Internet Friends

          I grew up watching the internet become what it is today. Before it was in everyone's pocket and the go-to solution for calling bullshit on your friend's bold claims of inventing the electronic dildo-copter, it was mostly there to find information and a place where single, eighteen year old females congregated in chat rooms by the hundreds. It was a wonderful place full of crazy flash games, terrible animations and filthy, disgusting porn. Literally everything that I enjoy today, only it was new. The internet assaulted my sensibilities at a very young age. By the time Goatse surfaced, I was immune to everything... at the ripe old age of twelve...

Completely dead inside.

          Growing up, every add or TV show that involved the internet was always followed by a PSA. "Remember to ask your parents before going online!" That's because the stigma with the internet was that it was full of nothing but terrible, awful people looking for nothing in life other than to be just the worst. This is absolutely true. Look at any comment section literally anywhere. People are awful and eight equals D. There is no use arguing either of those points.

          

          Soon we all realized that all of those sexy eighteen year old girls (myself including) were actually just other horny guys aged nine to ninety. People on the internet were all just lying right through their dicks. Growing up, parents and teachers all told stories of kids getting kidnapped and/or killed because they met someone in an online chat and decided to meet in some park next to a dildo factory. It was the news' favorite thing to talk about for years. To Catch A Predator reaffirmed our fears by using techniques perfected by pedophiles to out-pedophile the pedophiles. The thought of meeting someone you met online in real life was a death sentence covered in semen. That was how it was for a long time. Parents were shitting fear all over the place and that fear dripped into my psyche all throughout my childhood.

This kind of thing was fucking everywhere. Covered in dad shits.

          Sure there is good reason to be weary of these kinds of things. The amount of awfulness on the net seems insurmountable, but on the flip-side, there are tons of amazing things to be found there as well. Do you want tie-dye doilies for the kitchen in your stash house? Some little lady on Etsy can hook that shit right up. Do you feel like you want to die? There are forums of people just like you that can help you out. There is definitely a Yin to the internet's big old floppy Yang. 

          The same can be said about the people there. Since pretty much everyone has access to the web now-a-days, there are loads of people just like you out there. There are countless threads full of people talking about the same shit that you love to do. Be it reading books or jerking off to pictures of Gary Busey, they're all there and can't wait for you to chime in. That little tie-dye doily lady from Etsy is probably just the sweetest little fucker on the face of the planet and she's there as well.

She also has the BEST drugs.

          These days, with how customizable any given internet experience can be, it's not uncommon to run into others who share your interests. Being a single, middle aged black woman like myself, you can find other sexy chocolate comrades on a multitude of sites like Blackpeoplemeet.com or Bootyhootenanny.gov. Not into booty and/or hootenannying? Try the "strictly platonic" section of craigslist to find other people who just want a new friend. Anyone will do... Please? 

          

          The point is, things have changed. People aren't so apprehensive about  meeting through the internet and nobody is going to flinch when you tell them you "know a guy online." Lots of people you know have online dating profiles and some of those people aren't totally horrible! I have made friends with a load of interesting people inside my computer. Matter of fact, I would say that 75% of the people I talk to hail from the net. But what about meeting them in real life? That still carries with it some kind of deep seeded apprehension in most people. I'm here to tell you that this is bullshit. Some of the coolest people I have ever met I stumbled across on the web.

          I started a Twitter account a couple years ago because my friend nearly forced me to. I had no idea what I was doing, so I just started churning out dumb jokes. As it turned out, I ended up meeting loads of people with a similar sense of humor. I have met comedians, writers, and all around great people because of it. My first time contacting an internet friend over the phone was actually pretty neat. His name is Minigan and he writes amazing pop-culture fiction and random stories that are sure to delight on his website here. We read each other's stuff and give feedback and joke around all the time, so one day I called his bitch-ass up. We had a nice little chat about writing, comedy and how big our dicks are. (Mine being the largest of course) I consider him a friend now, because whether or not he likes it, he is. 

