It was so cold this morning that I saw an inner city youth pull up their pants.
Give a man a fish, and he'll eat for a day.
Teach a man to fish, and he'll eat for a lifetime.
Get a man hammered on tequila at the company Halloween party and you can talk him into eating fish from the reception room aquarium.
Crime is so bad in my neighborhood I've torn out my alarm system and de-registered from the Neighborhood Watch.
I've got two Pakistani flags raised in my front garden, one at each corner and the black flag of ISIS in the front.
The local police, state police, FBI, NSA and Homeland Security are all watching my house 24/7.
I've never felt safer.
Why taking a dump in a Kohl’s dressing room is never a good idea
I went to Kohl’s today to pick up a couple new pairs of pants and just happened to stumble bass akwards into the second funniest thing to ever happen to me in a public dressing room.
The funniest thing, by the way, involved me, a rogue zipper, and two well-placed and well-needed stitches. I’ll just leave it at that.
So I walk into the Kohl’s dressing room and start trying on my regularly-priced-$79.99-now-on-sale-for-$23.99 pants and hear that someone is entering the dressing room adjacent to mine. I think nothing of it and continue to try to squeeze my 38-inch waist into a pair of 36-inch Dockers.
But a mere few seconds later I can hear this individual — clearly a large man by the grunting and groaning — taking off his belt. The noise a belt makes is quite distinct and it sounded like this guy had a belt buckle the size of a trash can lid. It sounded like he was taking off a parachute with all the clasps, buckles, and snaps he was undoing.
I chuckle to myself and take a deep breath to buckle my own pants when I hear this guy — I’m going to start calling him Dirty Randy from now on — make a couple additional grunting noises.
I’m paying homage to Dirty Randy from “The League.” Great show.
It sounds like this guy — I think to myself — is trying to take a shit instead of trying to take a shirt.
This incredibly crazy idea is only made more plausible by the next thing that happens: Dirty Randy absolutely uncoils a five-star, MVP-caliber fart. It was one of those epic sonofabitches that gets a second wind halfway through and grows louder. It sounded like he was trying to start an old tractor.
At the time I had one leg into my own pants and the commotion in the next dressing room sent me tumbling against the wall laughing hysterically. Here I was busting a gut while this guy was busting ass.
“Son of a bitch,” Dirty Randy mumbles matter-of-factly. And I don’t know exactly what it was about the way he said it, but it sounded like he was saying “Son of a bitch” not as a result of what happened but as a precursor of what was yet to come.
To keep prices low, please don’t shit in the dressing room
And sure enough Dirty Randy lets loose a second fart, this one somehow even more repulsive than the first. The noise was a cross between an old creaky door opening and a Beluga whale.
Seriously, did this guy think he was walking into the men’s room instead of the dressing room? Is he squatting over a pile of discarded clothes that didn’t fit the last guy who was in there? The image playing out in my head was hysterical.
But the hysterics turned into hysteria when a visitor entered my dressing room. In the interest of full disclosure, I did lock the door before I went in there. But what came into that dressing room cannot be turned back by a $5 door bolt from Home Depot. It came in through, under, and over the door. It seeped through the cracks in the walls and tumbled down from the ceiling.
I’m here to tell you ladies and gentlemen, it was an actual mist. Like in that Stephen King movie. I half expected a monster to come out of it and eat me.
But that would have been the painless way out. Instead, what came out of that mist was a stench so horrific that eight hours later it’s still burned into my nostrils.
“My bad, buddy,” Dirty Randy says from the room next door, real casual-like as if he accidentally walked between me and a TV I was watching instead of purposely filling my dressing room full of Agent Orange. I gasped for air, trying to breathe through my mouth instead of my nose. But all that did was give me a big ole’ taste of whatever it was he ate that caused such a travesty in his lower intestine. It was as if he consumed a whole bucket of sea water and bad Thai food.
I texted my wife and told her I loved her. This is probably the end.
And then as I began to pass out I hear a voice from afar.
“How’s it going in there, Dirty Randy?” It’s his wife, she’s outside the dressing room now. And she didn’t really call him Dirty Randy but it sort of ruins the story if I tell you his real name.
“It’s too big.”
Too big, I think. Is he talking about whatever he’s trying on or whatever he’s trying to get out?
I laugh at the thought of my own joke. It’s starting to pull me from my own haze.
“Randy, pass it under the door and let me take a look at it.”
Now I’m actually laughing out loud. Is this really happening to me? The guy who writes funny blogs just has this fall into his lap.
Or, more appropriately, fall out of the lap of the guy next to me.
“Jesus, Randy, did you just shit yourself?”
Mrs. Dirty Randy echoes my thoughts exactly. Not only do I think he shit himself, but he shit herself and myself and every other self in the Kohl’s men’s section.
“No,” he replies timidly, “I think it was the guy in the room next to me.”
My mouth drops. But then I can taste a wicked combination of burnt lasagna, sulfur, and Skoal. For some reason, in this moment Dirty Randy and I connect. It’s as if I can tell this guy’s wife is going to spend the rest of the day busting his balls for busting his ass. In the spirit of true brotherhood, I decide to take one for the team.
“My bad,” I say.
“Gross,” Mrs. Dirty Randy says and then I hear her leave. What follows next could not have been predicted. Dirty Randy doesn’t thank me, he doesn’t say sorry, but instead he lets loose the third and final blow, a low rumbling noise that sounded like he sat on a fog horn.
“Thank God she left,” he says, “I was trying to choke that one off.”
Needless to say, I didn’t end up buying the pants.
I’ve always wondered. If workers are on strike, is it okay to cross the picket line if you only plan on shoplifting?
Issue of the Times;
From a Homeschool Victim Who Obviously Survived
Six years have passed since I graduated from what I have been trained to call formal education. I was taught that education was about more than the books and grades, so we called our curriculum, our scheduled learning, “formal education”. It is all documented in those records we kept, just in case anyone accused us of not doing real school.