The Mind of Spaz

She was twenty seven years old, a veritable cougar for me at the time.  She was blond, slim, hot, sexy, sultry, seductive and she wanted me.

Ok, ok. It was two-thirty a.m. and last call had been rung forty-five minutes ago. She was all those things above through a heavy vale of a college drunk on beer induced goggles.

My Last Call Sweetheart. Ain't she purdy?

It wasn’t long before we were on our way to a more private location.  I walked there with pride – actually, I was way too drunk to walk.  She carried me there in a modified fireman’s technique that has my nose buried in her ample ass.  Actually, the ass was so ample that my head disappeared inside it.  I didn’t mind – it was cold out.

She lay on the bed and I struggled to peel off the extra large clown pants so snugly fit to her monstrous lower half.  The pants came off, as did her panties which seemed to be stuck to the pants – probably in an effort to get away from her nether regions.  I was soon to find out why.

It wasn’t too long until it hit me, like a one ton weight dropped on the heads of cartoon characters for comic affect.  Although this affect wasn’t funny.  The rancid odour eminating from her crotch was like running headfirst into a brick wall. No, that’s not quite accurate.  The smell was so rancid, so putrid and so vile, it had an energy of it’s own. I didn’t hit the smell so much as it hit me like a runaway locamotive being hurled through the air after being at the epicenter of a nuclear explosion.

That isn't a vagina - it's.. it's... a MONSTER!

I fell to my knees and gasped for breath, trying desparately to find a section of the room that had any oxygen left.  She asked me what was the matter – so I asked her if she wanted a case of beer and half a pizza.  She asked me if it could wait until after and I told her no, and promply threw up in the laundry hamper.

I struggled to my feet, knees shaking, vision blurred from the tears running down my cheeks. I tried my best to get away from this disgusting monstronsity who had morphed from princess to vile monster right before my eyes.  I was three feet from the door when she screamed at the top of her lungs “NO!” and lunged for me.

She was suprisingly quick for a hippo sized woman.  She was also surprisingly strong for someone who didn’t appear to have any visible muscle.  I tried my best to resist but she shoved my face inbetween her cottage cheese thighs into the swampy, disgusting mess between her legs. “LICK IT!” she commanded, shoving my face even further into the sticky gooey nether region she called a twat.

With all the strength I could muster, I pushed myself away from this horrid thing.  But something wasn’t right.  Yea, fine, this whole situation wasn’t right.  This was something especially wrong. There was something on my tongue. Something gross and gooey and slimy and disgusting.

Oh, so cheese whiz DOES come from vagina's!

I realized something. Something very disturbing to me. Something which would screw up my head for a long, long time to come.  Something so horrible that I don’t know if I could deal with it.  I realized that I had just had my first run in with Smegma, and it was inside my mouth.

The Smegma......The Smegma.....

I threw up the rest of the beer, pizza and smegma all over her belly.  Actually, it collected in her belly button.  While she was distracted on trying to figure out how she could get all the way down there for a midnight snack, I made my escape.

I neglected to realize that we were actually in my dorm room, but that’s ok.  Sleeping on the park bench in January was much perferable to that.

The whole horrible experience almost turned me gay, until I realized that the only penis I don’t hate is my own.

Kids, the moral of the story here is do NOT pick up at last call while wearing beer goggles.  If you do, be prepared for some vagina cheese inside your mouth.

dumb things I do to myself, social commentary bad vagina, beer goggles, Last call, smegma, smelly twat

Today, I was carded.

Yea, me. I was carded. They asked for my I.D. Me, a thirty-one year old man with a beard. I’m not talking about a scraggly teenager molester mustache either, I’m talking full growth, no skin showing kinda manly man’s beard.

This thing on my upper lip will get me into ALL the bars! Isn't my camo cool?

It was lunch time, and I was at the local grocery store buying a sandwich. I noticed a sign on the till that read Wednesdays Seniors Day. Ask for 5% discount. So naturally, I asked for a discount.

Naturally, I asked for my 5% off.

Not only did she laugh at me, she asked me for proof! She wanted to see my ID proving I was the seniors age.

That’s when I learned to them, seniors mean sixty years old or older. I can’t get a discount until I double my age, which makes no sense at all. My old man is just about sixty and he has WAY more money than me. They should make a young persons discount.