          After realizing that this all wasn't so bad and was actually pretty cool, I moved forward, contacting many of my favorite people that I had found in the depths of the interweb. Some became Facebook friends and eventually they grew as dear to me as any of my real life people buddies. At this point I had gotten comfortable enough with some of them that I wasn't averse to meeting these people in real life. I had toyed around with the idea for a while and a couple were totally down to clown. My friends thought I was crazy, but I was actually pretty interested in where all this might lead. I eventually invited one of my friends I had met through Twitter to my home to hang out and just do friend stuff for a weekend. Her name is Dani and she's fucking rad.

Welcome, friend...

          

         Dani and I decided it would be fun for her to come from Tennessee to check out what Kansas is like. (spoiler alert: exactly what you think it's like) We enjoyed enough of the same things and had lengthy conversations about how big our dicks were on multiple occasions. I really enjoyed her as a person and was confident that, in real life, she'd be just as swell. Before we set up the meeting I had made sure that she was, indeed, a real human. We had talked over the phone and Skype quite a few times. We'd been talking for over a year via the internet and a few months via more direct means. I was quite confident that she would not kidnap and/or murder me.

         

          After she arrived we spent a few days palling around and having a grand old time. We visited the city, watched movies and hung out with my friends. It was awesome! To this day she is friend that I can talk to about anything. She has helped me laugh through bad days and listen to me bitch and moan just like any other buddy would. I never really imagined myself just finding strangers on the internet and building a real relationship with them. To me the idea still seems a bit alien, but Dani was a hit not only with me, but all of my friends. Thus driving home the fact that I was stupid for not doing this kind of thing sooner.

Pictured: Not Dani

           Now what about traveling to someone else's home that you have never met in person? It's one thing to have home-court advantage in case things go awry, but willingly putting yourself in a place you don't know with people who you have only communicated with online is just crazy right? That is just a one way ticket to Rape-Dungeonsburg, population: twenty dudes in your ass, right?

           Wrong. One of my favorite writers and funny people in general, John Cheese, and I had been making each other laugh on the internet for quite a while before he invited me to come thug out with him. I had been following his work for a long time and looked up to him quite a bit, so naturally I was excited about the idea. He and his wife,Emily, are good people. They only murdered, like, one guy while I was there and it was his fault for being rude when we tried to mow his lawn for him. (Some people are too cranky at 4am) I was there for four days of video games, meat and laughter. The only weird part about the whole thing was that, after a couple hours there, it just felt like I was with friends I had known for a long time. I didn't feel out of place or awkward at all other than when John bested me in a dong-helicopter contest. I don't handle failure well and ended up rage-shitting on Emily's cat. It turned out fine though. That cat is a dick.

You heard me... You fucking asshole.

               Now outside of just meeting people, I have had a few opportunities to help people out. I often give friends feedback on everything from writing stories, stand-up routines and erotic fiction, to support when they come on hard times. They have done the same for me. It's always good to have someone to talk to. Even if it's through a chatbox, the fact that you know someone out there cares about who you are is awesome. The little circle of friends I have built through my screen gives me just as much joy as the people I actually see every day. I can go to them for the same kind of help and they're glad to be there for me. Amanda Mannen and I worked together to get an article done for Cracked.com recently and that is something I have wanted to do for years. I just asked for her help and she did me a solid. Without her, I'd just have another dumb blog post like this one and without me, she would have been just a bit poorer.

           I have a friend named Kasey who once was just a random twitter person who's jokes I liked. We talked here and there, eventually Skyped and found out more about each other. She was an art student living in Chicago, I was a guy who didn't know how to use commas in Kansas. After few months of knowing her, I found out that she was moving to a town not ten minutes from mine. I got her a job as soon as she got into town and now she works with me. How cool is that? I see her every other day and we measure dicks often. (I win by a significant amount every time, but she keeps insisting that I am cheating.) Without the internet, she would have been in a new town, jobless, friendless and eventually sucking dicks outside Circle K for crack money.

