Fudgey - Engineer Boards
Jump to content
Engineer Boards

Fudgey

Members
  • Content Count

    321
  • Joined

  • Last visited

Community Reputation

3 Neutral

About Fudgey

  • Rank
    Master of Disaster
  • Birthday 06/17/1977

Previous Fields

  • License
    EIT
  • Calculator
    HP

Contact Methods

  • Website URL
    http://
  • ICQ
    0

Profile Information

  • Location
    Sandwich, IL

Recent Profile Visitors

1,170 profile views
  1. ...do you think would make the worst porn star? I was going to go with Nixon, but with a name like Tricky Dick I figure he would get porn points for a cool porn name. Then I thought about Jimmy Carter, too much of a gentlemen to be a effective porn star. Then I decided on Reagan. He was pretty old by the time he got into office and I can't imagine he was a stud in the sack at that point. What do you folks think?
  2. When I was but a lad of thirteen, I knew I was destined for toilet clogging greatness. Nary a month would pass without incident of my mudslide avalanche causing the porcelain village to be overwhelmed with my puckered pooper's offerings. Fortunately for the toilet, mudslides were confined to the seasons in which dairy-based byproducts were at their apex. Christmas was one such occasion. To illustrate such a mockery of good rapport between my toilet and my spitting sphincter: just a mere bowl of cereal would cause sharp fragments of Cheerios to screech out of my plunge pit at speeds unknown to aviation science. Fully complimented by a fine green ooze that would sprout forth from my upheaving bowels, the liquid froth and waste would cause my sphincter to close tighter than the legs of a recently diseased hooker. Simply put, any dairy product and I were simply incompatible, destined to lead a love/hate relationship that always ended in mess. But despite this knowledge, after each and every plea for mercy, my mothering mother would always retort, "You are not lactose intolerant, you probably are just stressed from the holidays." I swear the woman had an unsettling obsession with dairy; but it was my mother. Whom to trust better than her? Our family was affluent enough to own a very comfortable two-story home, and I was quite thankful. During this thirteenth year of my life, my entire family -- aunts, uncles, even cousins who fell off the tree and into the street (forgotten and not very missed) -- would show to celebrate the holidays after a long absence from such unity. It was on such an occasion, my dear friends, that this monstrosity of a spectacle occurred. To properly set the stage of events that would unfold in my untimely presence and state, you must first know a bit about me in order to understand its true impact. As many of you, I likely also suffer from IBS. Combined with my lack of dairy processing, my gut is a ticking timebomb of liquid stew spew. Let me clarify: my condition of IBS is specifically caused by stress, a trigger that would soon doom me to an existence of shame abandon after this episode. At first just a few well-known members of our family arrived; with them, poignant memories flooded my mind. Assaulted, my brain invoked the only response it knew from my thirteen years of existence when dealing with stress: IBS. Churning in the deepest confines of my darkest gut, my stomach acid played merry-go-round with all I had eaten that day. From eggnog to biscuits and milk, every product I had consumed with all of their dairy properties (mixed in, mind you, with the stress of this event) created one of the most wretched feelings I can ever recall. My experience was further complicated by the sound of a large internal fart emitting a loud noise, sounding as if a toad were being suffocated in the confines of my intestines. My Uncle Joe, near the catastrophe at hand, jerked his head toward my nearby location and asked, "What was that?" What was that indeed, Uncle Joe; but you were about to find out, despite my intentions of keeping the ordeal private. We had been blessed with a total of three bathrooms in our house. One in my parents' master bedroom, one near the main entrance, and one in our guestroom. Sensing danger, and knowing my mother was inevitably going to convey the family into each of our rooms to show off their cleanliness, I retreated to the guest bathroom for salvation. Conveniently, our guest room bathroom was located precisely above our kitchen. Down below, the roar of champagne induced laughter further unsettled my yearning plea for privacy. Yet I pulled down my pants and squatted. What was to follow was surely the epitome of culinary processing by the human body gone awry. At first my ass simply burped a few clouds, like an ancient volcano showing the first signs of activity. Then the rush that hit my trunk was unstoppable. My well-learned sphincter opened as wide as it could and liquid simply rushed out of me at a speed I had no idea it could attain in a short, two-foot drop into the toilet water. Diarrhea and water both splashed my underside, creating an unsettling "not so fresh" feeling. I then pushed incredibly hard, further accelerating the oil from my innards into a final display of power. Like a fireworks finale launched from a moored boat in a nearby reservoir, my hole was overwhelmed with sensations, nearly sending me into a state of unconsciousness. When I regained my composure, it was all over. As I wiped myself sterile, everything that led to this pinnacle seemed all but a distant dream. Because my underside was so very wet, and because I needed to head downstairs shortly to rejoin my relatives, lest they become suspect of my criminal deed I wiped with much ado and finally felt clean. Reaching behind me, I flushed and watched the water swirl. Swirl. Swirl. 