Gay Sex While Pooping

A few posts ago, I made the offhand remark that Sal and Paul and I once had a conversation regarding gay sex while pooping. Wait - I mean that we had a conversation, the topic of which was "gay sex while pooping." I do not mean that, while pooping, we had a conversation about gay sex. Although, if we had been pooping and talking about sex at the same time, I probably would have blogged about that as well. You know me.

Anyway, I figured what better way to ring in the new year than to squeeze in one more story that will probably horrify and nauseate most of you. (Not ACW.)

Now I know some of you are easily grossed out, and I know some of you are incredibly stupid. I also know that it stands to reason that there are a few of you who fall squarely in both of those categories. It is for those people that I now make the following announcement: I am about to tell a story about gay sex and pooping. Just in case you skipped the title of this post and sailed through the first few paragraphs, pretending to read but were instead daydreaming about pink bunnies hopping through a green sunlit field in a world where there is no violence and nothing bad ever happens, let me say it again in no uncertain terms:

Gay sex and pooping. If you are offended by either of those things, or if you are okay with those things separately, but do not like the thought of having them combined, for the love of all that's holy stop reading this blog. In fact, turn off your computer and place a bag over your head. Think of puppies. Hum some comforting tunes.

Okay. For the rest of you, consider yourselves more than warned. I don't want to see a bunch of comments about how I caught you off guard with all the gay sex and pooping. I know how you people operate. Sheesh.

This story is, to the best of my knowledge, 100% true. The hero (so to speak) of the story is someone Paul used to know, and he confided this tale to Paul. I should make it perfectly clear (because I will never hear the end of it if I don't) that I'm not making some sort of cute euphemism to cover the fact that Paul is actually the person in the story. This story is not not not about Paul.

Unless it is.

But it's not. I promise. It's about some other guy.

Unless it isn't.

That sound you hear is steam shooting out of Paul's ears. Okay, really, it isn't Paul.

(heh heh heh...)

Anyway, our hero, we'll call him Friend Of Paul, (FOP) was, at the time of this story, a young gay man living in New York City. FOP was a nice guy, and not unattractive, but not an Abercrombie & Fitch model either. He was what you might call squarely average looking. Or averagely square looking. Either one gets the point across. He wasn't what you'd call "a looker." Which was why he was surprised, one night out on the town, to have caught the attention of a Greek god.

No, not a real Greek God. (calm down, Zeus-o-philes...) I don't even know if the guy was Greek. I just mean he was way out of FOP's league. Picture the supermodel or celebrity you would most like to throw a bang at. It was like that. No way in a million years could a guy like FOP bag a dude like Apollo, and yet, here they were, chatting and dancing and doing whatever else young gay men do whilst clubbing, and it was all going great. This night was shaping up to be the high point in FOP's life.

Eventually, after drinks and laughs and a few kisses, FOP found himself leading Apollo back to his apartment. I'm sure FOP kept expecting Apollo to come to his senses and beg off for the night, but it never happened. Now he had a god in his bedroom, and...

And this is the part of the story where you can imagine all the gay sex you want. I'm not going to describe it for you. Not because I have any kind of a problem with the gay sex but because this ain't no porno blog. (Amazing, I know, since I have no problem littering this blog with any other forms of depravity...) Click over to the Nifty Stories archive if you want to read about some gay sex, and then come back here for the end. I'll wait.

Suffice it to say that it was wonderful and magical and everything FOP had ever hoped sex with a Greek God would be. Right up until the big finish. That was when Apollo suddenly pinned FOP to the bed, sat on top of him and took a giant steaming dump on his chest. While... um... climaxing.

No warning. No mention at any point earlier in the evening that a thick Cleveland Steamer might just be in the works. No sign at all that this was what Apollo had in mind. Just "wham, bam, KER-PLOP."