           The very computer I'm writing this on was actually a fucking gift from a hilarious guy I know from Canada named Christopher Mullins. We've been twitter friends for a while and he makes me laugh all the goddamn time. I was bitching on twitter one day about needing a new computer and he just fucking sent me one! I offered him money for it and he refused on the grounds that, if he were to accept payment for a good deed, he would have to commit Canada-seppuku. He just wanted to help a brotha' out and had the means to do so. This is a guy who not only knows me exclusively through a computer screen, but also lives in a whole different fucking country! This leads me to believe that all the stereotypes about Canada are absolutely true. Especially the one about them having gigantic penises. Now go ask ANY of your friends (Canadian or otherwise) for a free computer. If they give you a free computer, they are either the nicest person you know, or you're friends with Jesus.
Chris, you are my Jesus.

Just slathered in maple syrup.

           All of these people I have met I consider honest to goodness friends. Not my "online friends" but just normal, everyday friends. I'd do anything for these people. Had it not been for the fact that everyone in the whole world is connected to each other, none of us would have ever met and that is just sad to think about. The world is host to thousands of people that I would gladly give my kidney to. Even if it wasn't a match, I'd still rip that fucker out and hand it to them as a sentiment. The stigma that finding friends or dating online being weird or dangerous is absolutely insane to me now. I have access to a world of people who are interesting, funny and more like me than the people I'm just stuck living near, so why not use that to my advantage? 

          Above all, these people give me confidence. The fact that such rad people enjoy me, my dumb jokes and can see past my horrifically monstrous genitals, makes me feel wanted. I'm a fan of all these people. They're all caring, funny and sexy and I'm glad to call all of them friends.

Suck it.

          

Smuggling Drugs Into Jail And How Not To Do It (Even If It Totally Works.)

(Mom, if you"re reading this, stop now and remember that I'm a good person)

Prologue.

         I live in the vast expanse of suburban Kansas. For what seems like millions of miles in each direction you'll find nothing but strip malls, mid-sized homes with above ground pools and very mild-mannered people milling about close to one of our plentiful churches. The crime rate is infinitesimal to say the least. The worst thing that might happen to your unlocked car is usually bird shit related. I can't remember the last time I stopped and thought, "Fuck! I forgot to lock the front door!" because the only thing I worry about finding in my house when I get home is either my mother or some other dementia addled old lady. 

          Aside from the occasional Silver Alert or accidental spousal abuse, the police around here have little to nothing to make a buck off of outside of parking tickets and traffic violations.  This means anyone that who isn't above sixty or covered in a slew of freshly born children is a suspect. If you get a speeding ticket, you better believe that cop is going to try anything and everything he can short of fingerbanging you to find anything else you might have done wrong. 

          My story begins on a fateful night in my driveway. I had forgotten my cigarettes in my car and walked out to grab them when a man in uniform approached and asked if that was, indeed my car that I was getting into. I kindly told him that it was my vehicle and reached for my wallet in order to show him my identification. He took that as a threat I guess and handcuffed me on the spot. After searching my person he had turned up a tiny bag of weed that I had and that was that. I was no longer an outstanding citizen. I'd call all of this bullshit and get angry about how wronged I was but lets face it, I had weed on me and that shit is illegal as fuck in Kansas. I'm not here to talk about the ills of society. 

          Around here weed can get you up to a couple years in jail with a bunch of community service and other time/money consuming things tacked on to it. Thankfully, since it was my first offense, I was given one year of probation, drug and alcohol treatment classes, forty hours of community service and to top it all off, three full weekends in the slammer... Fuck. After my sentencing I prepared for jail by telling my work that I would be taking three weekends off. They were cool with it because you don't end up managing a restaurant because your life is going swimmingly. Everything was fine and all I had to do was get this over with so I could go back to leading a normal life. A few days later I broke my arm and had to get surgery in order to remain part of the fully-limbed crowd.

