WHEN I WAS FIVE
When I was five years old I shit my pants. I was on my was to some children’s function at the local Catholic church I attended with my parents and younger sister. On the way there I tried to fart and shit myself instead (that’s how it usually happens). I kept adjusting my pants to prevent the shit from running down my pants. Also, it was very uncomfortable. The real funny thing is no one noticed. Yeah, that’s right. No one noticed that a five year-old had left a large, smelly, brown load in his trousers. I got away with it. Not a single adult or child came forward that night and said anything along the line of “Hey Nathan, are you okay? ” or “Why are your pants sagging?” Nope. Never heard any of it. I don’t remember anyone even trying to catch a whiff of me. I went home that night and changed my shitty tighty-whities. The next day my mother found out. I haven’t shit my pants since although I just came really close a moment ago. Too much seasoning on the steak I guess.
THE FUNNIEST LINE IN TRUTH OR DARE
It’s a fairly simple drinking game, one of the easiest to play. You sit around a table or something close to it and say “truth or dare?” If the person says “truth” then someone says something beginning with, “I never…yady-yady-yah.” If you never committed the act in question then you drink. If someone says “dare” then you do something crazy or stupid (or both). Well, at some point in my drunken misspent youth I decided to make this game a little more interesting. On several occasion when playing this game I was asked the inevitable question and chose the option “truth.” My offering: “I’ve never scratched my ass crack then smelled my fingers.” Instant laughter every time. Hell, even I had to chuckle. Of course no one would admit to it and everyone at the table drank. I was honest however and didn’t. Or maybe I did. Fuck. Now I can’t remember how the game’s played. Anyhoo, at the very least I came up with a line that faithfully brought laughter from everyone at the table.
“HIGH, I’M DAVE”
This is the kind of situation where you’d have to be there in order to fully appreciate it. Otherwise it’s really not that funny. Growing up I had a friend who could not stay sober no matter what we did or where we went. Somehow the night (or day) always had to end with him getting drunk, stoned, tripping, rolling, or sometimes all of them in the same night (or day). His real name I’ll keep secret. Actually I won’t. Fuck him. His name was Dave Lucas. Dave was quite a scene. He had a severe case of ADHD and couldn’t sit still or concentrate on one thing at a time for longer than thirty seconds. We (my friends and I) would plan a fun evening without the intended use of alcohol or illegal drugs. That is, until Dave put in his two cents (or sense). He would always suggest getting weed or LSD or liquor or Ecstasy or whatever the hell else he could afford after blowing the bulk of his paycheck on shit he didn’t need or whatever on-again off-again girlfriend he’d suckered into driving him around (every car he ever had he’d found a way to render beyond repair). Ninety-nine percent of the time we’d give in not because we gave a fuck about what he wanted but just so he’d shut up and maybe sit still for a full minute. I guess I really don’t have a point to this story except that if you have a friend like Dave your best bet is to stay clear of him especially if or when your wallet is full.
17 AND ALMOST RON JEREMY
When I was seventeen I almost lost my virginity (I finally did several years later while in college). The girl (she will remain nameless) was a year and a half older than me and in her freshman year at state college. I was at a party my buddy was throwing. His parents had a bad habit of going away for the weekend to their beach house and leaving him in charge of their lavish abode. On this one particular night I was drunk and exceptionally horny so I gave this chick a call. Granted I hadn’t had any contact with her in almost a year but I didn’t really care. I wanted to get laid. That’s it. In high school this girl had been a looker. She’d also had a huge crush on me even though she had a boyfriend of three years (nice guy). After I called her I remember it took very little time for her to show up. When she did I was….disappointed. You know that thing about “the freshman fifteen?” Well, in her case it was more like the “freshman twenty or thirty.” Her hair, once a beautiful strawberry-blonde was now a straight-up red. I mean like flaming, Viking-dyke red. And it was short. No! No! Silly women. Short hair is for men. To cap all this off she was dressed like a middle-aged farmer’s wife. In spite of these shortcomings I went ahead with my plan. After all, I was drunk and carrying around a delicate libido. About an hour after she’d shown up we were on the couch making out. We moved to another couch and continued the R-rated make out session. I appreciated the fact that her breasts were still as nice as they were in high school (double-D baby). So, we take a walk up to the spare bedroom. We’re almost completely naked by now. There she is. On the bed and ready for the taking. She’s always wanted this moment and here it is. And then…she makes a confession. “Let’s go back downstairs.” What?! Now?! I repeated these words with about the same degree of surprise and confusion. No, no, no. This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. Then I remembered this is me we’re talking about. Of course it happens this way. To me. Reluctantly and still very confused I got dressed. Once we were both fully clothed we made our way back downstairs. I found out later that night that this girl, Cock-Block McQueen, had almost had a threesome with two of my friends in one of the other empty bedrooms. My buddy said she was trash and disgusting. I agreed and never called her again. That’s right, I never called her again. And I didn’t even get laid.
