Last night, TheWarden and I got to spend a rare night alone. After doing out for dinner, watching a movie, and feverishly bed wrestling, we went downstairs and crashed on the couch.
When I got up to check my email, TheWarden playfully grabbed my wallet off the coffee table. “Why do you have so much crap in here?” She said while opening the monstrosity and looking inside. “I mean, look at this thing!”
There’s no doubt that my wallet is a mess. Full of tons of crap that I probably don’t need, yet am far too lazy to throw out. As I typed away on my computer TheWarden began pulling out all of these items and separating them into Keep/Throw away piles.
“What’s this?” She said as she pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I don’t know,” I said absently, while typing.
“AAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!” She suddenly screamed. “AAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!”
Without even looking I knew that one of my buddies had planted something horrendous.
“Seriously, what is this?!” TheWarden shrieked.
When she showed me the picture I about died. The thing was a still shot from the grossest, most obscene website on this planet. A picture of three sweaty old men having a big gay threesome.
After assuring my wife that I am not gay, and do not like to see old naked balls, I grabbed the picture in disgust. “I’ll take care of this,” I said.
Oh, and by “take care of this”, I mean putting it in the first unattended wallet I find.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
The Blood Drive
I freaking hate blood drives. Loathe them with all my being. Though it may sound like a filthy-whore communist thing to say, I assure you, it’s true. It’s not the needles, or the blood, or even the part about helping other people that bothers me (although that does piss me off), it’s all the shit that happens to me whenever I try to do it.
Every time my blood has been borrowed or tested, something obscenely horrible happens. Weather it’s accidentally stabbing every last one of my veins, or simply accusing me of being HIV positive, nothing ever seems to run smooth.
This week, I was in briefing when one of my sergeants brought up the Red Cross. According to him, the organization is super low on blood and is in town looking to harvest some life-force. While not formally a part of this campaign, my department was strongly suggesting that we make a liquid donation.
The last time I was asked to give blood was in the academy. One day, the Red Cross rolled into town and set up shop in our gym. After a particularly brutal PT session, a group of us were “voluntarily” sent to the donation chamber. Once in the gym, we were handed a huge pre-screening questioner and told to fill it out.
As I looked over my form I began to laugh. Because the agency didn’t want to get tainted blood, the pre-screening form asked several eye opening in depth questions. Initially, these questions were normal, asking things like, “Do you have any STD’s” or “Have you gotten a tattoo in the last year?”
But as the form goes on, the questions began to get crazy. While question 1 had been something bland like, “Do you weigh enough to give blood”, by question 10 it was, “Have you ever had sex in exchange for drugs?”, and “Have you ever been filmed having sex a group of guys?”
Towards the end of the form things were totally out of control. Nothing was off limits. Each question detailing an act more depraved than the one previous.
Question 30: “Have you ever had sex with five guys and a penguin?”
Question 31: “Have you ever done cocaine while someone shits on your chest?”
Question 32: “Have you had sex with a penguin while it shits on someone’s chest that’d doing cocaine?”
By the time I was done, my buddies and I were in tears. The form was funnier than anything we had ever read. After exchanging some accusations with the other guys, I stood up and met with the screener. Briefly she looked over the form. “Alright, everything looks good,” she began. “No STD’s, no drugs.” But then she paused. “Uh oh, tell me about this trip.”
In the muddle of the questioner, lost in amongst the zillion questions about evil and debauchery, was a single question about traveling out of the country.
Me: “Six months before the academy, I went to a wedding in Mexico.”
Lady: “Oh, well I’m afraid that I can’t let you give blood.”
As I walked away from the table a rejected donor, all of the guys in my academy looked at me in shock. Since they couldn’t hear my conversation with the screener, they had no idea why I was rejected. Instantly, they looked down at their tests and began to exchange guesses.
“You participate in one drug fueled gay orgy and suddenly your blood isn’t good enough.” Was all I said before walking out the door.
