Big head on a stick figure body

Can’t be unseen.

New Cellphone

A couple of months ago my friend’s cousin (a single mother) had gotten a new cellphone. After a long day of work, she placed her phone down on the counter and started watching T.V. when her son came to her and asked if he could play with her new phone. She told him to not call anyone or mess with text messages and he agreed to do so. At around 11:20pm when she was getting tired, she decided to tuck her son in and go to bed herself. She proceeded to his room to see that he wasn’t there. She went to her room to find him sleeping on her bed with the phone in his hand. Browsing through her phone, she noticed only minor changes such as a new background, banner, etc. and headed towards the picture section. She began deleting the pictures he took when she came across the last one taken by someone else above him. It shows the left half of what seems to be an elderly woman’s face.

How I learned to mind my own business…

I was walking past the mental hospital the other day, And all the patients were shouting, ‘ 13….13….13. ‘

The fence was too high to see over, but I saw a Little gap in the planks, so I looked through to see What was going on…..

One of them poked me in the eye with a stick!

Then they all started shouting ‘ 14….14….14 ‘…

Green Ketchup

Remember green ketchup? That shit was titts.

Why you should never talk on the phone in the bathroom

All in all, it hadn’t been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I’d last taken a dump. I’d tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal, following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell. As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at the mall to go Christmas shopping. I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, “Everything Must Go!” This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go. I hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:

1.Occupied.

2.Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it’s next to the occupied one.

3.Poo on seat.

4.Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.

5.No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of
toilet.

Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped trousers and
sat down. I’m normally a fairly Shameful Sh1tter. I wasn’t happy about being
next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.

I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on. Mr. Sh1tter was blathering to Mrs. Sh1tter about the sh1tty day he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.

Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude – a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.

Once my *** cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent:
(1) The next-door conversation had ceased
(2) my colon’s continued seizing indicated that there was more to come
(3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench. It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking my poop-mate. This initial “herald” fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.

“Oh my God,” I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking, and then, “No, baby, that wasn’t me (cough, gag), you could hear that (gag)??”

Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surveying the damage, I’d see that liquid poop had actually managed to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang on for the ride.

Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony: “Gotta go… horrible… throw up…in my mouth… not… make it… tell the kids… love them… oh God…” followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.

Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one’s phone and wipe one’s bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string of swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.

There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily into the water. That must have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad for the janitor who’d be forced to deal with this, but I knew that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.

As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.

I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and Shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous poop-mate. I think it’ll be a long time before he can bring himself to poop in public — and I doubt he’ll ever again answer his cell phone in the loo. And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom.

I Tell The Truth

So I was searching gmail for something, and came across this section of a conversation, made me laugh.

11:38 AM John: Z̡͒̊̃͏̷͎̝̗͖̳̪̹ặ̡̢͍̜̙ͪ̂͛̈́ͧl̸̟̬͓͓̣̻͓̟̒̑̈ͦg̛̐̈́̇̏͒̌ͯ̎҉+̧͖̳͉̯͎͓̩ͅo̸̻̣̤̥̹̣̾ͥͨ͌+̷̸̐ͧ͛ͪ͛ͫ̈́҉̳̼̩c̷̻̭̜̣̻͉̭̒̔ͅâ̱̰̻͕̫̆̍ͥ̿̏̈́͞m̡̰̤͛̅̈́͑ͧ͒̓ͬ̚+̥͓͔̼̼̹e̮̜͙̠͑͂̈ͪ+̷̛̞̹͎͖̝͚̩͓̲́ͣt̢͍̼͇̻͇͕͕̞̎̐̾̉ͮ͘ơ͖̱̟͍̩͋́̎̒ͨͣ̚͘+̶̺̣̜̘̮̭̱͓ͪͣͣ͢ṫ̜̗͍̬̘̣̥͈ͯ̑͐e̛͕̟̠̞͎̓͆ͣ͐̾̈́͘l̠̻̮̲̉ͩͧ̓̎ͮͬ+͎l̢͖͖ͮ̾ͯ͊̌̓ͅ+̔͑҉̬̝̘͍y̧̆̈́̑҉͔͎͕̙̥̩̤ơ̲̞͉͇͈͚̇̉ͣ̊̈́̔̚͝u̡̨͉͔̞̱͔̲̜ͣ̓͆̑̐+̯̜̀ͧ͟t͗͊̐ͥ͛͏̜͕͙̻̗͇ͅh̶̡̛͎̭̤̄̆̍͗̍̔̐͗ả͓̤̪̙̜̳͒͑ͅt̆ͪ͗͛ͭ̌+̵̷̯́+̴̜̩̗̐ͭ̅̓̊̄͛y̬͇̦̣ͩ́ͬ̒̆̑̎o̬͐́ͮͩ̅̎u͙̗̳͚̪̲̬̱͓͛͒̒̂̓̽͒+̸̲͆́͠l̰͉͊ͮͯ̅ͩͩͨ͂̑͜ọ̠̉̉̿̆͝͝͠š̴̯̥̦͂̾ͦ̎ͩͬ͜t̨̩͔̜͛̆̉ͭ͐ͨ+̞͉̮̞+͉̯̳̘̮̥̱̐̓̂͑ͬt͕̘̻͇̠̖̽̂ͥͤͤͨ̀̅́͘ͅh̛̯̥ͥ̽͗ͥ̀ͭ̋ͥ̕e̵͛̾̒͐̃ͣ͢+̬͇͍̤̖͞+̫͇͖͍̻̟̭͎͈͋̈́̈͗̚̕͠g̉̃҉͙̳̪̬̪͖̦á͉̳̼̗̹̜̦̬m̡͉̩̝̞ͬͭ͐̅͐͛͐͠ͅ+ę̣̳̜͈̣͎͚͆ͩ̂̎̄ͦ̾

7 minutes
11:46 AM me: that came through as a bunch of boxes and + signs
John: so does your FACE
11:47 AM me: nope. it doesnt.
11:48 AM John: Pictures, people, and mirrors all lie. I tell you the truth.

iPad

Today’s Physics Lesson

Hammerpace; the other dimension of hammertime.

Misheard Lyrics

Garlic-Herb Chicken con Broccoli

Olive Garden has a new dish, called the “Garlic-Herb Chicken con Broccoli”. The pasta was cooked, so was the chicken. I don’t know what garlic-herb is, but I’m assuming the green veggies were broccoli since that’s part of the name. The chicken tasted as expected, like chicken. I opted for the traditional bread sticks and salad, which I probably ate too much of because by the time the con broccoli thing came around, I was pretty full. I didn’t have any wine because I’m a recovering alcoholic, but I’m sure a white or some other type of white would bring out some flavors. Probably just get you drunk and make the food taste amazing. So I recommend this dish.