If ever there was a link between man and horse, I met her.

“You have small feet,” she said.

Size 9.5 is not small. It’s not a large shoe size but small it is not. I could see she was doing some silly conversion rate of shoe size-to-penis ratio in her head. While we were sharing observations, I wondered if now was appropriate to ask how many rocks she ate a day. Her teeth were arrayed in an entropic way that resembled Predator’s mouth or any Brits.

“Would you like to measure the end of my middle finger to the point where my palm turns into wrist?” I asked.

“Umm…why?”

“Because I know what you’re trying to compute and I don’t conform to whatever table you’re consulting.”

“What do you mean?” she asked as her face reddened as though someone had slapped it.

“The reason I have smaller feet is because the material was needed elsewhere,” I said as I placed my hands on my hips and slowly rocked back and forth on my feet while lightly thrusting my hips. “It’s not fair to my back but it’s my cross to bear.”

“A test of the validity of that statement is required. I’m free tonight,” she said while openly stealing an extended glance at the front on my jeans.

I wear slightly baggy pants so that my junk isn’t vacuum sealed in and testing the tensile strength of each and every fiber of my jeans. That’s not comfortable. My junk is on the outside for a reason. I don’t understand the trend of guys wearing girl jeans. It’s as though these guys emerged out of their sister’s closet instead of their own. Yes, that was a gay reference. Why do the makers of these jeans even put pockets on them? There is no possible way to fit anything in them, not even a credit card. I like slightly sagging jeans too not the jobs that require me to tuck my nipples into them. I think the jobs are called turtleneck pants. You know what I’m talking about; they are favored among the elderly crowd. A thong doesn’t ride the crack as much as I imagine those do. Can’t say for sure cause I’ve never worn them, only painfully seen them. The pants are usually khakis and give the wearer's butt the appearance of a sagging peach. Someone should make a butt girdle for old people so they don’t trip over their droopy butt cheeks. That’s how os coxa get broken, hips for you unacquainted with the term.

“You’re free? Do you normally charge? I’ve never been with a hooker and I’m not one to break tradition; especially with a snaggletooth. You’d do better trolling for willing participants/customers on the street. Even though you represent a less than savory element of our society, I’m okay with you being a woman of easy virtue. What I’m not okay with is you trying to be easy with me. Mister Ed may not have a problem with your oral cavity debacle so I suggest you try there and leave me the hell alone. Do you have an aversion to dentistry? Even with the breakthroughs in the dental field I don’t know if any one man is skilled enough to fix that mess, let alone the collective skill of ten dentists. They’d probably have to start by making you edentulous and starting over with implants. That mess is irreparable. It looked like someone tried to extinguish a fire in your mouth with an ice pick. You are the ugly duckling that never made it to swan."

She stood there blinking, too stunned to respond. Her jaw dropped fully revealing the chaos that was her mouth. Hitler was not a nice man but even he wouldn’t have put a set of chompers like that in someone’s mouth. It looked as though the snakes had vacated Medusa’s head, taken up residence in this girl’s mouth and hardened mid twisting. This chick could eat a cream pie through a chain link fence. I wanted to feed her a carrot or put a feed bag around her face and say “that’s a good girl” whilst I petted her. I saw no evidence of a mane or hooves though. She must have had surgery and also learned to walk bipedal. Gross.

“Look Seabiscuit, I don’t mean to be rude. I was just trying to understand. But now I don’t care anymore. I’ll take these size 9.5’s and be on my way. I assume you’ll meander in the back so you can graze on some hay or something. Thanks for your help. I hope I never encounter something like you when I become a dentist. That mouth looks like carpel tunnel to fix.”

I quickly paid for the kicks and bailed. Maybe I was a tad bit rude but at no fault of my own. The questions and look of disgust displayed on my face were all part of an automatic response, much like when a doctor tests your reflexes by hitting you on the patellar tendon with a pointed rubber hammer. Normally centaurs have the body of a horse attached to the upper half of a man/woman at the torso. In this case, the only horse component she possessed was its dentition. Sad really. I shuddered and replaced the image with thoughts of what the girls name would be that I'd be getting into that evening. Not that it's important or will even be remembered.

Happy New Year Kiddos!