But that got me to thinking. Coming of old age is just like coming of age. Your body goes through the same types of changes.

For example, they tell you when you’re young that you’ll get hair where you never had any before. And that’s true. I started sprouting pubes when I was twelve and had a full on pelvic afro by the time I was fourteen. For a while, it stayed like that.

But then I started getting old. And again, I started growing hair where I never had any before. This time though, it wasn’t just pubes. I mean, it started at the pubes. No, that’s not true either. It started at the testicles and didn’t stop until it reached almost my damned neck.

I haven't had to buy a shirt since 1997.

Speaking of new hair, what the hell is with the re bar growing out of my shoulders? Not on top, but right where the shoulder meets the arm.  They’ve got to be strong enough to support a car. There’s only three or four of them, but it’s hard to have a cool looking tattoo with that shit on there. Unless the tattoo is of a vagina. Then that would work.

The wiggly changes too.  Back when I was fourteen, a good stiff breeze would have him standing at attention. That didn’t really work out that well for me when answering a question on the blackboard or watching the girls play volleyball.

Now that I’m going through second puberty, I thought that reaction would remain and get stronger, but no.  Not when I really need it, now that I’m old enough to know what to do with it.   The staying power of little Spaz just isn’t the same, even if I’ve had a sandwich and a nap. Not fair!

But there are good things too.  My skin doesn’t seem to be reacting violently to this second puberty, and my face is zit free. Even when I forget to wash (for a week).

And it also gives me something to look forward to.  Back then, it was not having to worry about having I.D. to buy your Texas mickey of rum.  Soon, I won’t have to prove I’m too young to get the seniors discount.

Life is way better when there’s something to be excited about!

social commentary, talking out of my ass I.D., lots of hair, second puberty

If you’re here, reading this post, than you’re here because you like the cheesy tripe that comes out of my head.  All one-hundred of you that visit in a day.

Seriously, can you get like nine-hundred more of your friends to come to my blog?  If you do I can start advertising, make some money, and buy that caramelized pig’s head I always wanted. Thanks in advance.

But head cheese and boiled cow intestine isn’t why I’m writing today. No, it’s to tell you about something that’s funny. Almost as funny as me.  Funnier if you actually have good taste in humor. And that funny is………

The fabulous, talented and completely smokin’ hot Chelle B (hooyah) spent time, money, and the sweat of her blond brow to bring you the BEST humor blogger directory and social network EVER.

Do you know what else? I’m in the humor bloggers directory! Chelle B let me in even though I gave her the clap back in high school.  Which was quite the feat seeing as I was in like grade two back then.

Ok, you guys need to pay attention now.  Seriously. I’m looking at you moooog.  Quit smacking Mr. Happy around for just a sec and take a listen to this.

To date, the FUNNIEST bloggers on this great wide planet earth call Humor Bloggers [dot] com their home.  Do you know how freaking funny and talented these people are?

The are so talented..

… ready for this?

They are so talented, that they have MOMMY bloggers that are funny.  Seriously.  The mommy bloggers there actually make me laugh, they are cool, and funny, and use their talents to make funny, not exploit their poor children, husband, 37 cats and iguana.

Now THAT is quality. And that’s the quality you are going to expect to find at humor bloggers [dot] com.

Come to find your funny. Come to share your funny, if you are good enough.  Yea, fine, membership is a bit of an exclusivists club, but you gotta be funny to get in. There’s no point in having a humor blog directory and letting in some Emo kid because he made a funny post ONCE about dipping his doodle in a spicy bean pate.  You gotta be funny on a regular basis.  Umm, you also have to BE funny on a regular basis, not just think you are.

I’m just saying.

But it isn’t just about the directory. It’s about the whole experience. For example, last week we had a monkey beating contest.  I beat my monkey all week.  Sometimes several times a day. Hell, I even beat my monkey fifty times in a row.  I didn’t win.  As a matter of fact, Chelle B beat her monkey better than I beat mine.  But in the end, it didn’t matter, because I had fun beating my monkey with everyone at humorbloggers [dot] com.

Other things you’ll enjoy at humorbloggers [dot] com:

• A chat room full of funny
• A forum full of funny
• Daily articles written by funny
• An arcade
• Bet you thought I was going to use the word funny after arcade. There’s nothing funny about the word arcade.