'Round she went. Stop. To my horror, as my brain finally took in the sight, the very bowl was white with toilet paper. I had used fistfuls of toilet paper to maintain a level of cleanliness. This would be my downfall. As my head twirled, my mind evacuated my body. Finally my brain stepped in to handle the situation. Like a well-trained Army recruit performing a task to impress a drill sergeant, I grabbed a nearby plunger with both hands and plunged deep into the bowl. In and out, in and out. Harder I plunged, deep into the murky depths of Mordor, where Sauron grew stronger; but to no avail. Then I did what any thirteen-year-old would when faced with impending responsibility of dire consequences: I ran. I ran fast down the steps, faster than my chicken-legs would carry me. I stumbled down the staircase at a speed only cheetahs reach, patted down my hair, and then entered the kitchen. I was overwhelmed by the sound of twenty-five people inside our home. My Mom smiled warmly at me and beckoned me to come near. I went and stood next to her as my aunts and uncles prodded me and remarked how tall I had gotten. My mother sensed something was wrong, but my guilt had not manifested itself to speak yet, so I told her "nothing" and wandered into the crowd. Our kitchen was quite open, and in the center was a counter island where all the food was kept. As I strolled amongst my relatives I plucked cheese and other delis from the glass plates upon the island, nibbling at them timidly for fear they might induce another episode. As I stood eating, I noticed my Uncle Jack's casual sportswear jacket had droplets on its shoulders. I looked outside for justification but found only sunshine. I think at this point in the game I fully realized the impending cataclysm, but my young mind felt tranquility in the ignorance of such fact finding. Until, that is, she spoke. My Aunt Jessica was one loud, intolerable bitch of a woman. Fat as an ox, with hooves like a cow, she emitted one of the loudest yells that has ever breached human lips. "WHAT IS THAT???" The teeming crowd of family turned and gazed skyward in wonder. On the ceiling were the telltale droplets of water. Then the sound. Splish. Splash. Louder and faster it came. And then it was noticed that the countertop island, with the responsibility of hosting the food, was wet. In the misfortune of things, the island was a clear white, making this hard to detect at first.) Was it a roof leak? There was no rain. Was it the sink leaking? Yes, yes, it was the sink leaking. My mind, using psychic powers, tried its hardest to convince all in the room it was the sink leaking. My mother was the first to run, up our wooden banister, down the hall, and into the guestroom. Following closely, my father trailed her path, seemingly blazing the way for all others to see. Suddenly the mystery was one to be solved by many, as all my relatives headed up stairs. My Aunt Jessica turned to us, only my cousins and myself remaining, ordering us to move the food to the other room. The water dripped. We all looked up. Then we heard the scream. The water came with even more force, resembling a shower confined to a ten-foot diameter of ceiling. Maybe because the smell was not of detectable odor was the reason my cousins and I delayed in our Aunt's good wishes. Or perhaps, at least in my mind, we were too mortified to be broken from the trance of standing there and doing nothing. Then a smell as rank as the ass from which it birthed struck us. The water was not infested with brown muck that would tell one it was sewer water. Through a cruel act of fate, this water was being micro-filtered by the carpet on the guestroom floor and the plaster ceiling in our kitchen. Still, it was shit and piss water; let's not soften that fact. My cousins and I then sprung into action. We grabbed the plates untouched by the foul swill as fast as we could, flinging them onto the floor with enough care not to break them but regard for little else. Working in unison, we cleared the table in a short few minutes. As the grownups returned from the guestroom, each of us was questioned in regards to responsibility. In my heart of hearts, I truly believe that my family knew it was me. Perhaps they were trying to be fair. Or perhaps they were looking for me to be honest. Neither worked, as I kept myself tight-lipped. As our parents cleaned up the mess in the kitchen, many questioned whether the water had tainted the food they were eating. The leak had been spotted well after I had returned; and, to tell you honestly, to this day I cannot come to grips with that. What I did do, however, was avoid kissing my family on the lips until the next time we saw each other, years later.