          I was riding my bike one night, enjoying my last hours of freedom and re-thinking my life-choices when all of a sudden I woke up in the middle of the street covered in blood. I had been hit by a fucking car while riding down my own god-damn street. It was a bad year. I looked down to realize that my arm was at a right angle and that I should get to the hospital. The Man decided to give me an extra week before turning myself in to jail in order to undergo my surgery. The guy who hit me had driven off and was never found. The week after surgery I was in a cast and under lock-down. 

The First Weekend.

          I was on a regimen of about six Oxycontin (See: Hillbilly-Heroin) a day as well as a muscle relaxer in order stave off the pain of recently having six screws, two bolts and a metal plate placed inside my body. I figured I would just bring the pills and the prescriptions in with me to show that I needed them and would require them to administered to me during my stay. The officer I spoke with about all of this informed me that I wouldn't be getting my medication until they got ahold of my physician who, like most, was not in the office on weekends. I was fucked. So fucked in fact that the officer actually said "Looks like you're kinda fucked." Which is a whole new realm of fucked that I didn't know you could be fucked in. 

          The whole first weekend was one of the most painful and exhausting experiences of my entire life. I was fresh out of highly invasive surgery with no medications. Imagine your whole arm slowly exploding for three days straight, the pain consuming everything else in your mind. Also, you're in jail, so there's that. There was no relief, no sleep and nothing to take my mind off of it. I rocked back and forth holding my arm and choking down violent anger all weekend. I wanted to kill someone. Somebody had to pay. My physician? The Man? Maybe just burn the whole city. That kind of pain. After what seemed like an eternity, I was released Sunday afternoon vowing never to undergo that kind of torture again.

A couple days before my next weekend in, I devised a plan. I was going to somehow sneak prescription drugs into jail. But how? They search your pockets, pat you down and strip you to your underwear! How could I possibly get drugs into jail without sticking it up my a-... Oh god. No... 

The Plan.

         If you've ever found yourself looking at a small baggie of pills that are destined for your ass without re-evaluating your life, you are not suited to live in common society. 

          I'm not proud of my search history around this time of my life, but it is what it is. I snipped the edge off of a sandwich bag, filled it with pills, twisted it up and tied a thread to it. Imagine exactly how long that takes. Now imagine knowing that with each completed step, you are one moment closer to doing something that your mother should never, ever hear about. I stopped and looked at the finished product for a while, thinking about my life-choices. I remembered my totally normal childhood. Playing in the field with the neighborhood kids, my first kiss, my wonderful and caring parents. All of it leading to that exact moment. The moment where I shove a bunch of pills into my ass that I intended to put in my mouth later. I am the biggest shit-head in the world. I knew it then and there. 

          Then it dawned on me. I could use the length of string to tie the baggie around my dick! This way, my magnificent girth would conceal the bag that would be nestled oh so sweetly between it and my wonderfully smooth balls. I found that, even if I was totally naked, it was near impossible to see. I changed my course of action immediately, because eating pills that I had tea-bagged for a while seemed like a step up from ingesting recently corn-holed medication. I considered my sudden stroke of genius infallible and set out on my mission. I would sneak the bag of drugs into jail using my beautiful dong to hide them. What could possibly go wrong? All I had to do was waltz in there, get patted down and get to my bunk without having a mental breakdown due to the fact that I was committing a very serious crime. The price of getting caught was up to four years in jail, but there was no fucking way I was re-living the hell of the last weekend. 

The Execution.

           That Friday morning started off totally normal. I made a huge breakfast, read for a little while, got dressed and tied a little noose around my dick. I had to sit and convince myself everything would go according to plan for a little while before leaving for the big house. By the time I arrived to the county jail I was calm and collected. The felonious dong-garrote I had fashioned for myself didn't even seem to be there. I got so used to it that almost forgot I had the little contraption latched onto my most precious asset. I sat in the parking lot and smoked about fifty cigarettes before I actually walked in.