Christmas Thoughts

“What did you get me for Christmas?” she asked coquettishly.
“It’s a secret between Victoria and I,” I replied.
“You always say that.”
“That’s because I’m very clever.”
“That’s really the only reason I’m with you.”
“Fair enough. I’m only with you for your body. I guess we both settled didn’t we? Kidding momma. There is no lingerie I could buy that could compliment your body better than your body. You are stunning.”

What happened? What nightmare was that? Sorry to all you married suckers out there. I hope you get some metal polish for Christmas so you can shine up the ol’ ball and chain. I realize “the ol’ ball and chain” is a metaphor for a wife and that shining a person means that you are putting them on but go with me here people…err…person that reads this…err…okay, self. Nobody reads this drivel except you buddy. And that’s because you have to after you write it to ensure that it flows well for when nobody will read it. While I have your attention self, can you imagine being a single dentist? It will be glorious! Soon my friend, soon.

Anyway, Merry Christmas to anyone who happens to stumble upon this! Hope you have an enjoyable time with your family and friends, unless you hate your family and have no friends. In that case, I hope you enjoy getting drunk, stoned, or whatever in an attempt to forget the holiday and the fact that you hate your family and have no friends. Try vodka, it makes the tears less bitter. May your hangover be mellow.

A quick way to elevate my anger and blood pressure.

Choke, churlish, chode, challenged, chaffing. These and other things beginning with ch- come to mind when I hear people pronounce any number in the twenties like chwenty. What ever happened to sounding it out? Go back to the basics, retards. Do you also say chwins, chwist, chwelve? Probably because you are a retard. I believe a slap would easily remedy your inability to pronounce words properly. Step right up and I’ll cure that and your ugliness. Burn!

Christmas Idea

If you're debating what to get me for Christmas, I have only one idea. A mistletoe belt buckle. And not the cheap kind, I want it to last.

Beads of Sweat Part 2

One minute left. What was this blanket of orange cones that covered the road ahead? I hoped beyond hope it wasn’t what I though it was! Damnit it was. Construction! Looks like they had torn the pavement off and left gaping potholes to give the road personality. There was a good chance that any one of these potholes would jostle my bowels which would induce full on spastic blow out mode. Dang those S.O.B’s!! I’d smack their mother if she were here. Well not hit her but definitely put her in 8 head locks. Anyway…

My distended bowels felt way beyond their bursting point. It’s a good thing they are on the inside otherwise I would be embarrassed from the residual stretch marks created from this embarrassing ordeal. Any atheist in my position would become a believer in God because only He knows how I hadn’t filled my pants and driver’s seat with crap yet. Physics cannot explain what my sphincter and body were able to withstand. We don’t have instruments that can measure the amount of pressure that was being exerted on my buttocks. If we did, the SI measurement for the extreme pressure would be “ea” for E’s ass; “psi” would be relegated to measuring things of lesser pressure.

Why have we as a society moved from once wearers of diapers to “civilized” people that can only crap in designated areas. If I had a diaper on, I would have grouted my butt crack with fecal matter like a mason, sans trowel. Gross I know but these were the thoughts of a desperate, desperate man. I should have just filled my drawers when the compulsion arose rather than suffer this inhumane malady. The crap was exerting more force on my bum than any battering Clay Aiken’s bum has endured from the myriad of men that have taken their turn massacring it.

My car jerked from a discourteous pothole that could serve as proof that black holes exist on earth and not just in space. It seemed to suck my whole car in then, like all women, fickly changed its mind and rudely ejected it. Yes, I know that black holes don't even let light escape let alone a car but just go with it. I thought I heard my butt hole rip as my car jarringly tried to right itself. False alarm. Must’ve been the undercarriage or something ripping off as my car emerged from another cavernous pothole unavoidably populating the road. Truth be told, if you were to inspect the potholes they would be no bigger than a small dirt divot. However, anything that caused my car to move even the slightest degree was intensely magnified by my ailing bowels and sphincter. Each second was as grueling as the combined pain of a 9 month pregnancy and subsequent birth.