  3. I brought a butt plug to the exam. No need to waste valuable time on bathroom breaks.
  4. I got my results today and passed with flying colors!! My bad cholesterol is down, platelet count is pretty good, and I got my iron levels back to a healthier level.
  5. Is it possible that what we think is a meteorite is actually a poop from some massive, asteroid-eating space creature? If so then did this creature just eat some asteroids, poop nonchalantly, move along, and then its turd just happened to make its way to Earth, or did this creature deliberately throw its poop at us? On the issue of space creatures throwing their poop at Earth, my personal stance is that I'm against it. It should throw its poop at Neptune instead. Neptune totally deserves it.
  6. I know I've posted these before, but when I'm in the car or waiting room or some other place where my mind wanders, I like to think of ideas for new TV shows or movies. I've never pitched one, but I think some of them are pretty solid concepts. I came up with a few more for TV shows the other day and wanted to share them with you. Tell me what you think. 1. A health conscious cop goes undercover to fight crime in the debaucherous gambling capital of the country. I'm calling it Las Vegan. 2. Cold Business - a gritty five-part miniseries that looks into the backstabbing, cutthroat world of refrigerator manufacturing. (Directed by Ken Burns) 3. Hot Tops and Rock Hard Bottoms - A dramatic look into the life of an Arizona highway crew - there's a surprise at every 'curve'.
  7. I could really go for a Pasadena Mudslide right now.
  8. I recently had an ear infection and was given the antibiotic Keflex to take to clear it up. I went to Wal-Mart about four hours after I had taken the first dose and had no idea I needed to do anything—meaning poop. And out of nowhere, while I was mid-step, I just shat myself right in the Lawn and Garden department. Didn't fart or anything. Shit just fell out my ass. After hauling my soggy ass to the men's room, I go in a stall, I unbuckle my belt, pull down my jeans, and let loose. My eyes close briefly, as I become aware of the inevitable, and then I stare down at a sizzling brown blob anchored between my legs, which are ensconced in my jeans. This it it. I slump in momentary defeat while my sphincter kicks into overdrive, gushing liquid poo, gush after gush, until the last wave of hydration leaves my throat dry and my body clammy. Matters do not improve; the acidity from the poo is eating away at the hemorrhoids around my asshole. I know my ass cleaning will be painful to the point of dabbing instead of wiping, and painful it is, adding insult to injury. I have some cleaning to do. I look at the toilet paper dispenser with loving eyes: It’s a commercial dispenser that holds a large paper roll that could wipe all the butts from Los Angeles to Houston I start to dab-pat the infected area in my jeans, removing the first layer. I then take my jeans off and raise my body over the toilet. But still there is the reality that I have SHIT MY PANTS! So I stand there, naked from the waist down, dipping toilet paper in clean bowl water and doing what a good son should do -- clean up like a civil being. If you can say one good thing about me, it is that my mother taught me manners, and this teaching extended to cleaning a soiled public toilet seat to the best of my abilities. One doesn’t get to write that last line too often. I sit back down on the toilet because my bowels are not finished. My bowels, in a punishing way, are making it clear what I have done and how I have mistaken their power, influence, and ability to dole out retribution. I hear someone enter the restroom. He isn’t here long. When I regain some semblance of sphincter control, I wrap my jacket around my bare bottom and emerge from the stall with my jeans. At the wash counter sit two cloth towels and a spray bottle of disinfectant. Whoever comes in is present a blunt message: You shit? You clean. The hand-washing area looks like it was designed for a pants-shitting accident. There are two sinks, two paper roll dispensers, holes on both ends of the table for trash, and ample table space on which to scrub. I don’t waste any time. I tuck my jeans inside out and lay them out for a pat bath. I lather my hands with green soap, take one of the courtesy cloth towels that were left by mystery man, and go for it. By this time, my mind is spinning in fuzzy neurotransmissions and a surreal time warp. Am I actually cleaning shit from my jeans? Since I have no other alternative, I put the soaked jeans back on and high-tail it out of there. I headed home and prepared a hot bath with plenty of capfuls of Dr. Bronner’s Peppermint Soap while I perform a second round of jeans-cleaning in the sink. As I let them soak, I immerse myself in the luxury of cleansing. With my body tingling with the freshness of peppermint, I emerge from the tub with perspective on life: I’m not dead; I’m not impoverished; I’m relatively sane; I am human; and I shit my pants. So f$&%ing what?