I suppose you can't blame Apollo. I mean, you can absolutely blame him for the horrible drive-by dumping, but I think I can understand the surprise element. If Naomi Watts were to offer me a night of unbridled passion the likes of which I have not experienced in my lifetime, followed immediately by her grumping all over me, I believe I'd have to turn that offer down. And I like me some Naomi Watts. The grumping however, would be dealbreaker. I'll blog about poop all night long, but I really don't want to ever wear it. I think if you're Apollo, you know the only way you're getting the grumping in there is to throw it in at the last second.

So you can imagine FOP's utter disbelief and horror at his evening suddenly taking a u-turn from "hot-god-sex-fantasy" to "non-consensual shitrape." When FOP expressed his displeasure in what I can only imagine sounded like "WHATTHEFUCKHEYWHATTHEFUCK?!?!?!?!?" Apollo leapt from the bed and bolted. Fop was left lying naked on his bed, covered in Thor-dump, and feeling like he had just been hit by a truck.

If there is a moral to this story, it's probably this: Trust no one. Everyone you know is just waiting to pin you down and shit on you.

Or, I don't know... Maybe the moral is something more upbeat, like: Be grateful for every day that the person in your life doesn't pin you down and shit on you.

Or: Beware Greek gods in loaded shorts.

I don't know. I suck at this "morals" part. Just be careful out there tonight as you all ring in the new year. If you wind up going home with someone you don't know, at the very least wrap your chest in a protective layer of Saran Wrap or something.

Happy New Year, freaks!

Merry Whatever

Well it's the day of the night before Christmas and/or Hanukkah, and I hope all of you are getting ready to spend some quality time with your family and loved ones. Or, if you hate your family and love no one, go to the library. Read a book. But read a book about happy people for Christmukkah is a happy day.

Each year, when it comes time for the annual holiday card bum-rush, I make a little cartoon of Sal and I to adorn our cards with. Since I find many of you bloggers quite likeable (and a few of you downright fucking creepy) I would love to send each of you a card. (Not you creepy fuckers. You know who you are...) However, fate has dealt me the one-two punch of 1) not knowing your addresses and 2) really being far too lazy to actually write out cards to all of you.

So consider this the next best thing. Here is this year's holiday cartoon, along with my sincere warm wishes to all of you for a wonderful holiday. It's been a pleasure meeting all of you through this blog, and I truly look forward to further disgusting each of you in the new year.

Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah and Joyous Whatever the fuck weird holiday you celebrate, from Wombat and Sal.

Why are you people still reading me???

Since I started this blog, I have used it in many ways for the betterment of humanity and the world at large, but never so much as now, as I have finally introduced the Mouth-barfers to the Nose-pukers.

Boy, the results of my informal little poll were extremely interesting. It seems the world is split about 50/50 between those who barf exclusively with their mouths, and those of us who sometimes experience the absolute horror of nasal bile-ejection. I don't think either of us knew the other group existed. Now we do. You're welcome, world. I imagine there will be a plaque of some sort with my name on it.

So the lessons you should all take away from this are:

1) If you are a mouth-barfer, and a friend of yours seems to hate vomiting a lot more than you do, take a moment and consider that he/she may be a nose-puker. Be appropriately sympathetic.

2) If you are holding your friend's hair back while he/she (okay, probably she) vomits, go the extra distance and jam two fingers up her nostrils. It may seem kind of awkward at the time, but trust me, she'll thank you later.

3) For the love of Christ, stop reading this blog if you are squeamish and/or eating lunch! It seems like every time I post there is at least one comment from somebody who says "Aaaugh! Why do I read this when I'm eating?" My response is "Aaaugh! Why is it taking you so long to figure out I'm disgusting???" You know the expression... Fool you once, shame on me, fool you twice, you're obviously some sort of dumbass.

Apparently, I vomit wrong.

(Here comes a lovely post for the week before Christmas! Enjoy!)

