Fudgey
Master of Disaster
I haven't been around much lately because I got fired at my last job and have been busy looking for work since then. I'm still looking, but I'm pleased to say after my last relationship went sour, the old Fudgeman is back on the scene. Let me tell you about what happened a couple weeks ago...
I had a big day ahead of me: a job interview in a town two-and-a-half hours away in the afternoon, followed by a first date with a lady from high school with whom I had recently reconnected through a social networking site. Since I didn't need to be up early, I decided it would be OK to eat Mexican food and drink cheap beer until about two.
Well, oddly enough, I got a late start to my day, with time only to shower and shave before running out the door. Notice something missing? I did, too, later on.
I was about halfway to the interview when I realized that I was going to have to make more than one presentation that day. I looked longingly at the gas stations and fast food restaurants that passed by my windows, not daring to stop because I knew this one was going to be a major commitment, and I barely had time to get to my interview.
Besides, there is always the twenty-minute wait-in-the-lobby power trip, during which I figured I would slip into the lobby bathroom, maybe not to fire a live torpedo, but at least purge the aft tube with compressed air to make sure it was ready for action. Best to be over water when conducting such a delicate operation, lest a mishap let loose a live eel during the interview.
Imagine my surprise when a partner in the company walks out into the parking lot and escorts me inside, skipping the lobby altogether. The interview went very well, but it was very long. As we finally wrapped up, I briefly considered asking to use the facilities, but he needed to get home. Not wanting to keep a potential employer waiting as I unleash what I know will be certainly at least a category five shitstorm into his unsuspecting bathroom, I bid him farewell.
It's at this point I realized I was supposed to be in another city thirty minutes ago to meet this woman. More importantly, it's an hour away. Damn again.
I hopped in the car and pointed the nose east, again passing many likely candidates for sweet felief. I just didn't have the time. I reached her hotel. She called and said come on up, so I grabbed a pair of shorts and sandals and headed for the elevator, intending to change into less formal clothes in her room. We met, small talk, 'Hey mind if I change?' Sure no problem, and into the bathroom I went.
It's tiny. And tile. Lots of tile. The toilet mocked me with its pristine whiteness. There was even that little heated spotlight that bathes it in a sort of holy light. I know better, what if she needs to visit before we leave? That would be the end of the date before it even started, right? I mean, some dude you haven't seen in fifteen years walks into your hotel room and then proceeds to light up your toilet and leave it a smoldering mess before you even have had a beer together?
Of course, presented with such a beautiful target, the torpedo has taken it upon themselves to load the rear tube with what feels to be a very capable and destructive load. I manage, with great difficulty, to work it back into the hold and change clothes without incident. And then off we go to the restaurant...
It was a German place with a huge beer selection. We had a great time, laughing, drinking, and eating fried veal platters. I briefly thought of unloading something quick and dirty at the restaurant, but things seemed to be going in a direction that might go even better if my whole undercarriage wasn't turd-flavored, so I held off in anticipation of reward. Rewarded I was: we got back to the hotel and I was asked upstairs. Which was great, except I was still carrying last night's Mexican food and beer, plus another whole country's worth of fried schnitzel and about eight more beers.
We made our way upstairs, and I am resigned to the fact that, since I don't know this woman very well, asking for a pause so that I might take a massive **** in her hotel room, surely fouling the air there and possibly requiring evacuation of the whole floor, all the while accompanied by noises worthy of naval cannon fire, probably wouldn't make my night end with the results I wanted. Plus, there was that whole problem of flavoring again. Who wants to chow down on that?
Anyway, we had our adult happy fun, and I realized that I both want and am expected to stay around, and not to slink off into the night. I was happy on the one hand, but concerned on the other, as I had thought I would be on my way and could get down to what was now rapidly becoming serious business. Finally she dozed off, and I began to weigh my options.
Option one: just fart, and release enough pressure to make things bearable until I can get to proper facilities, which at this point would be somewhere in the middle of a desert. But I realize I like this woman. What if she wakes up and rolls over for a snuggle, only to be enveloped in a ****-cloud of proportions hitherto unknown to man? Plus, I'm naked, and not entirely trusting of the Mexican and German secret agents roiling around in my colon.