  9. Ladies of EB - I am perplexed about something. How do you manage to use a mouse and not scratch up your nail polish?
  10. Hey guys I haven't been around much but this sounds like a great idea! Can I sign up? What is the plan?
  11. So as you know I left the consulting world a couple of years ago and took a sales/tech rep for a vendor that sells water treatment equipment. It was what I could find at the time. It's not bad, but I spend a lot of time visiting clients pushing our stuff and doing training and support. Doing sales on the road is a lonely thing. You have to adjust to spending time alone in the car, in restaurants, and in motels. Unfortunately you pick up some really bad habits as well - habits that ordinarily would horrify you, but, since no one knows about them, you're free to do. A few examples include talking to yourself, burping, eating in the car, yelling at other drivers, talking to the television in the motel room, sleeping in the nude, farting in the bathtub, peeing in the shower, smoking cigars in the car, and farting in the car. Loudly. When you're alone so much that you start automatically doing these things, there's a real danger to accidentally doing them when you're finally around people. One time I stayed in an adjoining motel room with a coworker of mine. At breakfast the next morning, he said, "Who were you talking to in the room last night?" He knew I usually leave my cell phone in the car overnight so that nobody can bother me during non-working hours. I had to fumble for answer, but you could tell by the look in his eyes that he thought that I was blue-skinned inbred who needed to be euthanized with a sharp ice pick. I scrambled to remember what I had been yelling at the TV, but it must have sounded sociopathic in nature, because the dude refused to go on business trips with me after that. My tale of caution today has to do with that last bad habit: farting in the car. I usually pass gas in the car by raising my butt from the driver's seat and expelling it as loudly as I can. This technique expedites the whole process, you don't have to rip a series of junior farts and prolong the process. I had driven in from across Illinois into Wisconsin and arrived in Madison at the offices of a large design/build contracting firm. I was bringing some plans to several purchasing agents, the entire engineering group, and the VP of that division. That morning I'd slurped down four coffees, a danish, and a particularly foul-smelling ham biscuit, and the whole deal was fermenting in my guts. It felt like somebody had forced a rotting turkey buzzard down my throat, poured a burning can of Sterno over it, let it sit for an hour, and then forced some canned spray cheese into my nostrils and made me swallow it. I was late for the meeting, so no time to use the restroom first. I came in and we all sat in boardroom chairs. If I had to guess, I would say there were about twelve of us in there, waiting for another VIP to join us. I was bored and lost in my thoughts as the wait began to drag on, and that is when it happened. I had been living and working alone much too long, and it was time to be outed. Releasing my cheeks, I hunkered my hindquarters up and tried to blow out the festering fart as if I was giving birth to a porcupine. It sounded like a cat caught in the fan belt of a forklift. The entire room went silent and I realized that I'd just ruined my career. My jaw dropped open and I said the first thing I could think of: "I'm sick." You could have heard a pin drop. Nobody knew whether to laugh or pretend nothing had happened. A couple moments later, one person started to laugh, and then the whole room exploded. That very instant, the VIP walked into the room. And he smelled it. He looked as if someone had just told him that his seventy-four-year-old grandmother was expecting triplets after visiting an anonymous sperm bank. I saw several emotions in his expression: surprise, anger, shock, revulsion. And then he started looking around the room to see who had unleashed the fart. All eyes fell onto me, and I wanted to die. "Are you feeling better?" asked the oldest woman in the room. And then there was another outburst of laughter. The VIP, though, never laughed once. Apparently they walked on eggshells around that guy. I guess he was some type of high-ranking Klan member during his off hours. The odor lingered in the room like gray clouds of smelting medical waste thrown up by a sick Alpaca. It was the worst half-hour of my life. After the meeting, nobody said a word about it. I got back in the car and went back to the office. When I entered our building, my boss came out of the conference room and said, "What happened over there?" The VIP had called him, and he seemed to think I'd done it on purpose. My boss warned me that I'd be fired if it happened again. When I applied for a sales with a competitor a while back, the first thing the interviewer asked me was, "Is the fart story true?" By that time I could laugh about it. "Every word of it," I said. I stayed put, but got the offer me anyway.
×
×
  • Create New...