           Checking into jail on purpose is an odd experience. I walked up to a pleasant enough looking lady behind a counter and said "One jail please." and they let me right on in. They took all of my personal belongings that would be returned at the end of my stay, pat me down, and walked me to a booking area. This is where you sit and wait until the room fills with enough people to actually take you into the cell blocks. They take fingerprints, give you a list of rules and generally treat you like human garbage. I was free to make as many phone calls as I wanted until they lead me to my bunk but couldn't think of a single person I would feel comfortable talking too. 

          After all of that I sat down on a bench across from two guys around my age and one older gentleman that was, to this day, the ugliest man I have ever met. I introduced myself to them. The first guy was my age at the time (24) and looked like the most normal looking guy you have ever seen. If I were to describe his features you would think i was describing the base model for a police sketch. There was nothing that defined him. We will call him Normal Guy. I forget what he was in for. Then there was a portly, bearded black guy, age 26, who used every opportunity to remind us all that we were in here due to God's plan. He had tattoos up and down his arms ranging from flaming skulls, to a cross around the lords prayer. No shit. He was in for marijuana possession as well. We can call him Black Jesus. Then there was the ugly guy.

               This man gets his own paragraph because of how utterly ridiculous he looked. I could go on for days about god shouldn't have ever done a guy so wrong. For starters, he was 40 years old, maybe 350lbs and about 4'11".  A human medicine ball. His hair was thick and curly but he was completely bald in the middle giving the impression that he once aspired to be the world's most underemployed clown. The mans eyes haunt me to this day. Each eye looked in the opposite direction of the other, pointing away from his nose. He had to turn his head to one side to look at you. On top of that he was so bug-eyed that I would say a solid 60% of his actual eyeball was on the outside of his face. I am convinced that if you squeezed him, even just a little, that both of his eyes would pop out and roll in opposite directions.  He had the mouth of someone who was addicted to meth and Skittles and it never seemed to close. You would think this man would be all personality, right? He was. Unfortunately it was just the worst kind of personality imaginable. The man was loud, annoying and ill-educated. Every word he said was like nails on a chalkboard, but only if the nails were made of screaming cats. I wanted to turn to Black Jesus and inform him that, if there was a god, he would never have allowed something that hideous to walk the mortal plane. We can call him Hobgobblin because that is precisely what I called him while I was in jail that weekend. Not too his face, but just in my head. He was in jail for a DUI at approximately 1PM.

          Me, Black Jesus, Hobgobblin and Normal Guy all shared stories of why we were there, chatted about this and that while waiting for others to show up. They served us lunch, a bologna sandwich,  one small bag of off-brand corn chips and a milk carton, all in a brown paper bag like we were on the world's shittiest field trip. All the while a nagging in the back of my brain constantly reminded me that I had four years of jail time in my pants. I really wasn't worried though, not yet. The package package seemed secure enough and I had passed the most in-depth pat down I would endure. I was winning.

Then of course life, as it tends to do on occasion, completely shit the bed.

           The conversation stopped when a couple guards entered the room preceding a man that looked as though he was made entirely of biceps.  There was no neck on this man to speak of. It made his head look pretty much exactly like a thumb with a face sticking out of a XXL t-shirt. The look on his face was that of a man who had grown up beating cats to death for fun. He had all the features of the lead singer from Cannibal Corpse. He was almost an exact replica of that guy. Look it up, that's fucking him. He made eye contact with every single one of us individually as if he was planning his next week's worth of meals. Needless to say, the conversation didn't return to normal. He sat by himself and cast horrible looks around the room, occasionally talking back to officers and loudly proclaiming how much of a shithole this place was. We all avoided anything to do with him. 

          About that time they started taking us in for medical evaluations. They took my temperature, asked if I had any diseases and sent me back out into the booking room. Everything was fine, but I realized that I had to pee, which was out of the question. Going to the restroom meant an officer was going to watch me pee and I couldn't risk him seeing the little white string around the base of my beautiful meat-nunchuk. I was going to have to wait however long it took to finish everyone's evaluation before being able to remove the drugs and pee in the cell-block.

