Pants, pants, PANTS!

Build your own short fiction story using the opening line provided by my favorite Three Letter Acronym Man, please check out Purgatorian for details.

Of course, hindsight is 20/20, but in reflection not having any time to waste I skipped washing my hands after using the urinal. I was having drinks in the hotel bar with my new associates on my first business trip. We were talking to two of the hottest, big breasted women I’d ever laid eyes on. I didn’t want to miss out on anything so I quickly took a piss and rushed back out to the bar.

I should have known something was wrong by the way everyone was laughing. My jokes weren’t that funny. After a couple of margarita’s I thought I was on fire. I thought they were laughing with me, not at me.

The hot blonde needed another drink so I offered to get it for her. On my way to the bar a female patron tapped me on the shoulder and said,

“You’ve got something going on in your pants.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, you have something going on in your pants.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Why don’t you look at your pants, that’s where it’s going on.”

I looked down to see my freshly pressed dress shirt hanging out the zipper of my khakis like a pale blue cotton wiener. If only I’d listened to my mother when she said to always wash my hands after taking a piss, I probably would have noticed what was going on in my pants before the rest of the bar had.

I’m taking a break from writing two papers. The instructions my professor gave are nonsensical and I’m struggling to follow them. When I discussed them with a friend (who is a psych major) she questioned whether he even has a psych degree!

Although going back to school and working full time is hard I have to remind myself this is my way out the cubicle. So it might take twenty years before I have enough credits to transfer to a university, I’m on my way. When things get tough I remind myself it could be worse, I could have one of these jobs…

*Certified Colon Hydrotherapist
*Crime Scene Clean Up
*Embalmer
*Hot Dog on a Stick (oh the uniforms!)
*Peepshow Booth Mop Up Person
*Porta Potty Cleaner and Transporter
*Santa, or Easter Bunny, helper at the mall
*Telemarketer

I dog sit, a lot. I used to watch two male labs, Popper and Emmitt. Popper had a nasty habit of humping poor Emmitt (they were both males), especially on walks. Popper liked to display his manhood in front of the little old lady from across the street. Popper had this death grip method of humping poor Em that was nearly impossible to stop. Prying the dogs apart in front of the sweet old lady embarrassed me to no end.

One day after work I was walking the dogs down a main road in their neighborhood when Emmitt took a five pound shit right in the middle of a driveway. As I was picking it up with a plastic bag Emmitt weaseled out of the hippie version of a collar around his neck. Then next few minutes were spent chasing him around the middle of the street attempting to get the collar back on.

I looked up to see a car approaching. Still unsuccessful, frustrated, holding both leashes and a five pound bag of dogshit in my hand I stood over Emmitt with my knees angled into his middle. I wasn’t hurting him, I just needed him to stay still so I could get his collar on.

The car stopped in front of us (we were in the middle of the road) just as Popper decided to display his manly death grip hump method. The hump show this man saw was surely something he’ll never see again; me over Emmitt with Popper latched on from behind, humping the shit out of both of us.

My face turned beet red, I couldn’t get Popper off! The man in the car was laughing so hard I could see tears streaming down his face. He witnessed a solid fifteen seconds of hump action.

I. Was. Mortified.

I had never been so embarrassed in my life. Little did I know a few years later I’d split my pants while dancing in a Vegas club and the embarrassment of the dog hump episode would melt away, more on that story in a future installment.

Looks like my potty mouth has gotten me in trouble again, some recent search phrases that have brought people here…

*bishop interview masturbation
*britney no wear any pants
*confession “no confession booth”
*exercises to reduce flabby camel toe
*fucking and toileting
*melliferous cult
*mormon happy pants
*MY HOT SISTER
*pee your pants
*sex pants

I prefer my rap with a hard beat, obscenities and dirty sex talk.

For those who prefer their rap with any of the following; Mormon history, BYU, genealogy, Jimminy Cricket, Donny and Marie. I suggest…

The Mormon Rap

I can’t believe I am related to people that spent their hard earned money on this crap at the church bookstore.

Special thanks to KXMO for the plethora of Mormon oddities.

Yesterday my professor said:

Tonight we won’t be doing sex, you can tell your parents I said that.

A few weeks ago I went out for drinks with some friends visiting from Utah. As they were driving me back to B.A.R.T. some of the drunk girls started singing (yelling) Primary (Mormon Sunday School) songs.

It was totally disturbing.

Now Mormon propaganda songs from my childhood have been trickling back like a bad acid flashback. Please listen to this, share my pain.

Did I mention that I’m dog sitting? For my boss. I think I need a raise.

It could’ve been worse.

Like when I used to be a nanny. I took the kids to park to play catch. Who knew a three year old could throw so far? I was running for the ball and there it was, squish. Barefoot.

I spent the better half of my childhood sitting on a towel waiting for my sunscreen to soak in while my family frolicked in water. I hated my fair skin as a child because it made me different.

My mom told me the sprinkle of freckles on my nose were angel kisses. My sister countered with a terrible false adoption story and stories of children scrubbing their freckles off. Lucky for me I’ve grown into my freckles and my nose recovered from the scrubbing.

The worst sunburn I ever had was at the age of six. We were at a beach in Lake Tahoe and I’d made a new beach friend for the day. We were scrambling around some play equipment when my new friend asked if I wanted some sun tan lotion. Only it wasn’t sun lotion, it was sun tan OIL. My new friend lathered up my back and I promptly fell asleep on the play equipment.

My mother said it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes before she found me. Maybe it was the burn accelerator on my back? The high altitude? Or perhaps a combination of the two that made my skin burn so fast. It was the worst fucking sunburn ever.

My young back was so fried it turned purple. And not pretty pale lavender purple. Deep, dark, fucking purple. With blisters. I couldn’t even wear a shirt. I spent nearly a week laying face down on the couch waiting for family members to apply aloe. The rest of the week was spent praying for the sweet relief of death.

Now why doesn’t my mechanic offer this type of service?