Every time my blood has been borrowed or tested, something obscenely horrible happens. Weather it’s accidentally stabbing every last one of my veins, or simply accusing me of being HIV positive, nothing ever seems to run smooth.
This week, I was in briefing when one of my sergeants brought up the Red Cross. According to him, the organization is super low on blood and is in town looking to harvest some life-force. While not formally a part of this campaign, my department was strongly suggesting that we make a liquid donation.
The last time I was asked to give blood was in the academy. One day, the Red Cross rolled into town and set up shop in our gym. After a particularly brutal PT session, a group of us were “voluntarily” sent to the donation chamber. Once in the gym, we were handed a huge pre-screening questioner and told to fill it out.
As I looked over my form I began to laugh. Because the agency didn’t want to get tainted blood, the pre-screening form asked several eye opening in depth questions. Initially, these questions were normal, asking things like, “Do you have any STD’s” or “Have you gotten a tattoo in the last year?”
But as the form goes on, the questions began to get crazy. While question 1 had been something bland like, “Do you weigh enough to give blood”, by question 10 it was, “Have you ever had sex in exchange for drugs?”, and “Have you ever been filmed having sex a group of guys?”
Towards the end of the form things were totally out of control. Nothing was off limits. Each question detailing an act more depraved than the one previous.
Question 30: “Have you ever had sex with five guys and a penguin?”
Question 31: “Have you ever done cocaine while someone shits on your chest?”
Question 32: “Have you had sex with a penguin while it shits on someone’s chest that’d doing cocaine?”
By the time I was done, my buddies and I were in tears. The form was funnier than anything we had ever read. After exchanging some accusations with the other guys, I stood up and met with the screener. Briefly she looked over the form. “Alright, everything looks good,” she began. “No STD’s, no drugs.” But then she paused. “Uh oh, tell me about this trip.”
In the muddle of the questioner, lost in amongst the zillion questions about evil and debauchery, was a single question about traveling out of the country.
Me: “Six months before the academy, I went to a wedding in Mexico.”
Lady: “Oh, well I’m afraid that I can’t let you give blood.”
As I walked away from the table a rejected donor, all of the guys in my academy looked at me in shock. Since they couldn’t hear my conversation with the screener, they had no idea why I was rejected. Instantly, they looked down at their tests and began to exchange guesses.
“You participate in one drug fueled gay orgy and suddenly your blood isn’t good enough.” Was all I said before walking out the door.
Big Girls Don't Cry
For the record, I hate writing tickets. Unless I see someone blow through a red light, or catch them driving down the road with a fifth of Beam in one hand, and their wiener in the other, I could honestly care less. Plus, once I stop someone, I know that I’ll have to listen to them piss and moan about how “evil” and “mean” I am.
At about 10:00PM last night I was heading to 7-11 in order to ensure that there was no crime by the slurpee machine, when this chick passed me at like 20 over. Though it may be hard to believe that a female driver would be so reckless on the road, I assure you, this is a true story.
I was torn. On one hand I was really in the mood for a frosty cool slurpee, but on the other, I was really low on tickets and this was a pretty simple stop.
After a quick debate I turned around and stopped the car. When I walked up to the window I saw the chick bawling uncontrollably.
“Damnit.”
After a few agonizing minutes, the lady calmed herself down enough to lower her window. When I finally got her information, I told her that she was speeding. Instantly, the skank began to act like I had raped her newborn children. She shrieked and wailed inconsolably. Through her massive tears she told me that she was speeding because her car was about to break down and she wanted to get home.
Now, lots of people ask me if I let crying girls off with a warning. My short answer is no. I’m not going to give every chick that speeds a break just because they’re too much of a pussy to accept their ticket. I mean, after all, if I never wrote bad female drivers tickets, I wouldn’t be able to write anyone.
When I returned to the lady’s car, I handed her the skid. Instantly, her tears vanished and her once unbearable grief turned to rage. “Oh, thanks a lot,” she yelled. “My car’s not working and you give me this!”
