Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.
At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.
Then, this kid, his mom yells it's supper time. She says to come down, right now.
He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.
After dinner, he goes to find the carrot, and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.
This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they nev¬er do. Ever. Even now that he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them. That something too awful to name.
On the phone, the kid says how -- the day before -- he was just a little stoned. At home in his bedroom, he was flopped on the bed. He was lighting a candle and flipping through some old porno magazines, getting ready to beat off. This is after he's heard from his Navy brother. That helpful hint about how Arabs beat off. The kid looks around for something that might do the job. A ball-point pen's too big. A pencil's too big and rough. But dripped down the side of the candle, there's a thin, smooth ridge of wax that just might work. With just the tip of one finger, this kid snaps the long ridge of wax off the candle. He rolls it smooth between the palms of his hands. Long and smooth and thin.
Stoned and horny, he slips it down inside, deeper and deeper into the piss slit of his boner. With a good hank of the wax still poking out the top, he gets to work.
Even now, he says those Arab guys are pretty damn smart. They've totally re-invented jacking off. Flat on his back in bed, things are getting so good, this kid can't keep track of the wax. He's one good squeeze from shooting his wad when the wax isn't sticking out anymore.
The thin wax rod, it's slipped inside. All the way inside. So deep inside he can't even feel the lump of it inside his piss tube.
From downstairs, his mom shouts it's suppertime. She says to come down, right now. This wax kid and the carrot kid are different people, but we all live pretty much the same life.
It's after dinner when the kid's guts start to hurt. It's wax so he figured it would just melt inside him and he'd pee it out. Now his back hurts. His kidneys. He can't stand straight.
This kid talking on the phone from his hospital bed, in the background you can hear bells ding, people screaming. Game shows.
The X-rays show the truth, something long and thin, bent double inside his bladder. This long, thin V inside him, it's collecting all the minerals in his piss. It's getting bigger and more rough, coated with crystals of calcium, it's bumping around, ripping up the soft lining of his bladder, blocking his piss from getting out. His kidneys are backed up. What little that leaks out his dick is red with blood.
This kid and his folks, his whole family, them looking at the black X-ray with the doctor and the nurses standing there, the big V of wax glowing white for everybody to see, he has to tell the truth. The way Arabs get off. What his big brother wrote him from the Navy.
On the phone, right now, he starts to cry.
They paid for the bladder operation with his college fund. One stupid mistake, and now he'll never be a lawyer.
aim - mysupaego
This must be why girls want to sit on your face. The suction is like taking a dump that never ends. My dick hard and getting my butt eaten out, I do not need air. My heartbeat in my ears, I stay under until bright stars of light start worming around in my eyes. My legs straight out, the back of each knee rubbed raw against the concrete bottom. My toes are turning blue, my toes and fingers wrinkled from being so long in the water.
And then I let it happen. The big white gobs start spouting. The pearls.
It's then I need some air. But when I go to kick off against the bottom, I can't. I can't get my feet under me. My ass is stuck.
Emergency paramedics will tell you that every year about 150 people get stuck this way, sucked by a circulation pump. Get your long hair caught, or your ass, and you're going to drown. Every year, tons of people do. Most of them in Florida.
People just don't talk about it. Not even French people talk about EVERYTHING.
Getting one knee up, getting one foot tucked under me, I get to half standing when I feel the tug against my butt. Getting my other foot under me, I kick off against the bottom. I'm kicking free, not touching the concrete, but not getting to the air, either.
Still kicking water, thrashing with both arms, I'm maybe halfway to the surface but not going higher. The heartbeat inside my head getting loud and fast.
The bright sparks of light crossing and criss-crossing my eyes, I turn and look back… but it doesn't make sense. This thick rope, some kind of snake, blue-white and braided with veins has come up out of the pool drain and it's holding onto my butt. Some of the veins are leaking blood, red blood that looks black underwater and drifts away from little rips in the pale skin of the snake. The blood trails away, disappearing in the water, and inside the snake's thin, blue-white skin you can see lumps of some half-digested meal.
That's the only way this makes sense. Some horrible sea monster, a sea serpent, something that's never seen the light of day, it's been hiding in the dark bottom of the pool drain, waiting to eat me.
So… I kick at it, at the slippery, rubbery knotted skin and veins of it, and more of it seems to pull out of the pool drain. It's maybe as long as my leg now, but still holding tight around my butthole. With another kick, I'm an inch closer to getting another breath. Still feeling the snake tug at my ass, I'm an inch closer to my escape.
Knotted inside the snake, you can see corn and peanuts. You can see a long bright-orange ball. It's the kind of horse-pill vitamin my Dad makes me take, to help put on weight. To get a football scholarship. With extra iron and omega-three fatty acids.
It's seeing that vitamin pill that saves my life.
It's not a snake. It's my large intestine, my colon pulled out of me. What doctors call, prolapsed. It's my guts sucked into the drain.
Paramedics will tell you a swimming pool pump pulls 80 gallons of water every minute. That's about 400 pounds of pressure. The big problem is we're all connected together inside. Your ass is just the far end of your mouth. If I let go, the pump keeps working - unraveling my insides -- until it's got my tongue. Imagine taking a 400-pound shit, and you can see how this might turn you inside out.
what a turn this thread has taken.
1 man 1 cup?