What if they plot together for the demise of my whitebread American ***? They've done it before. What if there was a Zimmerman or two lying in wait for me to innocently fart, then foist some disgusting shart all over me and, more importantly, the starched white hotel sheets? Kind of hard to explain that one in the cold, hard light of the morning. So, option one was clearly out. No farting.
Hmmm. How about the lobby toilet? Damn yet again. I had not expected to stay, so she had the only key and I have no idea where it is, and no desire to be rooting through her purse looking for it should she wake up and look over. I could swing the door latch over and keep it from closing all the way, but I imagine her reaction to being left naked in a room with the door propped open might be less than enthusiastic. Additionally, with every small move I make, she wiggles up a little, making me reluctant to just use the bathroom in the room, as I will surely need her to be asleep (and possibly anesthetized) for what is going to happen very shortly. She wakes a little, snuggles over, and puts her pretty head on my shoulder. I snickered a bit, knowing she has no idea what horrible, horrible things are brewing in my nether regions.
I managed to doze fitfully for a few hours, more awake than asleep. I was terrified of the prospect of falling asleep and waking up in a huge puddle of steaming butt-chowder with a side order of screaming woman. About five AM, while I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as if someone was gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
'tis the wind and nothing more!' Nope, not just the wind, the raven was no longer gently rapping but was serving a federal warrant on my backdoor from the inside out.
I leapt from the bed, heedless of her light sleep habits, and dove into the tile bathroom. This was only about ten feet from her head. I strained to keep the noise and violence down to a minimum, hoping I had not woken her as I made my hasty departure from the bed. First round: not so bad, just a long squeaker. I was confident and felt happy and strong in my control of the o-ring, which was a bad mistake. As I confidently applied more pressure and flex to said o-ring, to my horror, I begin to feel what the NASA engineers watching the Challenger must have felt as they realized they had just lit off something they had no way to stop and that was going to end horrifically.
Now, I have never actually heard a Harley-Davidson motorcycle started with the tailpipe half-submerged in water, but I can guess what it would sound like, because that was the exact sound that came out of my *** at the moment the o-ring blew. Thanks to the design of the toilet and the all-tile bathroom, it was about the same decibel level as a Harley as well. I have never heard such a sound, and hope to never again experience it.
The sound reverberated out of the toilet, which apparently doubled as a huge megaphone, bounced all over the bathroom walls, and surely out into the hotel room where my poor sweet love was most likely wondering exactly what disgusting filthy acts this savage she had taken to bed was committing in the bathroom.
For my part, I was awestruck at the volume, both auditory and cubic-inch wise, that was emanating from my buttocks. It just kept going! First tacos, then a wintery mix of tacos/schnitzel, then pure German goodness. I began thinking of how ridiculously awful the situation was: a beautiful woman I barely know sleeping (hopefully) mere feet from where I am alternately pissing a mixture of Mexican and German beer out my *** and releasing noxious fumes in thunderous clouds that threaten to overwhelm the poor vent fan. This puts me into paroxysms of laughter, forcing another thought into my head: now this new guy is not only defiling the bathroom in God only knows what way, he's laughing hysterically about it as well.
I ended up having to bite my finger to keep from laughing out loud, so the noise became sort a strangled breathing not unlike choking. What must she be thinking?
The brown hurricane finally subsided and I checed out my handiwork. Wow! :appl: Ever seen anyone apply that popcorn stuff on a ceiling? They spray it out of a pipe in a thin chunky mess, much as I had just done to the poor toilet. That spotlight I mentioned earlier now revealed a throne that looked like it would have been right at home in a Tijuana whorehouse. It was awful! Spatters all up the back of the lid, huge greasy clumps stuck to the back of the bowl, and kind of a greasy ring around the water level.
I cleaned it up as best I could, but couldn't bring the pristine whiteness back. Well, no matter, surely she is disgusted and preparing to kick me out as soon as I show my head around the door anyway.