As she continued to berate me I smiled. This fat hag had tried the oldest trick in the book, and I had called her bluff. All she had to do was show me her boobs and she would have been on her way.
At about 10:00PM last night I was heading to 7-11 in order to ensure that there was no crime by the slurpee machine, when this chick passed me at like 20 over. Though it may be hard to believe that a female driver would be so reckless on the road, I assure you, this is a true story.
I was torn. On one hand I was really in the mood for a frosty cool slurpee, but on the other, I was really low on tickets and this was a pretty simple stop.
After a quick debate I turned around and stopped the car. When I walked up to the window I saw the chick bawling uncontrollably.
“Damnit.”
After a few agonizing minutes, the lady calmed herself down enough to lower her window. When I finally got her information, I told her that she was speeding. Instantly, the skank began to act like I had raped her newborn children. She shrieked and wailed inconsolably. Through her massive tears she told me that she was speeding because her car was about to break down and she wanted to get home.
Now, lots of people ask me if I let crying girls off with a warning. My short answer is no. I’m not going to give every chick that speeds a break just because they’re too much of a pussy to accept their ticket. I mean, after all, if I never wrote bad female drivers tickets, I wouldn’t be able to write anyone.
When I returned to the lady’s car, I handed her the skid. Instantly, her tears vanished and her once unbearable grief turned to rage. “Oh, thanks a lot,” she yelled. “My car’s not working and you give me this!”
As she continued to berate me I smiled. This fat hag had tried the oldest trick in the book, and I had called her bluff. All she had to do was show me her boobs and she would have been on her way.
420
Last Thursday I was at my buddies house, when a monster beer pong tournament unexpectedly broke out. As a former Spartan, and current alcoholic, I could not let this test of manhood pass by without forcefully throwing my hat into the ring.
For the next two hours I blazed a path of violence and destruction that no college student has seen before or since. I pounded the shit out of those gay little red cups and made many a pathetic poser drink the golden bounty that they held within. When my domination was complete, I retired to the couch and left my victims to cower in awe and lick their numerous wounds.
As I was sitting there, enjoying my victory, an ugly ball of pig-tailed blubber approached my throne and began to ask me questions. This poor excuse for a girl had heard that I was a cop, and though unsure of it at first, my dead nuts sniper skills had quickly convinced her that the legend was true.
After awhile, a couple other people overheard her asking me questions and started in with some of their own. Eventually, someone brought up the inevitable, “What does 420 really mean?” and the crowd went into a frenzy.
In case you’re a total square, the term “420” is synonymous with smoking pot. Lots of people like to light up at 4:20, April 20TH (4/20) is national weed day, and so on and so forth.
Contrary to popular belief, 420 is not police code for Marywanna. If I see people smoking weed I don’t yell out, “Radio, we got a 420 in progress” or any stupid shit like that. I simply kick them in the balls and yell at them for being hippies.
Since I’ve never known how this all got started, I decided to look it up. After an extensive scholarly research session (AKA, I played around on the internet for about 5 minutes) I found the following article on About.com.
“According to Steven Hager, editor of High Times, the term 420 originated at San Rafael High School, in 1971, among a group of about a dozen pot-smoking wiseacres who called themselves the Waldos, who are now pushing 50. The term was shorthand for the time of day the group would meet, at the campus statue of Louis Pasteur, to smoke pot. Intent on developing their own discreet language, they made 420 code for a time to get high, and its use spread among members of an entire generation.”[1]
So there you go ass clowns.
[1] http://parentingteens.about.com/cs/marijuana/a/420meaning.htm
For the next two hours I blazed a path of violence and destruction that no college student has seen before or since. I pounded the shit out of those gay little red cups and made many a pathetic poser drink the golden bounty that they held within. When my domination was complete, I retired to the couch and left my victims to cower in awe and lick their numerous wounds.
As I was sitting there, enjoying my victory, an ugly ball of pig-tailed blubber approached my throne and began to ask me questions. This poor excuse for a girl had heard that I was a cop, and though unsure of it at first, my dead nuts sniper skills had quickly convinced her that the legend was true.