            After about an hour they were about ready to lead us to our block when we heard one of the officers announce that we would have to be placed in a confinement room while they were leading a group of women through the booking area. By this time my urge to piss was all I could think about. The more I thought about how I couldn't relieve myself without getting caught, the more I had to go. This is about the time my anxiety started to creep up on me. I was getting a bit nervous.

Then it happened. 

          As soon as I stood up to be walked to the confinement room, the string around my member tightened. It didn't just get a little snug down there. It hurt. The knot I had tied around my dong somehow turned into something like a noose and proceeded to do what a noose does. I grunted like a man grunts when his dick hangs itself. A sound that, I hoped, nobody around me was very familiar with. Thankfully, nobody really seemed to notice what happened, but I did. I noticed quite a bit actually. We were then led to a tiny room with a toilet, two benches and bare walls to eat the rest of our lunch while the women were processed. 

              Me, Normal Guy, Hobgoblin and Black Jesus sat on one bench across from Meatfuck who, for some reason, refused to stop looking at Normal guy. The room was in total silence aside from the crunching of corn chips. There was a chattering outside so, for lack of anything better to do, I looked out of the tiny window in the door. There I saw two officers corralling a group of six middle-aged asian women. They were all shouting loudly at each other in their native tongue. My first (albeit racist) thought was that there must have been a prostitution sting at a massage parlor. It kind of amused me for a bit before I heard the distinct sound of a large man moving very quickly behind me, which is precisely what had happened. I turned to see that Meatfuck had pinned Normal guy against a wall with one hand and snatched his sack lunch with the other. The rest of us immediately began yelling at Meatfuck in order to get him to stop. He threw Normal Guy back down into his seat, hand still on his shoulder, and smashed the sack lunch against the wall. I forgot what he said but it was something about how he would fucking kill each and every one of us. 

         I was frozen. I was stuck in a tiny room that stank of old shit, about to piss my pants while witnessing my first murder. All the while I had a felony slowly strangling my dick to death. This was my life, I thought. In that moment there was no hope. I was going to die, covered in piss with a bunch of ruined drugs strapped to my bloated, purple cock. Thanks for everything mom. You did your best.

          Outside, an officer had heard the commotion and immediately sprung into action by way of sauntering towards the door, looking in and casually signaling for another officer to let us out. They opened the door and bum-rushed Meatfuck, tackling him into a wall. There were way too many punches being thrown for such a small enclosure so I stepped back out into the room now full of what I had assumed were asian prostitutes. Normal guy, and the rest followed. We were escorted to an identical room next door. We were all shaken but watched as the officers wrestled Meatfuck into a pickle suit. A pickle suit is a sort of green, full body straight jacket that renders you about dangerous as a pickle can be.

             We all sat down and breathed a sigh of relief. Normal Guy was really shaken up and wouldn't let it go. Hobgoblin put a pudgy hand on his shoulder and told him that he wouldn't have let that guy kill him. I wondered what he would have done to stop him. Undress? I imagine seeing that man's naked body could quite possibly incapacitate anyone looking directly at it. I was sweating bullets from everything that had just occurred. Between the stress, need to piss and the fact that I now was convinced I would soon be stricken with life-long flaccidity, I was about ready to loose my mind. I was at least a bit happy that my little cock-snare idea hadn't gotten me thrown in more jail thus far.

           An officer eventually came in to talk to us about what happened. He was a really nice guy and joked with us a bit. he apologized and we all told him that Meatfuck was straight up insane, to which he agreed. He told us that Meatfuck was in jail for filming his friend's "suicide" and posting it to the internet, which seemed to me should have merited some sort of segregation from those of us who had committed the not-so-murdery sounding crimes. He also informed us that the group of asian women were, in fact, being booked on charges of prostitution. They had conducted a sting on a parlor not far from my house. Sometimes your first instinct, no matter how terrible it seems, is right. We all kind of chuckled about it and the officer left. Black jesus decided to hold a prayer circle thanking god for sparring us. I wanted to stop and tell him to please pray for my poor penis, for it seemed to be on it's last dick-leg. 

