The unstoppable, bloody flow of Mother Nature. And that’s the key. Blood. Teenage girls just want a guy that’s unfazed by their natural blood loss and, shit, no ones better at dealing with bloody messes like vampires. Plus, they’ll get the added bonus of having a dude who’ll eat ‘em out all month long. Win-win, ladies. Win-win.

Perhaps you’re not as vacant in the skull as I originally thought…hahaha, just kidding. Ya’ll still suck until about the age of 21. Just sayin'.

"Korrok, man, what a dick!"

Long time no see, eh?


It's been a hell of a last eight days or so for me since I came down with the dreaded H1N1 on or around November 7th. I'll skip most of the details here and just say that it does indeed suck and to rest as much as possible. Really, it's just like the regular flu. Unfortunately for me, it was worse the worst flu I’ve ever had in my life. Yet really, that's all I have to say about it. I'm over it, and (I hope) it's over me. Oh, except I had to miss out on going to the Penn State/Indiana game over the weekend. Of course the Lions won, and it would have been the only game I went to this year in which they accomplished this particular feat (thank you, Iowa and Ohio State). Shit happens, I guess.

Now, on to the bad news.

It's crunch time for me on the school front; November and December are always the worst months (along with March and April) when it comes to the amount and difficulty of school work. This means I highly doubt I'll be posting more than once a week on this blog (if not less). What does this mean for the -1 amount of visitors that actually read my beautiful literature (which, by the way, has been compared to Updike and Wong by certain, highly respected critics (me))? Um, I don't know, I guess you'll be spared the potential tragedy of lowering your IQ any further than it is already. And, hey, let's be honest here, for some of you guys I'm sure that means you may be one step further in completing the nearly impossible task of not shitting your pants every six hours, or, at the very least, not throwing said-shit when it does hit the bottom of the inside of your pant leg.

Huh. Maybe I take all that back. This sounds like a win-win for everyone, I guess.

Yet at the off-chance that one of you simpletons that does indeed read this is in fact already trained to shit in some sort of container other than your very own underwear, than I'm sorry to say that you're gonna miss me…at least till Christmas, when I plan on getting my very own netbook that I will carry around and never let out of my sight.

So yeah, here's my goodbye. For now at least. Who knows? Maybe I'll free up some time in just an hour or two and be right back on here. Or maybe I will indeed form a rip in the space-time continuum through my constant flatulence and be able to write at my own, gassy desire.

More than likely, though, I won't see any of you fucks till Christmas.  I do have a gift for you, however.  To make up for my lack of future posting, go read this novel.  But don't say I didn't warn you.  Confused?  You'll know when it happens.  They'll make their presence known, trust me.  That's all I can say.

Happy Thanksgiving.

The Naked Truths about Bromance

"You ever watch that video of turtles humping?"  My best-friend, Michael McFistpump, asked.  I could tell by his current-crazy-wide-Manson-eyes that he totally jerked-off to videos of turtles humping, and was hoping that I too would admit to such a horrible act.

"No, you sick fuck," I instead replied in disgust.  "But I bet you jerk-off to videos of turtles humping." 

Frankly, I didn't mean to sound like such a jerk, but it was hard answering his stupid questions while attempting to masturbate to videos of turtles humping...inanimate objects (which is, like, totally different material).

"Mom, no!  Don't come in here!"

Apparently Michael believed my partial lie, for he did not open his mouth again, and I was once again able to concentrate on the video of a turtle concentrating on fucking the opening of a rather large boot.  I gave credit to the little turtle-guy; that boot-hole was the equivalent of the ol' "throwing a hotdog down a hallway" joke, or, to keep with more recent times, the equivalent of how fucking the octo-mom is a clear metaphor to the inner workings of your very own soul:  a rotting blackhole that only allows you to feel one, perpetually repeating emotion...that of extreme and indescribable pain (what, too much?).  Either way, I'm not sure how the little turtle creature found any pleasure in the act at all.

Yet as I thought about the situation more, I came to the conclusion that this turtle was more than likely just an unwilling actor in one of those softcore porn Cinemax shows; you know, the ones with no actual penetration and just lots of bad acting, dry humping, and subsequent tears (or what is better known as the sum of all my junior high memories).  Furious at the sudden realization that this turtle-fuck probably made more than I did after taxes, I slammed my laptop shut and quickly shoved my boner back into it's underpants dwelling.  Surprised by my sudden actions, Michael did the same with his laptop (and boner).

"I'm sorry, I didn't know you were so passionate about the subject," Michael said, fumbling with the cords to his sweatpants.

"What subject?" I snapped back.

"Turtle-fucking, duh."

"Turtle fucking da-what?"  I quizzically questioned, wondering why Michael was suddenly speaking what appeared to be a lazy form of Ebonics.

Michael shook his head as if to say, "never mind," then caught himself halfway through the motion, realizing that I was too stupid to understand it, and instead exclaimed, "Fuck off and die, you dumb cock."