After awhile, a couple other people overheard her asking me questions and started in with some of their own. Eventually, someone brought up the inevitable, “What does 420 really mean?” and the crowd went into a frenzy.
In case you’re a total square, the term “420” is synonymous with smoking pot. Lots of people like to light up at 4:20, April 20TH (4/20) is national weed day, and so on and so forth.
Contrary to popular belief, 420 is not police code for Marywanna. If I see people smoking weed I don’t yell out, “Radio, we got a 420 in progress” or any stupid shit like that. I simply kick them in the balls and yell at them for being hippies.
Since I’ve never known how this all got started, I decided to look it up. After an extensive scholarly research session (AKA, I played around on the internet for about 5 minutes) I found the following article on About.com.
“According to Steven Hager, editor of High Times, the term 420 originated at San Rafael High School, in 1971, among a group of about a dozen pot-smoking wiseacres who called themselves the Waldos, who are now pushing 50. The term was shorthand for the time of day the group would meet, at the campus statue of Louis Pasteur, to smoke pot. Intent on developing their own discreet language, they made 420 code for a time to get high, and its use spread among members of an entire generation.”[1]
So there you go ass clowns.
[1] http://parentingteens.about.com/cs/marijuana/a/420meaning.htm
The Fiery Truth
There’s not a dude on this planet that hasn’t dreamt about being a sniper. A grizzled Navy SEAL commando that eats terrorists and shits freedom. The mere thought of lying in the woods Tom Berringer style, with a .50 cal BFG [1]in one hand, and an ear necklace in the other, is enough to give any man the most massive of all erections.
About two weeks ago it was finally my time to live out that dream. We were told by dispatch that there was a larceny suspect with a gun running through one of our apartment complexes. Instantly, our entire shift responded to the scene and formed an air tight perimeter around the entire place.
We had that shit on lock down. No one was getting in or out. Rifles were loaded, adrenaline was blasting, and muscles were flexing. This is why I had become a cop, and I was fired up, big time!
As I sat in my car scanning the complex, I began to day dream. I imagined epic shoot outs and grand battles. Pictured the gunman rushing towards me with his gun blazing, and argued with myself over the coolest way to kill him.
But after about a half hour of staring at the side of an apartment building with my thumb in my ass, I began to get bored and restless. In the movies this was always the coolest part. The scene where the good guy takes aim at terrorists as they ran around screaming threats and pushing around hot chick hostages.
Nothing like that was happening to me, and I was getting restless.
After 50 minutes of absolutely nothing, I began picking at the last bits of Taco Bell that was left on my passenger seat. Though the Crunch-a-weeseys[2] were mashed and cold, they kept my mind busy, and my thoughts occupied.
Then, all Hell broke loose.
About 10 minutes after finishing the last few scraps of my enormous dinner, my stomach began to squeal. “Take it easy there girl,” I whispered to my agitated gut as sweat began to bead on my forehead.
“GRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPLLLLLLLLL!!!!” My stomach yelled back at me with it’s middle finger raised.
Apparently, my hastily prepared mix of adrenaline, cold Taco Bell, and gallon of Pepsi had pissed off my intestines. They figured that they had put up with this blended intrusion long enough, and they wanted it gone.
Quickly I began to panic. There was no telling how long I would be stuck on the perimeter waiting for the bad guy to give up. If I simply left without saying anything, I would most likely be fired. But then again, if I didn’t I’d probably explode.
“GRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPLLLLLLLLL!!!!”
“Oh no.” I thought to myself. Things were beginning to spiral out of control. I began to loosen my belt and shift my weight, hoping to take the pressure of my flaming anus, but no mater what I tried nothing helped. I tried listening to the radio and singing, anything to take my mind off of the massive volcano brewing inside my soul.
