Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.


Don’t Use the Microwave. Decline the Offer of Pickle.
No man! No man, I say! No man should have to endure the stench, the stinging! The choking, the burning! As sweet air turns to foulest poison!

I speak, of course, of the time Jeff fried a human turd.

It turns out you don’t want to take a human turd and put it on a stove in a pan of hot grease. Bad things ensue. I’m happy to clear that up. Just in case you were wondering.

So don’t do it. And it doesn’t matter if the turd is your own, you won’t be immune. For does not even the mighty asp sicken and wither should the fang and venom he wields pierce his own flesh?! Verily, even your own turds will cause your eyes to water and your gorge to rise should you take them and fry them up hot and fresh and stinking and crisp! And… Wait, did I just say “verily?” What the fuck, who do I think I am, Thor?

You know what else? Sometimes people say unkind things about drinkers.

I understand why. It’s not like I, personally, never got all liquored up and kicked all the slats out of a fence, or threw a small man into some bushes, or helped Eric Gilmore huck a frozen turkey through a window with such force that it actually crashed through a corresponding window in the house next door, like six feet away, and we had to run outside and pretend we knew nothing about it, a ruse that worked because everyone was preoccupied with water squirting from the bathroom pipes I had burst moments before by firing a large firework into the toilet and holy shit that was one of the best parties I’ve ever been to and I often like to think it was our partnership that night that helped Eric overcome some of his dislike for white people.

You never want to wholly overcome your dislike for white people.

Anyway, I can’t speak for Eric, but I’m willing to accept some of the blame for the unkind things some people say about drinkers. I’ve had drinks, I’ve been naughty.

But then the people who say unkind things about drinkers, who are they? They sit at home, gray and shriveled souls sipping tea and gnawing at cardboard and using the bitter resentment only borne from a life without joy to criticize and castigate those of us who occasionally take in a draught or two of spirits to loosen the shoulders, sharpen the mind and googly up the eyes. A practice that — as you and I know — puts a little sparkle on the Twinkie, just like Grandpa used to say. So fuck those guys.

I feel like a good drunk does for the soul about like what four or five bowls of raisin bran do for the bowel. I even enjoy the hangover, as long as there’s nothing too taxing on the schedule and I can swagger through the day with a refreshing minimum of forebrain activity, just as pleasantly retarded as Coldplay fans, Democrats, Buddhists and people who maintain Harry Potter books can be enjoyed by adults. (You know, the simpleminded everyday common folk whose scorched bones will one day adorn the walls of my temples.)

Even if I’m a little sensitive to sound and light and motion I always feel happy and dopey and carefree the day after a good drunkie-wunkie. Why, on hangover days I sometimes even whistle! Or rather try, because really I can’t. And then I start laughing to myself when I remember I can’t, and people stare because I’m stumbling down the street laughing but I can’t help it because it comes out all like, “Fwoooo! Fwoo!” And sometimes there’s a little drool and ah ha hah ha hah, I’m laughing right now, thinking about it, ah hah ha hah ha ha! Fwoooo, fwoo, fwoooo!

Oh, and you know what else? I don’t want to get all blah blah blah about society and gender roles and certainly people should be free to define masculinity in any way that makes them happy, but there’s this thing, right, with men, this lowest common denominator, and it’s that on some level we all measure our manliness by the level of menace we present to polite society. Like, even the most law-abiding and square of us take pride in, for example, how bad our feet stink, or that we shat out an abnormally large poo, or that we did a cannonball into the pool that ruined a nearby wedding ceremony, or something.

We’ll brag about it. Sometimes under the guise of regret, but make no mistake — it’s still bragging. Look for the gleam in our eyes as we apologize. Somewhere, deep down in our hypothalamus, that apology is being transmuted into a humorous tale shared with our brother warriors around the campfire.

Don’t try and change this. Don’t try and dim that gleam. Recognize that it’s there, for, like, evolutionary reasons, because back in ye olden times disputes were settled by the size of poo and men of the tribe often had to drive away saber-toothed tigers with their terrible, terrible feet.

Now, with our new-fangled modern ways, we’re not often called upon to poo into the scales of justice and such, so we need to express ourselves by watching Rodney Dangerfield movies and occasionally becoming a drunken nuisance for a few hours. This is as much a law of science as the law that states a dog will vigorously lick at some peanut butter no matter where you put it, or the fact that channels are changed by an elf that lives inside your TV and hey kids why not pour a Coke down there because he sure is thirsty?

Sadly, not every man heeds the call of drunken menace. Some who turn their back on the natural order — most, even — get all pinched and gummed up inside and eventually grow a mustache and become an assistant manager.

In some, though, that menace just builds and builds, growing in strength and permeating every cell until they become a diabolical volcano of horror, capable of spectacular, inhuman feats of botherment. Like frying a turd.

Now, I don’t want to get into all the details, but at one point in my life I had developed something of a reputation for lively hijinx. And it’s like I said earlier, I can’t deny that in my life there have been periods marked by the generous, perhaps irresponsible use of Evan Williams and underwear and fire.

But I never saw anything like the trouble Jeff and his crew generated. Hell, screw modesty, I’ll just go ahead and say it — I was the king of trouble ‘round these parts before they came along, the fucking king.

