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Watch out, it’s TMI Thursday!
This one should have you sufficiently grossed-out.
On with it . . .
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Okay, sorry. That title made it sound like my Lawyerman is a fecalphiliac (why is my spell checker not recognizing this word? It is a legitimate word that people use in everyday conversation, spell checker! What is your fucking deal? Oh, and now that I’ve written this complaint, the spell checker is recognizing it as an actual word. WHO’S THE BITCH NOW, SPELL CHECKER? WHAT.) I can assure you that he is not.
That was a bad pun. I apologize.
Back to the story. That I never got to in the first place.
A couple weekends ago Claire, The Lawyer, and I enjoyed a nice day out on the lake. While Lawyerman was docking the boat, my bestie Claire and I went inside his house to use the facilities. Since we have been friends since we were basically both fetuses, we don’t mind peeing in front of each other. It’s what friends do. That, and braid each other’s pubic hair.
What, you don’t do that? Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything . . .
Anyhoodle, while Claire was getting her tink on, I reached into the medicine cabinet for some deodorant because I was feeling a bit rancid after a day of sweating and swimming in dirty river water. As I reached for the stink stick, I accidentally jostled a bottle of Aspirin (I had no idea people still kept aspirin in their houses. WTF, Lawyerman? This is not 1947). This started a chain reaction of events.
As Claire was flushing the toilet, the Aspirin fell out of the cabinet.
Into the sink.
Bounced out of the sink.
Into the now-flushing toilet.
Down the drain.
Oopsie.
Claire, being the awesome human being that she is, reached down into the toilet to feel for the Aspirin bottle (I suppose she’s touched worse. She is an LPN in a nursing home and changing old people diapers is sorta the norm there . . .), then said, “It’s gone.”
I told Lawyerman about our little mishap, and he said it was fine as long as the toilet still flushed. We flushed it a few times to be safe, and everything seemed to be in working order on his porcelain throne.
So, naturally, later that night, I had to take a poop.
I’m sure you can see where this is going.
It wasn’t a BIG poop, mind you. It was kinda like Mooooog’s daughter’s pellet poop (featured in his header). Like this:
Check out that detail!
I mean, there were like, three pellets. TOPS. Not exactly a huge load. Surely not enough to clog a toilet.
Oh yeah.
Three poop pellets was enough to clog the toilet.
It. Sure. Fucking. Was.
Oopsie again.
So my Lawyerman, bless his heart, tried to snake the drain, to no avail.
So he had to remove the toilet, fish out the blockage (read: Aspirin bottle covered in LRC poo), and replace the toilet.
And take a long, hot shower after getting up close and personal with my latest bowel movement.
That’s love right there.
Does everybody know what time it is?
TOOL TIME!
No, damn it. Get out of my blog, Tim Allen. And put down the coke straw.
It’s . . . TMI Thursday!
Okay, let’s get right down to business.
So once I was dating this guy. At this time, we’d been dating for about a month and had yet to do the nasty. I really liked him and I hoped that inviting him to a party and getting him drunk enough would result in a little after-party sexytime.
I’m such a man sometimes.
Except when I cry at my desk. Like this morning.
But I digress.
ANYWAY. So we went to this party and proceeded to get sloppy, nasty drunk. After becoming sufficiently wasted, we stole some cookies from the snack table (this was a Grown Up Party with actual food in place of a drug buffet a la college parties).
What, your college parties didn’t have drug buffets?
Loser.
So my man friend and I left the party with our stolen cookies, went back to his house, and began sucking face.
It’s finally going to happen! I thought.
Oh yes. It did happen. I’d gotten him drunk enough to slip me the tubesteak.
However . . . apparently, it had been a while since he’d had sex, considering the fact that he lasted all of about, oh, three minutes.
Yeah. Lame.
So we started doing Other Stuff.
The details are fuzzy at this point considering we were both tanked, but I do remember this. At one point, he shot his swimmers all over my back.
And instead of going to get a towel? Like a NORMAL person would do?
He proceded to rub his semen into my back. Like lotion.
Vigorously.
My mouth was agape in horror. But I was too drunk (and too enamored with this dude) to say anything. I just waited until he was finished and we got back down to business.
Is this, like normal? Do other people do this? Because it sure as shit weirded me the fuck out.
So I guess I just had a nice cum lotion layer on my back all night. Awesome.
Maybe he was trying to give me a sensual semen massage?
(Doubtful.)
And what was even weirder? The next morning, when he requested morning head (which I graciously gave, because, again, enamored with the kid), he pulled my head out from under the covers when he was about to come . . .
and then he came all over himself . . .
and never cleaned it up. He put his clothes on and went about his day.
Maybe he had some kind of weird evaporating semen?
I don’t know. But I never quite figured it out.
My guess is, he was just gross as fuck.
I sure know how to pick winners!
I have decided to participate in my very first TMI Thursday post! This is a re-post from my old blog, but it was posted on February 6, 2008 so some of my newer readers probably haven’t read it . I think this is a story that bears repeating.
It’s a brief one, but not without its share of grossness. Let’s get crackin’, shall we?
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Before Murray, I dated a guy I’ll call Tom. He was eight years older than me, and he was a total ass. He blamed me for all his problems as if they were somehow my fault, and was basically just a terrible boyfriend. I don’t know why we stayed together for the year or so that we did, but I think lots of people have one or two relationships that are unjustifiable (at least in retrospect).
About the time Tom and I started dating, Tom got into a rut. He wasn’t taking care of himself very well—not taking daily showers, wearing dirty clothes to work, overeating, etc. Now that I think of it, I’m not sure if he started doing that after we started dating, or if he was already like that and only took care of himself in the early stages of our relationship so I’d stick around.
Anyhoo.
So Tom was nasty, if you want to know the truth. He disgusted me. One day, he showed me a boil that had erupted on his back. This was the hugest, nastiest boil I’d ever seen. Well, it was incidentally the first (and last, hopefully) boil I’d ever seen, but trust me. Even if I had seen 6,392 boils in my life, this one would’ve taken the cake. It was about the diameter of a half dollar and it protruded about 1/2 inch. MONSTER boil.
At the time, I was “living” with Tom for the most part, debating on whether or not to take the plunge and move completely out of my apartment (I never did, thank God). He had to be at work at 8:00 and I didn’t have to be at work until 9:00, so I usually stayed in bed until about the time he left for work.
One morning, I woke up to the sunshine and the sound of the water running in the bathroom. He was showering! Rejoice! A rare occurrence!
It was then that I realized I had been sleeping in a wet spot. And no, we had not had sex the night before.
His boil had burst.
I WAS SLEEPING IN A FUCKING PUDDLE OF PUS THAT HAD OOZED FROM HIS DISGUSTING, HAIRY BACK.
I jumped up from the bed, screaming, and ran into the bathroom. I flung the shower curtain back and said, “WHY would you not TELL ME that your BOIL had BURST?” I don’t remember exactly what he said in defense, probably because I was too horrified to pay attention to whatever response he may have had.
I shudder now just thinking about it.