One day Toadstool was walking down to the store with a handfull of Mario's food stamps so she could get a Big Gulp, a box of tampons, a pack of Kool's cigarettes, and a teryaki beef stick.
Unfortunately, the only beef stick she would encounter that night would belong to Luigi, insanely jealous and driven to a deep violent psychosis. It's Marcia Brady syndrome... Mario got the spotlight, he got the girl and he kicked Bowser's ass. And what did Luigi get? A stupid fucking green plumber suit and a case of herpes.
Naturally, Luigi did what any levelheaded normal member of society would do: he hid in the shadows of a dark alleyway until the time was right and he sprung into action, tackling her to the ground, wrestling her into submission, locking in a sleeper hold and using his superior strength and a conveniently placed fire flower powerup to drag her into his demented nest.
He proceeded to shoot fireballs out of his hands, burning her clothes to a crisp and rendering her naked and defenseless, doomed to a fate of being ravaged by a second-string video game character with herpes.
It was a horrible sight, he beat and raped her until he was out of breath. Then he took a break and some nearby homeless men took turns on her until he found a 1-up life powerup, turning him back into Big Man Luigi so he could have his way with her again.
By this point, Mario was home from his modest plumbing job and needless to say, he was quite disturbed by the lack of dinner on the table and the general disarray of household items. He was prepared to beat Princess Toadstool damn near to death with his plunger, so he struck out on the prowl and began tracking her down via the line of bread crumbs she had dropped because she's strictly a trophy wife. All looks and no brains. No navigational skills, but man, what an ass.
Soon enough, he arrived at the perpetually dark alleyway and saw his ex-BFFL Luigi and the homeless men running a train on his woman. He knew he had to formulate a plan, but fuck it, he was too drunk and fat to be clever so he yelled to get their attention.
"HEY! ANY OF YOU FAGS WANT A MUSTACHE RIDE?"
Unanimously, the hoodlums' heads snapped to attention, cutting sharp holes through the stale night air like cheddar cheese. Mario playfully tapped his plunger in his hand, a sign of impatience. The homeless men were alarmed and scuttled off into the night, while Luigi smiled casually, showcasing his grotesque, sickly yellow teeth deeply contrasted by his dark green dingy plumber's cap.
"I was wondering when you'd show up," Luigi smoothly drawled out, trying to stall and distract Mario as he slowly reached above his left back pocket to tightly grasp the .38 special clasped between his pants and the bare skin of his sweaty lower back. "I'm afraid your woman won't be greeting you. I just shot a fireball up her ass. I knew I should have wore a rubber... Toadstool always looked like the kind of girl who would make fire come out of your dick."
Driven by uncontrollable fury, Mario lunges forward, swinging his plunger like a retarded house painter on speed. Unfortunately, the portly plumber stumbles over a cardboard refridgerator box/transient mansion and falls on his face. Not soon after, he feels cold steel pressed up against the back of his neck, right at the base of his skull. Hearing the familiar *click* of a chamber loading sends an icy chill down Mario's spine.
"It didn't have to end like this, man..." recollected Luigi. "Why couldn't it have been called Super Mario and Luigi Brothers? Besides the fact that it doesn't sound catchy at all, it's too long and it's gramatically incorrect. And why couldn't you tag me in and let me hit the big finisher on Bowser? You totally made me look like a jobber, fatass. You always hog the glory just like you hog the gravy."
"I'm sorry, Luigi," Mario sobbed through a viel of salty tears dribbling down his face. "Marrying that bitch Toadstool was the worst thing I ever did. She's always nagging at me to lose some weight and find some direction and get a real job, enough of this plumbing shit and jumping on goomba heads and disarming bob-ombs. Can't we just let bygones be bygones... brother?"
"Hmm... Lemme think about it."
Luigi pulls the trigger, sending Mario's brains splashed against a nearby brick wall like demented splatter art. Chunks of skull and lumps of grey matter ricochet and land innocently on unconsious Toadstool's bare belly.
A satisfied smile creeps across the disgruntled plumber's face, which slowly evolves into a doubtful grimace, eventually giving way to an expression of total remorse, realizing the horrors he's just committed. His arm shaking, he raises the snub nose to the roof of his mouth, says a silent prayer and pulls the trigger for the second time, sending the contents of his own head through a hole in the top like a dolphin surfacing for water. Convulsing, his body crumples to the ground. Humorously and unintentionally, it falls into the shape of a hilarious sexually suggestive position, where it looks like he's skullfucking Mario.
A sea of vagrants, attracted by the gunshots and the smell of fresh blood, swarms onto the scene and quickly begin starting a bonfire so they can cook Mario and Luigi's corpses and be fed and satiated for the first time in months.
Meanwhile, Toadstool eventually regains consiousness and crawls to a nearby hospital, where she's treated for her wounds and diagnosed with AIDS. She is impregnated but decides she doesn't want to give birth to a baby who's doomed from the start with the devilish syndrome, so she flings herself off of a large building after reciting a large, overly rehearsed speech to the curious onlookers about the dangers of fucking plumbers and starring in video games.
"I hate them and I wish death among them!" - Mahatma Gandhi
"I firmly believe that any man's finest hour, the greatest fulfillment of all that he holds dear, is that moment when he has worked his heart out in a good cause and lies exhausted on the field of battle - victorious."- Vince Lombardi