            After about another awful 15 minutes we were patted down once again and brought to the cell blocks. We were sat at a table, given our paper-thin blankets that must have been designed by the itchiest demon in hell, and assigned to our bunks. I was assigned a bunk next to Black Jesus which I wasn't exactly happy about and directly under Hobgoblin, which I was significantly more unhappy about. At least I wouldn't have to look at him much. His eyes made me dizzy somehow. Normal guy was assigned to the opposite side of the giant room. That kind of irked me because he was the only one I had taken much of a liking too. I wasn't really thinking about any of that though. I had to complete my mission, which at this point was now named "Operation Schlong-Savior."

           I threw my blanket over my body and franticly started trying to untangle the knot around my now sleep numb penis. This seemed to perplex Black Jesus who quietly asked what I was doing. I had to explain myself somehow, but what the fuck do you say in this situation? I briefly contemplated telling him to look away and that this was my private time, but I had to spend two days next to this guy. I gave him a look that he immediately recognized as my "This Is Incredibly Fucking Serious" look. I told him that he couldn't tell a fucking soul no matter what. He agreed, and I told him that I had just successfully snuck drugs into jail and why. Surprisingly enough, he congratulated me and offered me $50 and a ride home from jail on sunday for two of them. From that point on, we were best friends. There is a certain bond between you and a guy who, not only didn't rat you out for a major felony, but who you also sold drugs to while in jail together. That bond can never be broken. Black Jesus will always be cool in my book, even if I watched him eat my dick-pills. Hey, its not like they actually touched my junk or anything. 

(Fun fact: If your dick has been deprived of blood for a long enough time and it suddenly gets a huge rush of it, you get a boner faster than should be humanly possible, which is awkward when surrounded by a large group of men in jail.)

           The piss that I took after removing my groin ferret's garrote will always be remember as the most relieving of all. Not just because I had to go so bad, but also because it confirmed that my manhood could at least function on the most basic level. I walked back to my bunk triumphantly. Me and Black Jesus shared a knowing smile and I proceeded to pop a couple oxycontin under my blanket and fall asleep. 

          That weekend passed by slowly, but since I wasn't in a huge amount of pain it didn't seem so bad. My only complaint was Hobgoblin's snoring. It was ear-shattering. Just another one of the things that made him entirely deplorable. I found a copy of "Dune" on the bookshelf the next morning and finished it with about an hour to spare before leaving on Sunday. BJ and I hopped in his car, he lit a joint which I refused and he drove me home and said Jesus things at me the whole time. I walked into my house and sat on my bed and ordered pizza. Happy to be in my own room with real god-damn food I thought about how crazy my weekend was and reflected on all of the crazy shit that had happened.

"I can not fucking believe I got away with that." I said out loud.

Epilogue.

           Since then things have been normal. My dick works fine and if anything, has gotten bigger. I look back at the whole experience as a reminder of how fucked you can get yourself if you aren't careful. No matter how fond that memory is to me it will never outweigh the fear of ever having to re-live it. I don't smoke weed anymore, not because I have anything against it, but because since I quit, things are looking up. I am a better person now than I ever have been. I have motivation now. Couple that with not drinking and growing up a bit I feel better than I ever have. I have nothing against people who smoke weed. Hell at least half of my friends do and I'm around it on occasion. Most lead normal, successful lives and get along fine. I just don't do it anymore. I can't really say much more on the subject than that.

            I decided to write all this down so that the memory can't ever fade away. It's too Priceless. Also, it's fucking ridiculous. I laugh about it whenever it pops up in my head. No matter how many times I remember it I still feel like it's something from a movie I once watched. So, dear reader, that's my story. I hope it made you laugh a little bit. 

Just let this whole ordeal be a reminder for you to not be an idiot like me.

(You can find me on twitter if you want to hear more about my glorious dick... @amendkevin)


UPDATE!!! You can now find this story on Cracked.com!!!
(http://www.cracked.com/article_21628_5-things-i-learned-smuggling-drugs-into-jail-under-my-junk.html)

The Christmas.

