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est. 02.27.02

tmh superfriends:

September 2003

I'm going to miss you, my rotting, infected and diseased little friends.
Ack Ack Ack | Monday, 09.29.03
I was supposed to start my new job today. I signed a cool $27 million a year contract with a Fortune 500 company, and I was ready to have as many as three (3) people working below me. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to start my new job today, because my son-of-a-bitch doctor demanded that I have my tonsils ripped from the back of my throat immediately. Apparently, some sort of undead minion from the Netherworld is using my tonsils as a host, which would explain why I have been having a hard time breathing, swallowing, eating, and praying to Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior.

Luckily my new job was understanding, however, I have to take a $26,960,000 pay cut. And I won't be starting until later in the month, as my body needs plenty of time to recover from the life-altering surgery that most normal human beings undergo when they're fucking 4 years old.

Now, I know what you're thinking... "Gee John, that sucks that you have to get sliced open and shit, but what am I, the average thismayhurt.com fanboy loser, supposed to do while you're recovering?" Well imaginary person, you can look at pretty pictures! Coming soon...

While I can't bring the camera into the operating room to capture doctors fondling my naughty bits while I'm anesthetized, I can take pictures of myself looking generally groggy and miserable during my recovery period! So, stay tuned kids, the surgery's only three short days away!

Urine Trouble! Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Ooooh, boy.
tinkle update. | Monday, 09.22.03
After scraping my contacts off my eyes last night, I scrawled a note which read DRUG TEST and propped it up next to my alarm clock. The note should have read DON'T PEE, because my first instinct upon waking up every morning is to urinate for 45 minutes straight, regroup for 3 minutes, and then pee some more. But not this morning.

Usually, when one of your cool friends tells a drug test story, it usually involves the following scenario, and they usually tell it like this...

420drugzROOL6969: Oh shit, bro, I just got this new job and they're making me take a drug test and I accidentally shot heroin into my toes and took 4,000 raver drug tablets and I blew up the sun with my mind rays and now I'm not going to get the job. Fuck d00d, this sux!!!111"
ilikepie: please stop IM'ing me.
420drugzROOL6969: lollerz, kd00d, p3@c3 =)

Dude, I totally figured out how to trick the drug test. Now where's my bong?
Fortunately for me, I'm not cool enough to "smoke the pots" or "shoot the heroines" or "snort cocaine off a dead hooker's thigh." So you're not going to get any cool-guy advice about how to trick the drug test by eating nothing but pencil shavings and vinegar smoothies, nor will you hear a crazy anecdote about me forcing a faggy xXstraight-edgeXx kid to pee in a cup for me. No, my story will focus strictly on my urge to tinkle.

I had to tinkle. Very badly. So badly that I left my house at 8:00 in the morning just so I could expel the painful urine from my delecate bladder. Retrieving the previous days' clothes from the floor, I ran out the door, clutching my junk like a four-year old waiting in line to use the potty at Disney World. Mapquest said the lab was 15 minutes from my house. Mapquest lies. For instance, when Mapquest says "Take a slight right onto Allwood Ave," it actually means "Take a drastic left onto Prospect Ave, drive in circles for 15 minutes, cry, and then accidentally stumble upon the super-secret location." Fucking Mapquest.

The alleged 15 minutes stretches to 30, which isn't so bad, considering I was driving alone and perspiring pee-pee. I arrive and see a waiting room full of tired looking people. I approach the front desk and attempt to conversate with the salty secretary. She says she needs my "mugshot." Confused, I hand her my paperwork. She again asks for my "mugshot," so I hand her my driver's license, which, to the best of my knowledge, is the closest item in my possession that could somewhat pass for a mugshot, if the person requesting to see it was a fucking moron. Luckily, this was the case, as the stupid lady stopped asking to see my "mugshot" upon receiving my driver's license.