I can’t fry a turd, though. Mine or anyone else’s. Just can’t do it. As I’ve said many times before, unless there’s blood or gold doubloons coming out of my ass I’m just going to pretend like the place doesn’t even exist, much less monkey around with it. And Jeff monkeyed around with his ass and its vile progeny, frying up turds and the like, while sober. Sober! It’s astonishing.

Jeff lived in a small apartment with several other sober guys, in conditions that even I, veteran maker of hijinx and squalor that I was, positively feared and envied. They called it Dick House. It was filthy, of course. The front door was studded with uncooked rice, embedded there during an experiment with black powder and a homemade cannon. It was this sort of experiment, as I understand it, that triggered some kind of disagreement between landlord and tenants, one that resulted in a police investigation into possible terrorist activities and a redecoration effort involving painted insults that referred to the landlord by name as well as many, many explicit images taken from pornographic magazines of the spectacularly gay variety.

Terrorism, ha! The cops had no idea. I’d rather have a thousand little rice-sized holes poked in me than put up with one — one! — of the indignities those guys inflicted on each other just to pass the time. These… these… sober people were just too goddamn comfortable with their own bodies. A little repression is not a bad thing, especially if it prevents you from posing for photographs naked in the shower with a carrot shoved up your rear end, like Jeff did. Or, god forbid, taking a shit into a pickle jar. Which someone there did, as a friendly prank.

Instead of disposing of the befouled pickle jar, as one might be expected to do when striving to remain inside the boundaries of modern civilization, those little goblins kept it around. And they’d offer you a pickle when you came over, then clap and dance and laugh and caper around with glee after you saw that damn turd-pickle swirling around in the brine. Gah! How?! Why?!

The worst was the time someone shat into a hot dog bun, slathered it with mayo, relish and all your favorite condiments, and then stuck it in the microwave. They set the power on high and the cook time for the longest possible duration, and then left. I often think about this incident, mulling over the possible motivation for such an act and contemplating the potential presence of supernatural intervention, like maybe demonic possession was the cause, or, verily, perhaps even the influence of Loki.

As the story goes, various roommates kind of drifted in, wondering where the turd smell was coming from, but it took hours for them to discover it, like a satanic treasure hunt where the treasure has about the same effect on your sinuses, and perhaps will to live, as the Ark did on those Nazis.

You’d think girls would have nothing to do with this kind of behavior, but no. You’d go over there, maybe mention a girl you liked, one that caught your attention with her quiet intelligence, wholesome good looks and demure personal style, and Jason or Eric or one of those fuckers would go, “Aw, dude! I fucked her last week! I got her to lick my butthole!” And then they’d produce a photo or two, taken by whoever else happened to be in the room. And then they’d start skipping around and clapping and laughing, full of joy and life and ass-carrots, while your vision dimmed and everything that was right and true in the universe unraveled at your feet. Your sad, sad feet.

Girls liked them. A lot. A lot more than they liked me, anyway. Or you. Probably.

Not that they needed girls — they had the Party Melon! Oh wait, maybe this is the worst thing, not the hot dog turd. Aw, who can tell. Anyway, Jason and Eric had a small watermelon that they kept on their coffee table they called the Party Melon. It had many holes cut in it, holes Jason and Eric would use for humping. They wouldn’t even take it into the bathroom or anything, just spread out a porno mag on one end of the table, get on their hands and knees and mount up. They didn't even, like, lay down a tarp.

I like to think that, should I ever sink to depths of such casual depravity, I’d have the decency to hide my Party Melon from company, or at least swap it out with a new one once in a while. Shit, any self-respecting drunken melon-baller would. Not Jason or Eric, though — they were proud of it, with their values all warped by sobriety. It sat there for weeks. “Ooh, look, look at all the holes,” they’d say, obviously quite pleased with their efforts.

I shudder.

Why did I hang around them, you must be wondering. It’s a fair question. A lot of it had to do with fear. You simply don’t want to cross the wielder of the Party Melon — it’s too fearsome a weapon. Members of Dick House were constantly battling with various Gainesville cliques, and the results were terrifying. Nobody could stand against them. Would you want to go to war against an enemy that deploys a hot dog turd against his allies? They used to crap into plastic sandwich bags and freeze it, saving their waste for those times when a rival faction planned to move against them. They’d thaw their shit and sneak out, stealthy under the cover of night, and pack it into the empty spaces under the door handles of their enemies’ cars. A few wipes with a towel to the surface of the handle and nothing would seem amiss, but, ah, the next day… Unsuspecting fingers would sink into warm, soft offal and terror would sweep across the land. Why hang around them? I wanted to keep an eye on them! I wanted to know where their poo was at all times!

I wasn’t there the day Jeff fried that poo, though, thank god. Seriously, witnesses have told me they had to leave the house. It wasn’t just the revolting smell. Apparently during the cooking process it gave off some caustic gas. Everybody had to run outside, coughing and choking. Not Jeff, of course. He just stood there, eyes watering, cooking away and laughing.

They had to throw out that frying pan.

Jeff went on to become a schoolteacher.

But they all drink now, for the most part, and in the last decade have drastically reduced the level of danger they pose to society. Which totally proves my point.

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