One evening I was having dinner with Sally and Paul, and somehow (I have no idea how) the subject of vomiting came up. This was strange because when dining with Sal and Paul, the two topics that usually come up are gay sex and pooping. (But, oddly enough, never gay sex while pooping. Wait. That's a lie. That did come up once, but that's a subject for another post!)

Anyway, the topic du jour was vomiting, and I said something like "The thing that I hate about vomiting is the way the barf gets stuck up in your sinuses and all in your nostrils and you can't get it out." At this point, Sally and Paul looked at me like I had just suggested climbing up Queen Victoria and humping her in the ear.

"What," they both said in unison (and there is nothing creepier than when your wife and your platonic gay practically-your-wife speak in unison), "the fuck are you talking about?"

It seems I am alone in this phenomenon of vomit up in the sinuses. I'm looking to those of you who are heavy drinkers (ACW, Karla, Kendra... Snay... Fool... um... fuck. All of you.) to help me clear this up. Is it indeed abnormal for one to get vomit jammed up in the back of his nose? Because, let me tell you, when I vomit, I do it from just about every hole in my face. Mouth, nose, tear ducts... (I still have chunks of chicken in the corners of my eyes from the last time I barfed...) For me there is no simple rinsing of the mouth post-vomit, because there's still a pint of the putrid shit packed up there behind my eyeballs. And it drips back down my throat for the next hour. It's fucking horrible. I mean it. Am I the only one who gets this?

Because it has just now occurred to me that those of you blog reading lushes who like to drink yourselves blind have always seemed oddly comfortable with the "vomiting" aspect of your obvious rampant alcoholism. Is it because all of you simply mouth-barf? I would love to just mouth-barf. If barfing was a mouth-only activity, I'd do it all the time. I'd barf in the morning, I'd barf in the evening, I'd barf out a song of love and justice all over this land.

But no. When I barf it is a full-skull activity. There are eye sockets and ear canals and sinus cavities to be flooded. There are burning tears and bile-boogers and all manner of horror. This is why I make it my goal to not ever vomit.

Am I wrong about this, oh you problem drinkers who seem to enjoy reading my blog? Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me that for you too, vomiting is a horrible auschwitz-esque journey from which you fear you will never return. Tell me that your devil-may-care attitude towards vomiting is not because for you, a barf is like nothing more than a wet hiccup. Tell me that I'm not alone in the world.

And if, I'm not alone, and you all do have horror-show wet-nightmare barfs, then let me ask you this question: What the fuck is wrong with you??? For the love of God, put down that fourteenth beer! Don't you comprehend the forces you are playing with??? Just thinking about it... Well it makes me a little... (burp) queasy. I'd better stop blogging now and lie down.

Sal Update

I know that some of you (Balti-bloggers mostly) were aware that my beloved Sal went in for surgery on her wrist today. I just wanted to let all of you know that it went perfectly and that she's safely home, sleeping off the effects of the anesthetic. It was fairly minor, as surgeries go, but I didn't want anyone to be worried.

Back to the (debatably) funny stuff later.

This Shit Has Got To Stop.

Okay kids, Uncle Wombat's in the mood to crap all over your parade, so those of you who cry easily may just want to turn away now. Click on that "Next Blog" button in the upper right corner of the screen and go read someone's entry on "34 recipes that use yam shavings."

Okay. On to the curmudgeonly banning of things. Because, friends, there is some shit out there what needs some serious banning. And I am just the curmudgeon to do it.

Let's start with the word "Meh."

Seriously, all of you out there in blog-o-land knock that stupid shit off. "Meh" is the typing equivalent of shrugging your shoulders. "Today I wanted to go to the mall with Candace, but then she never called me. Meh."

There's 26 letters in the alphabet, plus a whole bunch of symbols and numbers, and they can be strung together in a nearly unlimited series of combinations to express virtually every feeling known to man. You went to all the trouble to learn English, get a computer and set yourself up with a blog all because you had this burning need to shrug at the internet? Come on.