I parked in my covered stall. How I was able to make it this far was beyond my meager intelligence. I was grateful to have survived this far but the hardest portion of this debacle was now upon me. I had to walk up 5 spaced steps, down a flight of steps then without incident negotiate a short distance to the evacuation receptacle, which we’ll call “blow out central.” It suddenly occurred to me while sitting in my car that my body’s weight had served to help keep my butt closed. I would be without that precious assistance as I traversed the distance to my bathroom. I didn’t have time to think about it. I sprung from my car like a cat pouncing on a juicy mouse or like my friend B on any girl with a pulse. Quite the whore this young man is. His genitals serve as a hang out for a wide variety of known and unknown STD’s. He has taken so many antibiotics that bacteria are now impervious to antibiotics. Thanks B! Douche bag. Anyway…

I gingerly conquered the steps, opened the door and then frantically scurried/duck-walked to what the news would later call a murder scene. I ripped my jeans off as though they were warm-ups. Before they and my bum hit the seat my sphincter gave out. The song Hallelujah blared in my mind as my bowels unceremoniously emptied their contents and what seemed like all of my insides. I should have gotten an anal episiotomy before I slammed my cheeks on the porcelain because I’m pretty sure I ripped something as my butt turned me inside out. The sweet release felt better than 20 orgasms. I could’ve used a cigarette as I sat on the toilet wondering how I managed to avoid cleaning the filth that was taking up space in my toilet bowl from off my leather seats. I decided there was no way to explain a miracle. All I know is that I put that toilet into therapy.

Hmmm.....

I'm uncertain why I thought of this, nevertheless...

Do you ever think a gay man says to his partner, "Steve, you're a pain in my ass?"

Beads of Sweat Part 1

Beads of sweat coalesced upon my brow. Not sweat released because I was hot and my body was osmoregulating but sweat bred from nervousness and uncertainty. Was I going to make it? It was going to be a photo finish if I was lucky enough to get that far. I was contracting my anal sphincter so hard I was going to be fishing diamonds out of the toilet or wherever I jettisoned my rectal cargo. Only a newly imprisoned straight man upon hearing the phrase "fancy a poke" from his fairy cellmate could relate. Clenched like a submerged duck's ass.

I wondered if repositioning my belt around my butt would help maintain closure...just in case my gluteus muscles spasmed and failed. My nervousness peaked when I thought of walking from my car to the bathroom. I was going to have to use my hands to help keep my butt closed. I briefly envisioned an ignominious, grim outcome. I shuddered and strengthen my resolve while repeating the mantra, "You're going to make it. By hell, you're going to make it." I could only hope enough repetitions would convince my nearly failing butt muscles. The lactic acid was accumulating at a discouraging pace from overuse. The reserves were quickly depleting, a sure sign of impending doom. I grimaced. I couldn't bear to thing of the consequences of muscle failure and the indignity there from. An embarrassing prayer was uttered, embarrassing because I couldn't believe that I, a grown man, was asking for help not to fill my pants with number two. It's a good thing I do my own laundry cause this most likely wasn't going to end cleanly.

I was nearly home after enduring mild traffic like a man enduring physical torture. I was asking too much from my butt to stay shut and was nearing the point of it demonstrating its capitulation. Two more minutes!! I said in my mind, hoping my butt would somehow be able to hear my plea and effectuate it. I realized it was like asking Elton John to satisfy a woman or asking a Frenchman to fight...it wasn't going to happen. A large gas bubble momentarily repositioned itself giving my tired butt a brief respite. How did something like this sneak up on me? Shouldn't there have been at least a clue that an anal blowout was nigh? I could have prevented this approaching cataclysmic event by taking care of it before I got in my car and subsequent traffic. But no, I had no idea what was on the horizon and possibly soon on my leather seats. This sly ninja terd snuck up on me like the ugly, annoying girl at a party you've been trying to avoid all night. The evil terd was rudely demanding an exit by pushing my rectal door to its limits like any angry drunk boyfriend pounding on his girlfriend's door after hearing she just blew his best friend. Much like microtubules in a cell, catastrophe was soon approaching. This evil needed to be flushed down the toilet like a belly up goldfish. I wish I could tell peristalsis to take five. If I had some thread and a needle, I would test every fiber of its tensile strength by sewing my bum closed. Luckily, no turtle head was poking out. I couldn't afford to let anything escape. If I did, there was no stopping it. It's like when a levy breaks, water everywhere. How I was able to summon the power to restrain this evil little terd still astounds me. Comparatively my butt could prevent a volcano from erupting and not even blink. That's how evil this little eager bastard was.

To be continued......