So, what are you all waiting for!  Everybody get your cute little tushe’s down to humorbloggers [dot] com.  Now. Even if you’ve been a bit of a couch potato and your tush isn’t so little any more.  Go.

Humorbloggers [dot] com. We have your funny.

‘Nuff Said.

good things, shameless promotion blog directory, humor blog directory, humor bloggers, humor social network

I’m not much of a ladies man.  Of late, my love live has been drier than ladies vagina’s at an Elton John concert.

But this wasn’t always the case.  There was a time when I hadn’t yet discovered what insane, nasty and gold digging creatures nine out of every ten women are.

Ok, let me rephrase that.

There was a time when I hadn’t yet discovered what insane, nasty and gold digging creatures nine out of every ten women I have  dated were.

The year was, umm… shit. I ran out of fingers and toes.  Let’s call it the latish 80′s.  I was maybe eight or nine years old, and the chicks dug me.  I made all the boys jealous, because it was the school dance, and I was dancing with Stacey Spencer.

All the little boys wanted to dance with Stacey.  Stacey had boobs!  Which was unusual for a twelve year old back in the 80′s.  Unlike today, little girls still looked like little girls, not skanky little prosti-tots.  But I was doing the little kid shuffle with Stacey, to the eight minute plus ballad of Gun’s and Roses November Rain. A whole eight minutes with which I could devise how to get my hand on some sweet twelve year old bum.

Did I mention I was nine and she was twelve? What a COUGAR!

Representing grade school Coug's everywhere

I must have been something special back then. All the little skanky ho’s wanted to be with the 14 year olds.  Nothing said cool like patchy molester mustaches, zits, and only two years until a drivers license.

I understand, Stacey. I like younger boys, too.

But that day, I got to be with Stacey.  Until her 14 year old boyfriend found out I had in fact touched her boob, and he beat me up with my own fist.

To this day, if somebody tells me to stop hitting myself, I go ballistic.

Anyways, that’s how I touched boob at nine years old, then got beat up.

To wrap up this little story that went absolutey nowhere, boy are the pedophiles who find their way to this post via keywords going to be dissapointed.   To fucking back Micheal Jackson, you disgusting perv!

good things, talking out of my ass coug, cougar, grade school, gun's and roses, michael jackson, perverts

The other day I was taking a piss.  That’s not too unusual.  I do that probably about forty times a day.

Sausage in hand, draining the main vein, pretending to put out the Hindenburg and just plain playing target practice on imaginary enemies, my eyes turned to my pubes.  I thought to myself, man, that thing looks  like a friggin afro or something.

Really. It was big. I mean, it wasn’t so big that I couldn’t find the weiner for the trees, I’m no moooooog.  It was just damned bushy.

This kid's head has got nuthin on my pelvis.

My eyes then caught my beard trimmer.  I looked down at the bird’s nest, back to the beard trimmer, and back to the birds nest.  Before my mind knew what was going on, my hand grabbed the trimmer and went to town.

Next thing I knew, the toilet was full of hair and the front of my pelvis was bald.

Little spazzy looked much bigger. In fact, the only way he could look any bigger was if I painted him black.

I don’t know why I did it.  I will say that having the base of little willy exposed to free air felt good, really good.  Kind of like if you let your hair grow too long then get it shaved off.  Exposed to the breeze.

But why? Why did I do it? I mean, it seemed like a good idea at the time.  I don’t have a girlfriend, so keeping neat and clean down there is purely optional.  It’s not an option if I do have a girlfriend. I mean, if I expect her to shave then I’ll return the courtesy.  The difference of course is that she doesn’t floss when she goes down on me if it’s not shaved, but I’m not a hypocrite in any way.

I did forget the natural consequence of going to to bare wood, especially if your trimmer isn’t the sharpest at the time.

I’m still trying to explain to our new student at work that I wasn’t coming on to her when she caught me scratching my groin with great gusto. I’m also explaining that to her lawyer and the cops.

Oh well.  Some good did come out of it.

Thanks for the hair transplant spaz! I'm forever in your debt.

‘Nuff Said

dumb things I do to myself afro, bald, Brendan Fraser, penis, pubes, pubic hair, trimming