"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."
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