Next, a nurse called my name and escorted me into the back, where I was asked to remove any items in my pockets, and my hat, and place them in a high-security lock box that a toddler definitely would not be able to rip open by crawling past it. I guess if I had a bottle full of someone else's pee, this would be the point in which I would get all nervous and shaky. I have to admit that I did become slightly frightened when the nurse strapped on a pair of rubber gloves, because maybe, just maybe, I'm hiding that fake bottle of pee up my ass. Luckily, she skipped the cavity search and asked "Do you have a full bladder?" I replied by wetting myself and pointing at my crotch excitedly. I get nervous under pressure, ok? Performance anxiety is a bitch.

Into the bathroom I go to fill up my pee-pee cup. I went over the line because I figured I could score some extra credit on my drug test, and I wanted to impress the lab technicians. There's something really surreal about handing a complete stranger a small cup filled with your own pee. I don't think you could pay me enough to accept bottled urine from crackheads all day. But accepting pee that come from my beautiful penis? Only one word can be associate with such a task: honor. I'll be sure to post the exciting results of my test! OMG HOPE I PASS!

In case of an earthquake, get in a doorway... BRAAAAAACK!
Thank you, parrot. | Wednesday, 09.03.03
Alcoholics. Fuzzy, huggable, shame-encrusted alcoholics. We all know them, we all love them, some of us are even alcoholics ourselves! These are troubled times, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with getting so drunk that you accidentally saw your leg in half and pretend that your bloody stump is a flesh-flavored trombone. Without alcohol, thousands of brewmasters and abortion clinic janitors would be out on the street, so raise your glasses high, my friends!

Wrap your car around that telephone pole, BRAAAAACK!
Around the corner from my house is a row of bars, known to the locals as "the row of bars." Now these aren't your trendy "Like, OMG, I'm 19 and 3/4 and I got this fake ID from the internet and can I have a Mike's Hard Lemonade and like OMG I'm so drunk now, take me home and have like ten million of my babies" bars. These bars are fucking serious. No music... only the sound of tortured souls slowly drowning in neverending spirals of depression and booze. No faggy-assed drinks served in clean mugs. "Here's your fucking stale beer in a dixie cup I used to clean the shit out the toilet, choke on it and die you prick," says the 87 year old bartender with at least four (4) plates in his head. Why, it would take a miracle to add some life to "the row of bars"... it would take...

A parrot! Around 8:00 this evening, my usually quiet street exploded beneath the fury of the drunk and his drunken parrot. While it was pretty dark out, I managed to catch a description of the parrot: beautiful, exotic, easily 100 pounds, and drunk off his little birdy ass. I have to give credit to his owner, who could barely manage to walk down the street without argueing with parked cars and garbage cans, but goddammit, he wrangled that bird like a fucking pro. He was like Jack Hanna and Lemmy rolled into one deliciously retarded asshole with a parrot on his shoulder. Apparently he was a bit drunk, and decided it would be cool to take his pterodactyl-sized parrot for a walk to the "row of bars." What I would have given to be mopey and unshaven enough to hang out with the boys tonight...

Parrot Wrangler: See (hic) I fuggin' told you guys that I had myself and me a parrot (hic).
Parrot: Braaaaaaack. *whistle*
Miserable Drunk #1: That ain't no parrot.
Miserable Drunk #2: Nope.
Miserable Drunk #1: That there's one of them fancy flyin' machines (hic).
Miserable Drunk #2: Yep.
Parrot Wrangler: You guys don't know what you're talgin' about. This here is my parrot and his name... (vomits) ... his name... (vomits in mouth a little) ... his name is Petey.
Parrot: Braaaaaaaack. Petey. *whistle*
Miserable Drunk #1: Why'd you name him Petey for?
Parrot Wrangler: Because I riggafraggafriggaraggarigga HA HA HA HA HA (vomits) !!!!!111
All: HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! (group vomit)

Curse my fear of meddling in the affairs of scary, middle-aged drunks and their scary, middle-aged tropical and semitropical birds. No cool, exotic pets at our "usual" watering hole. Just STD's and fucking guidos.



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