Surprisingly, she was asleep as I gingerly climbed back into bed. But I thought I saw just the twinge of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Either way, I never heard a word about it. I think she may be a keeper.
And that's how I fell in love, all over again.
I had a big day ahead of me: a job interview in a town two-and-a-half hours away in the afternoon, followed by a first date with a lady from high school with whom I had recently reconnected through a social networking site. Since I didn't need to be up early, I decided it would be OK to eat Mexican food and drink cheap beer until about two.
Well, oddly enough, I got a late start to my day, with time only to shower and shave before running out the door. Notice something missing? I did, too, later on.
I was about halfway to the interview when I realized that I was going to have to make more than one presentation that day. I looked longingly at the gas stations and fast food restaurants that passed by my windows, not daring to stop because I knew this one was going to be a major commitment, and I barely had time to get to my interview.
Besides, there is always the twenty-minute wait-in-the-lobby power trip, during which I figured I would slip into the lobby bathroom, maybe not to fire a live torpedo, but at least purge the aft tube with compressed air to make sure it was ready for action. Best to be over water when conducting such a delicate operation, lest a mishap let loose a live eel during the interview.
Imagine my surprise when a partner in the company walks out into the parking lot and escorts me inside, skipping the lobby altogether. The interview went very well, but it was very long. As we finally wrapped up, I briefly considered asking to use the facilities, but he needed to get home. Not wanting to keep a potential employer waiting as I unleash what I know will be certainly at least a category five shitstorm into his unsuspecting bathroom, I bid him farewell.
It's at this point I realized I was supposed to be in another city thirty minutes ago to meet this woman. More importantly, it's an hour away. Damn again.
I hopped in the car and pointed the nose east, again passing many likely candidates for sweet felief. I just didn't have the time. I reached her hotel. She called and said come on up, so I grabbed a pair of shorts and sandals and headed for the elevator, intending to change into less formal clothes in her room. We met, small talk, 'Hey mind if I change?' Sure no problem, and into the bathroom I went.
It's tiny. And tile. Lots of tile. The toilet mocked me with its pristine whiteness. There was even that little heated spotlight that bathes it in a sort of holy light. I know better, what if she needs to visit before we leave? That would be the end of the date before it even started, right? I mean, some dude you haven't seen in fifteen years walks into your hotel room and then proceeds to light up your toilet and leave it a smoldering mess before you even have had a beer together?
Of course, presented with such a beautiful target, the torpedo has taken it upon themselves to load the rear tube with what feels to be a very capable and destructive load. I manage, with great difficulty, to work it back into the hold and change clothes without incident. And then off we go to the restaurant...
It was a German place with a huge beer selection. We had a great time, laughing, drinking, and eating fried veal platters. I briefly thought of unloading something quick and dirty at the restaurant, but things seemed to be going in a direction that might go even better if my whole undercarriage wasn't turd-flavored, so I held off in anticipation of reward. Rewarded I was: we got back to the hotel and I was asked upstairs. Which was great, except I was still carrying last night's Mexican food and beer, plus another whole country's worth of fried schnitzel and about eight more beers.
We made our way upstairs, and I am resigned to the fact that, since I don't know this woman very well, asking for a pause so that I might take a massive **** in her hotel room, surely fouling the air there and possibly requiring evacuation of the whole floor, all the while accompanied by noises worthy of naval cannon fire, probably wouldn't make my night end with the results I wanted. Plus, there was that whole problem of flavoring again. Who wants to chow down on that?
Anyway, we had our adult happy fun, and I realized that I both want and am expected to stay around, and not to slink off into the night. I was happy on the one hand, but concerned on the other, as I had thought I would be on my way and could get down to what was now rapidly becoming serious business. Finally she dozed off, and I began to weigh my options.
Option one: just fart, and release enough pressure to make things bearable until I can get to proper facilities, which at this point would be somewhere in the middle of a desert. But I realize I like this woman. What if she wakes up and rolls over for a snuggle, only to be enveloped in a ****-cloud of proportions hitherto unknown to man? Plus, I'm naked, and not entirely trusting of the Mexican and German secret agents roiling around in my colon.
