Way too funny...
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From: Fort Awesome
Way too funny...
This is a long read, and there are some cuss words in it, but I laughed so hard at this. If you don't like potty mouth or potty humor, then please navigate elsewhere.
Stolen from craigslist...in case any of you don't surf there...please enjoy
True Story: Battle Asses.
Sorry, I don't have anything to post about layoffs or politics, but I DO have another story from the Public Bathroom. Enjoy.
You are my arch nemisis. I see you wandering around as I go about my IT Computer Nerd business: Tall. Middle Eastern. Pot Belly. We catch each others eye every now and then and give each other a slight nod. I know you, I know what you do and I am on to your games.
I saw you this morning, we made eye contact. You nodded and took another bite of whatever Death-*** producing garbage you fuel up on that makes the bathroom, smell like the inside of a dead monkey's colon, and nodded at me. I got you this time, ****er.
I give you my icey grin and nod back, then hurry back to my office. It's almost noon, and that's the time you like to run to the toilet and preform your daily *** JIHAD on all the people just trying to wash their hands. Maybe in your country there is no commen sense that would tell you that lunch time = hand wash time. People want to get clean and eat, not be fumigated with the high octane liquid **** attack you subjigate them too.
But I got you this time. Yeah ****er I GOT SOMETHING COOKING UP FOR YOU! Two egg sandwiches with cheese. Greasy sausage patties. A couple glasses of Tang. Some leftover Chinese food. A Twix. Root Beer Soda. Some steamed brocoli I had in the fridge. A Hot Pocket with peperonni and cheese. A Chocolate Poptart. And like a cherry on top ... a McDonald's Quaterpounder with cheese.
I never eat this ****, it's all greasy and ****ing nasty, but today is the day I fight back. I go out for a quick mile jog and almsot die. My stomach feels like there are two midgets fighting to the death inside there. I walk back to work, *** clenched tighter than a virgin's thighs at Church.
Great. The hot chick from next door wants to chat. She assumes the sweat on my face and arms is from running. She doesn't realize that it's a cold sweat induced by my severe sphicter trauma. She finally shuts up and I stagger to the Death *** Arena.
You are there already in your favorite stall: The one right next to the ****ing sinks. You stupid, socially retarded ****. Fine. You have yet to begin your daily purge of Middle Eastern *** Stew. I enter the stall next to you and drop my pants in preperation of the upcomming battle.
Your opening slavo is fired: A sloppy wet fart with a solid-shot closer. I laugh and show you the power of Advanced American Foodstuffs.
The tuba fart I unleash echos off the walls and shrinks my waistline about an inch. The guy at the urinal laughs as I slap the wall between you and I and say "Back to YOU, Kajid!". You are silent, I assume you know who I am and that the time has come for us to battle. I know you are summoning your intestinal fortitude for full out war.
You do not dissapoint me.
With a hissing "SSSShhhhhzzzzzzzzz!" you squirt out a deadly spray of *** juice that pollutes the air and makes my head swim. The pisser at the urinal is no longer laughing, he quickly zips up and runs for the door. He did not stop to wash his hands, instead opting to head for the hills. I cover my mouth and nose with my shirt and the black spots dissapear from my vision. My head clears. I am ready.
"AAaaaaaaaRRRRRGGGHHH!" I yell, as I drop Big Tim. That's short for "Big Timber" ... AKA "Mississippi Butt Log".
Quick-fire farts stutter out of my ***, as I push the monster log from the **** Dimension into our reality. The beefy, yeasty stench easily overpowers the Indian *** Gutter oder of your previous attack. Mega Turd hits the water in the bowl with a mighty splash, the reek is that of a dead whale slowly
Stolen from craigslist...in case any of you don't surf there...please enjoy
True Story: Battle Asses.
Sorry, I don't have anything to post about layoffs or politics, but I DO have another story from the Public Bathroom. Enjoy.
You are my arch nemisis. I see you wandering around as I go about my IT Computer Nerd business: Tall. Middle Eastern. Pot Belly. We catch each others eye every now and then and give each other a slight nod. I know you, I know what you do and I am on to your games.
I saw you this morning, we made eye contact. You nodded and took another bite of whatever Death-*** producing garbage you fuel up on that makes the bathroom, smell like the inside of a dead monkey's colon, and nodded at me. I got you this time, ****er.
I give you my icey grin and nod back, then hurry back to my office. It's almost noon, and that's the time you like to run to the toilet and preform your daily *** JIHAD on all the people just trying to wash their hands. Maybe in your country there is no commen sense that would tell you that lunch time = hand wash time. People want to get clean and eat, not be fumigated with the high octane liquid **** attack you subjigate them too.
But I got you this time. Yeah ****er I GOT SOMETHING COOKING UP FOR YOU! Two egg sandwiches with cheese. Greasy sausage patties. A couple glasses of Tang. Some leftover Chinese food. A Twix. Root Beer Soda. Some steamed brocoli I had in the fridge. A Hot Pocket with peperonni and cheese. A Chocolate Poptart. And like a cherry on top ... a McDonald's Quaterpounder with cheese.
I never eat this ****, it's all greasy and ****ing nasty, but today is the day I fight back. I go out for a quick mile jog and almsot die. My stomach feels like there are two midgets fighting to the death inside there. I walk back to work, *** clenched tighter than a virgin's thighs at Church.
Great. The hot chick from next door wants to chat. She assumes the sweat on my face and arms is from running. She doesn't realize that it's a cold sweat induced by my severe sphicter trauma. She finally shuts up and I stagger to the Death *** Arena.
You are there already in your favorite stall: The one right next to the ****ing sinks. You stupid, socially retarded ****. Fine. You have yet to begin your daily purge of Middle Eastern *** Stew. I enter the stall next to you and drop my pants in preperation of the upcomming battle.
Your opening slavo is fired: A sloppy wet fart with a solid-shot closer. I laugh and show you the power of Advanced American Foodstuffs.
The tuba fart I unleash echos off the walls and shrinks my waistline about an inch. The guy at the urinal laughs as I slap the wall between you and I and say "Back to YOU, Kajid!". You are silent, I assume you know who I am and that the time has come for us to battle. I know you are summoning your intestinal fortitude for full out war.
You do not dissapoint me.
With a hissing "SSSShhhhhzzzzzzzzz!" you squirt out a deadly spray of *** juice that pollutes the air and makes my head swim. The pisser at the urinal is no longer laughing, he quickly zips up and runs for the door. He did not stop to wash his hands, instead opting to head for the hills. I cover my mouth and nose with my shirt and the black spots dissapear from my vision. My head clears. I am ready.
"AAaaaaaaaRRRRRGGGHHH!" I yell, as I drop Big Tim. That's short for "Big Timber" ... AKA "Mississippi Butt Log".
Quick-fire farts stutter out of my ***, as I push the monster log from the **** Dimension into our reality. The beefy, yeasty stench easily overpowers the Indian *** Gutter oder of your previous attack. Mega Turd hits the water in the bowl with a mighty splash, the reek is that of a dead whale slowly
haha hilarious story