“Damn you delicious Taco Bell!” I began to curse. By now I was really in a panic. I again pictured the gunmen suddenly in front of me gun blazing. But this time the outcome was different. This time I sat there helplessly mashing my buttcheeks together as bullets tore into my chest.
“I’m gonna die,” I thought. “And my backup is going to find me covered in my own shit.”
Just when I didn’t think I could hold it in anymore, one of my buddies found the suspect and arrested him. As it turned out, the guy never had a gun, or threatened anyone in any way. But I didn’t car about any of that. All that mattered to me was that I made it back to the station before a giant Hershey bomb detonated in my pants.
[1] That’s nerd speak for “Big Fucking Gun”
[2] Cheesy Gordita Crunches
About two weeks ago it was finally my time to live out that dream. We were told by dispatch that there was a larceny suspect with a gun running through one of our apartment complexes. Instantly, our entire shift responded to the scene and formed an air tight perimeter around the entire place.
We had that shit on lock down. No one was getting in or out. Rifles were loaded, adrenaline was blasting, and muscles were flexing. This is why I had become a cop, and I was fired up, big time!
As I sat in my car scanning the complex, I began to day dream. I imagined epic shoot outs and grand battles. Pictured the gunman rushing towards me with his gun blazing, and argued with myself over the coolest way to kill him.
But after about a half hour of staring at the side of an apartment building with my thumb in my ass, I began to get bored and restless. In the movies this was always the coolest part. The scene where the good guy takes aim at terrorists as they ran around screaming threats and pushing around hot chick hostages.
Nothing like that was happening to me, and I was getting restless.
After 50 minutes of absolutely nothing, I began picking at the last bits of Taco Bell that was left on my passenger seat. Though the Crunch-a-weeseys[2] were mashed and cold, they kept my mind busy, and my thoughts occupied.
Then, all Hell broke loose.
About 10 minutes after finishing the last few scraps of my enormous dinner, my stomach began to squeal. “Take it easy there girl,” I whispered to my agitated gut as sweat began to bead on my forehead.
“GRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPLLLLLLLLL!!!!” My stomach yelled back at me with it’s middle finger raised.
Apparently, my hastily prepared mix of adrenaline, cold Taco Bell, and gallon of Pepsi had pissed off my intestines. They figured that they had put up with this blended intrusion long enough, and they wanted it gone.
Quickly I began to panic. There was no telling how long I would be stuck on the perimeter waiting for the bad guy to give up. If I simply left without saying anything, I would most likely be fired. But then again, if I didn’t I’d probably explode.
“GRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPLLLLLLLLL!!!!”
“Oh no.” I thought to myself. Things were beginning to spiral out of control. I began to loosen my belt and shift my weight, hoping to take the pressure of my flaming anus, but no mater what I tried nothing helped. I tried listening to the radio and singing, anything to take my mind off of the massive volcano brewing inside my soul.
“Damn you delicious Taco Bell!” I began to curse. By now I was really in a panic. I again pictured the gunmen suddenly in front of me gun blazing. But this time the outcome was different. This time I sat there helplessly mashing my buttcheeks together as bullets tore into my chest.
“I’m gonna die,” I thought. “And my backup is going to find me covered in my own shit.”
Just when I didn’t think I could hold it in anymore, one of my buddies found the suspect and arrested him. As it turned out, the guy never had a gun, or threatened anyone in any way. But I didn’t car about any of that. All that mattered to me was that I made it back to the station before a giant Hershey bomb detonated in my pants.
[1] That’s nerd speak for “Big Fucking Gun”
[2] Cheesy Gordita Crunches
My Fury Demon of Love
I have two cats. Two furry pooping machines that shed, piss, crap, and anything else they can do all over my condo.
This addiction to destruction has left TheWarden and I scrambling to find a suitable diet that won’t anger their delicate stomachs. The other day I was leaving for work when TheWarden walked in the door with some new, high-tech cat food that’s supposed to solve all our problems. According to the 14 year-old cashier at Pet Smart, this crazy salmon powered kitty chow was the absolute shit. The greatest thing since boobs.