I refuse to believe you can't do a better job of expressing yourself than "meh." Here, I'll give you an example. "Today I wanted to go to the mall with Candace, but then she never called me. Candace is a stupid whore and I hope she gets syphilis. Candace can go fuck herself."

What is the point of taking part in the great civic discourse if you're not actually going to say something? I hereby ban the use of the word "meh." Next person who "mehs" at me is getting socked in the nose. Or nosed in the sock. One of those.

While I'm banning useless and stupid internet idioms, let's also kiss "woot" goodbye. Same goes for ROTFLMAO. I'm going to let LOL slide, because let's face it: that one's a classic. I still think it's lazy writing, but you ban LOL and next you're banning Christmas. Some shit you just gotta live with. LOL stays.

ROTFLMAO (which is short for "rolling on the floor with my hand shoved elbow-deep up my ass" or something similar) is just fucking goofy though. You can't anagram an entire sentence. That way lies madness. Should we just save up on valuable bandwidth by blogging entirely in anagrams now? "December 12: TIWTGTTMWC, BTSNCM. M." Bullshit, I say. From now on, if you found something I said funny, and you want to tell me so, just take the time to actually type that shit out. I promise you won't get carpal tunnel from the strain of it.

Besides. I guarantee you that none of the people who type ROTFLMAO are actually rolling on the floor. Someone should make an anagram for "Sitting at my desk pretending you're funny."

Shit. I ran out of things to ban. That's like, what? 3 things? I was sure when I started I had more stuff to be pissy about. Oh well... I'm sure you commenters can add to the list. No banning me though. I'm hereby banning anyone banning me.

Stating the obvious...

Someone tangentially related to my extended family died last night... Not someone I was close to, not someone I had even met. More of a "son of an aunt's best friend" kind of thing. I did not know him at all, really, but it was sudden, and he was young. Way too young for a sudden demise. Left behind a wife, kids, mom, friends...

This is completely and totally and unhelpfully stating the obvious, but this sort of thing always causes you sort of lift your eyes up from ground level and makes you notice that very very thin thread everything you have and love is hanging by.

Don't dwell on that thread. Notice it and go back to not thinking about it, because that is how you get on with life, but please, please do what I did today and go up to the one you love and kiss them and make a silent vow to enjoy every second you get with them.

Like I said, stating the obvious. Just do it anyway and do it often. Do it often enough that it doesn't take an untimely death to remind you to do it.

PS: Don't worry about me, I'm fine. Just taking a moment to point this blog in the direction of something useful. Back to poop jokes and scorn for humanity tomorrow, I promise.

My Fingers Stink.

Life is full of weird, out-of-nowhere revelations.

You may suddenly realize you love someone that you previously considered only a friend. You might suddenly come to the conclusion that you do not, in fact, like tennis. You may realize you are gay. You may realize you orgasm when you shit, or you like to be pissed on, or you just figured out how to cure cancer.

I have just now realized that two of my fingers stink.

The first and second fingers of my left hand smell like garlic and burnt rubber. I point this out because I'm pretty sure they did not smell like this a few hours ago. I can't be 100% sure, because I was having a careless moment and I forgot to make some sort of record of the last time I sniffed the first and second fingers of my left hand. Believe you me, I won't make that mistake twice. From now on, all my finger-sniffs go right into the log.

Here's my problem ( I mean aside from the actual stinky fingers)... If, say, Sal came home one day smelling like she'd just been dragged by hyenas up the long end of a shit-heap, I'd say "Holy jeezus, where the fuck have you been???"

While you can say this sort of thing to your wife, or your cat, you can't really say this to the first and second fingers of your left hand, because, one assumes, they have been attached to the end of your arm the whole time. They don't pop out for some fresh air... They don't run down to the corner store for some milk. Your fingers do not at any point, wander off to get into trouble on their own. If you ask your fingers "Where have you been?" The answer should invariably be "right here on your hand, dipshit. Can't you keep track of your own digits?" (unless you have had your hand amputated. But if that's the case, and you find yourself asking your fingers "Where have you been," chances are you're dealing with a re-animated zombie-hand, come back to seek its revenge on its maker. And that, while harrowing and tricky, is really a subject for a whole other post.)