What if they plot together for the demise of my whitebread American ***? They've done it before. What if there was a Zimmerman or two lying in wait for me to innocently fart, then foist some disgusting shart all over me and, more importantly, the starched white hotel sheets? Kind of hard to explain that one in the cold, hard light of the morning. So, option one was clearly out. No farting.
Hmmm. How about the lobby toilet? Damn yet again. I had not expected to stay, so she had the only key and I have no idea where it is, and no desire to be rooting through her purse looking for it should she wake up and look over. I could swing the door latch over and keep it from closing all the way, but I imagine her reaction to being left naked in a room with the door propped open might be less than enthusiastic. Additionally, with every small move I make, she wiggles up a little, making me reluctant to just use the bathroom in the room, as I will surely need her to be asleep (and possibly anesthetized) for what is going to happen very shortly. She wakes a little, snuggles over, and puts her pretty head on my shoulder. I snickered a bit, knowing she has no idea what horrible, horrible things are brewing in my nether regions.
I managed to doze fitfully for a few hours, more awake than asleep. I was terrified of the prospect of falling asleep and waking up in a huge puddle of steaming butt-chowder with a side order of screaming woman. About five AM, while I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as if someone was gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
'tis the wind and nothing more!' Nope, not just the wind, the raven was no longer gently rapping but was serving a federal warrant on my backdoor from the inside out.
I leapt from the bed, heedless of her light sleep habits, and dove into the tile bathroom. This was only about ten feet from her head. I strained to keep the noise and violence down to a minimum, hoping I had not woken her as I made my hasty departure from the bed. First round: not so bad, just a long squeaker. I was confident and felt happy and strong in my control of the o-ring, which was a bad mistake. As I confidently applied more pressure and flex to said o-ring, to my horror, I begin to feel what the NASA engineers watching the Challenger must have felt as they realized they had just lit off something they had no way to stop and that was going to end horrifically.
Now, I have never actually heard a Harley-Davidson motorcycle started with the tailpipe half-submerged in water, but I can guess what it would sound like, because that was the exact sound that came out of my *** at the moment the o-ring blew. Thanks to the design of the toilet and the all-tile bathroom, it was about the same decibel level as a Harley as well. I have never heard such a sound, and hope to never again experience it.
The sound reverberated out of the toilet, which apparently doubled as a huge megaphone, bounced all over the bathroom walls, and surely out into the hotel room where my poor sweet love was most likely wondering exactly what disgusting filthy acts this savage she had taken to bed was committing in the bathroom.
For my part, I was awestruck at the volume, both auditory and cubic-inch wise, that was emanating from my buttocks. It just kept going! First tacos, then a wintery mix of tacos/schnitzel, then pure German goodness. I began thinking of how ridiculously awful the situation was: a beautiful woman I barely know sleeping (hopefully) mere feet from where I am alternately pissing a mixture of Mexican and German beer out my *** and releasing noxious fumes in thunderous clouds that threaten to overwhelm the poor vent fan. This puts me into paroxysms of laughter, forcing another thought into my head: now this new guy is not only defiling the bathroom in God only knows what way, he's laughing hysterically about it as well.
I ended up having to bite my finger to keep from laughing out loud, so the noise became sort a strangled breathing not unlike choking. What must she be thinking?
The brown hurricane finally subsided and I checed out my handiwork. Wow! :appl: Ever seen anyone apply that popcorn stuff on a ceiling? They spray it out of a pipe in a thin chunky mess, much as I had just done to the poor toilet. That spotlight I mentioned earlier now revealed a throne that looked like it would have been right at home in a Tijuana whorehouse. It was awful! Spatters all up the back of the lid, huge greasy clumps stuck to the back of the bowl, and kind of a greasy ring around the water level.
I cleaned it up as best I could, but couldn't bring the pristine whiteness back. Well, no matter, surely she is disgusted and preparing to kick me out as soon as I show my head around the door anyway.
Surprisingly, she was asleep as I gingerly climbed back into bed. But I thought I saw just the twinge of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Either way, I never heard a word about it. I think she may be a keeper.
And that's how I fell in love, all over again.