After filling up the cat’s dishes, and making out with TheWarden, I headed out to work. From almost the time I walked in, to the time I walked out, I was slammed with stupid calls, and annoying busy work. When my shift was over, I pressed some massive weight at the gym and arrived home exhausted.
The second I walked in the door I saw Pumba dry heaving at the top of our steps. Having seen this show before, I knew that I had approximately .1 second to grab the cat and throw her onto the unstainable wood floor of the hallway.
In a rush I lunged towards the shuddering animal with my arms opened wide. Just as I got to her, she puked.
BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTT!!!!
It was unbelievable. The most violent vomit I have ever seen. Thick dark puke was everywhere. The walls, stairs, everything was drenched. I couldn’t believe that such a huge volume of liquid could come out of such a tiny little body.
After surveying the destruction before me, I looked down at Pumba. I could tell that she was sad and knew that she screwed up. “Oh, it’s o…” I started to say as I stepped towards her.
BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTT!!!!
“Dear God!” I screamed as an even more forceful stream of stomach toxins shot directly towards me. By now I was only about a foot away from the cat and her tide of salmon tainted death sprayed all around me.
When her second eruption was complete, Pumba rolled onto her side and panted for breath. I was shocked. Liquid kitty puke was everywhere. Our entry way was bathed in it. “What the Hell is wrong with you?” I asked the cat when she finally caught her breath and ran underneath my bed.
After staring at the mess dumbfounded for about ten minutes, I cleaned up as much of it as I could and crawled into bed utterly drained. I was spent, and knew that whenever I woke up, the rest of the mess would be waiting for me.
Slowly, as I lay there stewing over the uber expensive cat food lying in a puddle on my stair case, I began to drift off to sleep. Just as I was fading out I heard a loud sharp sound…
BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTT!!!
Damnit!
This addiction to destruction has left TheWarden and I scrambling to find a suitable diet that won’t anger their delicate stomachs. The other day I was leaving for work when TheWarden walked in the door with some new, high-tech cat food that’s supposed to solve all our problems. According to the 14 year-old cashier at Pet Smart, this crazy salmon powered kitty chow was the absolute shit. The greatest thing since boobs.
After filling up the cat’s dishes, and making out with TheWarden, I headed out to work. From almost the time I walked in, to the time I walked out, I was slammed with stupid calls, and annoying busy work. When my shift was over, I pressed some massive weight at the gym and arrived home exhausted.
The second I walked in the door I saw Pumba dry heaving at the top of our steps. Having seen this show before, I knew that I had approximately .1 second to grab the cat and throw her onto the unstainable wood floor of the hallway.
In a rush I lunged towards the shuddering animal with my arms opened wide. Just as I got to her, she puked.
BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTT!!!!
It was unbelievable. The most violent vomit I have ever seen. Thick dark puke was everywhere. The walls, stairs, everything was drenched. I couldn’t believe that such a huge volume of liquid could come out of such a tiny little body.
After surveying the destruction before me, I looked down at Pumba. I could tell that she was sad and knew that she screwed up. “Oh, it’s o…” I started to say as I stepped towards her.
BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTT!!!!
“Dear God!” I screamed as an even more forceful stream of stomach toxins shot directly towards me. By now I was only about a foot away from the cat and her tide of salmon tainted death sprayed all around me.
When her second eruption was complete, Pumba rolled onto her side and panted for breath. I was shocked. Liquid kitty puke was everywhere. Our entry way was bathed in it. “What the Hell is wrong with you?” I asked the cat when she finally caught her breath and ran underneath my bed.
After staring at the mess dumbfounded for about ten minutes, I cleaned up as much of it as I could and crawled into bed utterly drained. I was spent, and knew that whenever I woke up, the rest of the mess would be waiting for me.
Slowly, as I lay there stewing over the uber expensive cat food lying in a puddle on my stair case, I began to drift off to sleep. Just as I was fading out I heard a loud sharp sound…
BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTT!!!
Damnit!
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