All of this leads me to the troubling conclusion that at some point in the past few hours, the first and second fingers of my left hand took a little jaunt up the ass of a dead rhinocerous, and I was apparantly there when it happened.

Think Wombat, think... There has to be a logical explaination for the stinky fingers. At any point in the past evening did you shake hands with a rotting zombie?

No, I'm pretty sure I didn't...

Okay, was there any time tonight when you may have been, with or without your consent, finger-fucking an osterich dipped in crankcase oil?

Pretty sure there wasn't....

Hmmmm... Have you in the last three hours, engaged in any of the following activities: Juggling waffles made of toxic sludge, Picking the nose of a gas-bloated boar-corpse, Giving Ernest Borgnine an intestinal scrubbing, punching yourself repeatedly in the ass?

No... no... no... aaaaaaaaand no.

Okay guys, I'm completely stumped here. We may never know the source of the funky kuckles. Although I could call in the local police forensic team to do a detailed analysis of the stench and start running down possible suspects, I think that I shall instead climb into my bed, making sure to hide my left hand well under the pillows so as not to accidentaly kill Sal with the aroma of "Spicy Garlic and Mushroom Skidmark."

I'll keep you all updated on this story as it develops. Because I know you care.

Syphalitic Disease-Ridden Donkey Whore

Imagine if you will, a man. Now imagine that this man's name is Steve.

Now imagine that this man's name is Ichabod, because I've just realized that Ichabod is a way better name than Steve.

Now, while you are imagining things, imagine that Ichabod is walking down a crowded street in New Orleans' French Quarter. Imagine that this is pre-flood, because, you know, bloated corpses and the weeping poor are not where I'm going with this story.

Imagine that Ichabod encounters some prostitutes in a darkened doorway. They are attractive, clean-looking prostitutes... The kind that have regular visits with the doctor and always use protection. Imagine that Icahbod turns away from these somewhat safe ladies of the night and goes instead to an even darker doorway, where a grizzled old woman waits. Imagine that this hairy goat-lady with a face full of erupting boils and a splintered wooden leg can be had for the small price of 3 dollars. Imagine Ichabod going through that doorway, his 3 bucks in hand, and having sweaty humpy unprotected sex with that festering old goat-woman.

Now imagine that Ichabod humps that woman bareback three more times. Imagine later in the evening Ichabod drinks a large glass of toxic waste. Then he licks clean a public bathroom seat. Now imagine he's humping a dead aligator is a fly-infested alley. Now he's shooting used heroin into his toes and eyeballs. Now he's rolling around open-mouthed in a vomit-filled dumpster.

Imagine the state of Ichabod's imune system after such a night. Imagine the kinds of sick disgusting things floating around in his bloodstream.

Now imagine that Ichabod is my computer, or as it is now known around Wombat Central, the Syphalitic Disease-Ridden Donkey Whore.

This is my very long winded (because I only roll one way and that way is looong winded) way of telling you that I'm having some trouble right now with the SDRDW. Fear not though, because I've had a visit from the doctor, and he assures me that we may not have to shoot the SDRDW and put it out of its misery. There may be some surgery involved. There may be blood, people. That's the kind of dire circumstances the SDRDW has gotten itself into with all the whoring around town and the sleeping with the unclean it's been up to. But have faith. I truly believe that the Syphalitic Disease-Ridden Donkey Whore will rise up once again, no longer Syphalitic and Disease Ridden, but still, you know... A Donkey Whore.

In the meantime, to those of you who have been sneaking into my house and fucking my computer (you know who you are...), I'm changing the locks and barring the windows, boys.