YES, EVEN PAMELA ANDERSON FARTS
In my years as a teenager and later as a quiet moronic youth in his early twenties, I had a female friend who bore an uncanny resemblance to 90’s sex goddess Pamela Anderson. He had a love/hate friendship I wish I could forget (I will someday; I just need to keep drinking the way I do nowadays). My junior year in college my buddy and I decided to get an apartment together. He had just been kicked out of the Navy and I was about fed with my brother, sister, and parents. We both needed out. We found an apartment we could both afford. We were all set to do what we had to do in order to see the move through. However, somewhere along the way I got a call from my friend asking if it was okay if this girl, let’s call her Blonde Spice, moved in with us. She’d been living with her boyfriend, a friend of ours, and they’d recently broken up. I remember thinking, yeah so what? Her problem, right? My friend however was more sympathetic. After a couple conversations he convinced me to let her move in with us. She did and for the first two or three months all was well. One day while sitting around watching television Blonde Spice, sitting upright in an inflatable chair I’d purchased from naughty novelty chain Spencer’s Gifts, brought her legs up to her voluptuous chest and sat in a ball-like position in the chair. Don’t ask me what we were watching on television. Whatever it was we’d all soon forgotten about it in the next few moments. At some point during our viewing pleasure (the television not the Pamela Anderson look-alike in the inflatable chair) my buddy and I heard a very familiar sound. We’re guys after all. It was that undeniable sound of a fart. It wasn’t that obvious but it wasn’t exactly deceptive either. We knew what it was. Glancing at one another we each came to the same, honest conclusion: nope, that wasn’t me. We looked at Blonde Spice. Her face turning the color of her alter ego’s one-piece on Baywatch, Blonde Spice lowered her head into her lap. She knew what’d she’d done. More importantly, she knew that we knew. My buddy and I played it off like it was nothing. But believe me a few nights later while smoking weed and in the company of some of our friends (Blonde Spice was not around) we had a good laugh. Oh yes, it’s true. Even the hottest of females has to let go of that infamous intestinal gas now and then.
THE DOOR’S OPEN, AIN’T IT?
Walking around Pittsburgh’s South Side at three a.m. can be dangerous. Especially if you’re completely shit-faced, toilette-huggin’ drunk. This was the case on this particular night in Pittsburgh. After finishing off a case of something or other my friend and I (let’s call him Dave, his real name) decided it would be fun to go off on a sojourn through the streets of South Side even though all of the bars were closed and most of the neighborhood’s residents had turned in for the night. Well, not us. It was only three a.m. Besides, we admitted to having a severe case of the beer munchies and anyone who’s ever been drunk knows what that’s like. It ain’t going away unless you feed yourself or pass out first. Full of plenty of drunken energy we decided to hike down to the neighborhood grocery store, Giant Eagle. Four blocks and at least one alley piss-stop later we were in the Giant Eagle parking lot. It was virtually empty. Again, this minor detail did not seem to deter us from our mission. We were hungry and determined to get us some food. However, there was a problem with this scenario, one that neither one of us cared to acknowledge at the time. Hunger is what makes the world go round after all. Particularly alcohol-induced hunger. Stepping up to the main entrance we paused to see if there was anyone inside. Anyone meant anyone. There was. More importantly, the lights were on. My friend decided he would be the first to enter. He began walking in the direction of the automatic double doors and….BAM! The doors did not open and my friend struggled to keep his balance as he staggered back a good three or four feet. I laughed. All he could say was, “What the fuck?” It was only at this moment that we took the time to focus and read the sign posted on the double doors. Giant Eagle was closed. And we were still hungry.
THIS IS MY PARKING SPOT ASSHOLE!
As a former resident of Pittsburgh’s South Side I can testify to the fact that parking there is a bitch. On weekends when all the college students are in the bars and clubs relieving themselves of the pressures of higher learning there is hardly a space to be found anywhere within a radius of twenty city blocks. To combat the influx of lecherous youth invading the working-class neighborhood every Friday and Saturday night many locals use traffic cones to secure parking spots. Ninety-nine percent of the time it works. The other one percent is when guys like me, after working long hours at an establishment outside of Pittsburgh and looking for a simple good night’s sleep, decide that the traffic cone’s gotta go. One night, after working or something, I was driving back to my studio apartment that I shared with my roommate Kenny (real name). Riding in the passenger seat Kenny helped me navigate for a parking spot. I was being rather picky that night and really wanted one on the street on which we lived (South 19th Street). So far, we’d found nothing. Not a damn thing. That is until we spotted a space at the end of the street across from St. Matthews Roman Catholic Church (now an apartment building). Excited I pressed down on the accelerator of my ’92 Chevy Cavalier. We pulled up to the spot only to find that it had been “reserved” with a traffic cone. “Shit!” we uttered simultaneously. My foot on the brakes we sat there contemplating what to do next. Finally, I came to a conclusion. I looked over at Kenny. “You know what, fuck this.” He chuckled even though he wasn’t immediately certain about what I’d meant by the statement. Putting my car in park I got out and walked over to the traffic cone. I picked it up and hurled with all my might across the street. It landed in front of the steps of St. Matthews. I could hear Kenny howling from inside my car. I got back in my car, a shit-eating grin across my face. Kenny didn’t stop laughing for the next five minutes. I took my spot and we began the walk to our apartment. Along the way I grabbed the traffic cone for safekeeping.