"Never mind?  Okay," I replied.

I decided to just let him drop the subject, especially since I only understood about 30% of the words that exited his mouth.  In fact, most of the time I found myself struggling to stay with any of our conversations that exceeded the standard 12-word limit, or the phrase, "I'd totally bone that chick from Paramore."  That phrase alone cost me 4 months in jail and an eternal restraining order against the entire Paramore band...but that particular incident is better left for another time.

Just posting this picture alone means I've broken over 70 restrictions and face possible jail time of over 2 years.  The things I do for you kids.

Suddenly realizing that Michael was trying to converse with me, I paused my inner dialogue and set my gaze in his general direction.

"Smarty-ass-education-I-have-in-policeology-garbaly-garbabaly-goo-goo-ya-know?" ...He possibly said.

"Yeah, I'd totally bone that chick from Paramore, too," I answered, resisting the urge to to tear open my laptop and frantically search for photoshopped images of Hayley-whats-her-face naked.  Not that the software restrictions that the police installed would let me, anyways.

"Fucking christ," Michael said, dropping his head into his palms.  "Why are we even friends?"

Unconsciously thanking Michael for keeping his sentences below the 12-word limit, I asked, "Because I'm the only other person on this planet that would sit here and jerk-off to turtle-fucking with you?"

"I knew it!" Michael yelled, jumping up from the floor and angerly pointing his finger in my face.

"Don't overreact too much, sparky.  That anger you feel is just the sudden comprehension that the half-gallon of Jack Daniels we just downed is going to burn a hell of a lot worse coming out then it did going down, if you catch my drift."

"Like giving anal-birth to a hive of angry wasps," Michael agreed, shivering slightly at the thought.  "But I guess you're right, sorry."

"Aren't I always?" I smugly replied.

"No, you almost never are," Michael almost instantly interrupted.  "Especially how you claim a person can get AIDS from touching puppies...or what about that story where you supposedly went fishing in Lake Erie and caught a mermaid that looked like Milla Jovovich, who then of course took you to the underwater mermaid world that contained a million Milla Jovovich mermaids just so you could fuck every last one of them...

Like this, but with more rape.

Or that time you got caught with that chimpanzee at the rest stop and told everyone that the chimp wasn't giving you a blow- "

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" I quickly yelled.  "Just because you didn't get to put your dick inside a mermaid-Milla Jovovich doesn't mean that they don't exist."

"Yeah, okay." Mike rolled his eyes.

"It's kind of like Santa Claus," I explained.  "I mean, just because you've never seen him in person doesn't make the fact that he stands outside your window every night playing with his own testacles any less true."

Mike grimaced, more than likely at the sudden remembrance of Santa's dirty man-sack.

"You know," he whispered, choking back the tears, "my dad told me he'd kill that jolly bastard if he ever caught him in the act."

And that's how we know Santa's a lefty.

I recoiled in horror, nearly vomiting at the thought.  It took all of my restraint not to reach out and punch the ungrateful bastard right in his ungrateful nose right on his ungrateful face.

"You ungrateful bastard!" I screamed.  "How ungrateful can your ungrateful face get any more ungrateful!?"  I ended that sentence with a question mark and an exclamation point namely because, well, to be honest with you, that sentence really didn't make much of any sense and I was unsure of how to tackle it without coming off as a total dickhole in front of another total dickhole.  It's a pride thing, I guess.

Ed's note:  Wow.  That explanation didn't make much sense either.  Your loss.

Before Michael could decipher just what the hell I was trying to scream at his ungrateful face, I quickly changed the subject, less I seem like the bigger dickhole and completely fail at life.

"You know, my girlfriend thinks we're gay cause we hang out together every once in awhile."

"What?" Michael asked, a look of confusion mired to his ungrateful, dickhole face.

"Well, she feels that two guys don't need to hang out alone and-"

"No," he interrupted, "what's 'gay' mean?"

I was stunned.  This was a question I wasn't expecting, and honestly was in no way prepared to immediately answer.  Truly, how is any heterosexual person supposed to faithfully express the intricate feelings, emotions, and psychology of the gay man and woman?  How, praytell, was I to fully illustrate to my hetero life-partner the social injustices that the homosexual community faced day in and day out?  Frankly, their inability to marry was just one of the hardships that I could not even begin to fathom, nor even begin to explain to Michael.  The subject just seemed too large, too foreboding, and too mired in the structural problems of today's American society for me to tackle.

Yet after a few moments of quiet contemplation, a solution so simple came to mind that I could hardly believe I hadn't thought of it earlier.  I lunged for my laptop, quickly initiating a google image search.

"Well?" He asked.

"Here.  Take a look at this.  It just about explains everything."  I turned my laptop so that Michael could fully and clearly see the picture on the screen.

"It's like this," I explained, "...but without any chicks."