South Pole. 

The smell... Spicy but organic in nature, not unlike sulfur. That was the first thing the tiny elf noticed as he entered the bedroom of Mr. ES. Just a waft would be enough to send any other elf into a fitful rage of vomit and pain. This elf though, had been trained. He had been witness to the worst things that Evil Santa was capable of. This elf was hardened... Conditioned... Ready... His life had been spent  training for this very moment. To awake the slumbering mass set before him. He quivered. Knowing his place in the world he poked, jabbed and prodded the monstrous pile of a man. Minutes became hours. All spent willingly, stirring what he knew would be his own end...

***

Upon awakening, Evil Santa only had time to crush his alarm clock and shout a few profanities before shouting a few more profanities at the stains on his bedspread. A few drinks later, he had set Mrs. Evil Claus straight by way of a few backhands and set about his day. Evil Santa poured another glass of gin, hefted a large bag of spoiled meat and set out for the workshop. He liked Gin because it tasted like Christmas trees. He hated Christmas trees, but loved the taste of hate in his mouth. He hated the workshop, he hated working, he hated the shitty little elves, but most of all, he hated Christmas. The idea of a world where families were enjoying a happy Christmas drove him to the brink of violence, which is exactly where he liked to be and exactly why he drank gin.

Evil Santa set a massive boot on the dilapidated porch of the bustling workshop. Silence immediately fell over the shop floor as he began unlocking a large array of padlocks from the steel door that kept the elves prisoner. It was a silence so intense that you could almost smell it. It smelled like fear.

He entered the shop to see everything in order. The room looked less like a workshop and more like a sweatshop that manufactured horror. Rows of cages lined the walls around what looked like a dazzling collection of torture devices, mills, odd machinery and large drums full of foul smelling chemicals. Each cage contained a tiny, filthy elf. Each of the elves had been kidnapped and assimilated into Evil Santa's army by way of brainwashing, torture and eventual Stockholm syndrome.

"Alright you worthless pieces of asshole lint! Time to get to work! If  you fail me this year I will see to it that Mrs. Evil Clause has her way with every single last one of you!" Evil Santa belched. The smell of gin-soaked halitosis sending a powerful waft through the room.

Evil Santa went to a small control panel on the wall and entered in a numeric code on a small keypad. "80085-666." The doors to all of the cages flung open and the shrieking wale of a thousand elves errupted from the tense silence. The elves clamored out all at once, spilling over each other, gouging eyes and clawing at skin. There were multiple casualties before they assembled in the center of the floor, jeering, jumping and screaming madly.

Evil Santa plucked a green tinted slab of elf meat from his bag and flung it at the elves. It didn't have time to smack the ground with a meaty flop before the elves had not only devoured it, but some of the weaker elves along with it.

He let out a horrible smile.

"Right! Now here's the plan!"

***
North Pole.

  Up north, Santa (the regular one) slid magically out of bed in order to not disturb Mrs. Claus. He gazed fondly at her sleeping plumpness as he sipped his morning milk. As per his daily routine, he lumbered to the window to look out upon the glory of the most magical place on earth. Snow drifted past twinkling lights and elves skipped hand in hand as they sang his favorite holiday songs. Filled to the fraying edges of his beard with the Christmas spirit, he simply couldn’t contain his joy.

“Ho, ho, ho!” boomed throughout his tiny kingdom, and all was right with the world.

“Now, now, Mrs. Claus, why the sour face?”

“What is the point of putting an elf-spell on the bed if you can’t keep your trap shut? This is the third time this week.”

 “I was planning to let you have a lie-in but it’s Black Friday! The beginning of another wonderful Christmas season is upon us. Cookie?”

It was as if he didn’t even notice Barbara had thrown his stupid cookie into those godawful chin-pubes where it lodged firmly next to the crumbling one she’d heaved yesterday. Nor did he notice that the mere mention of another Christmas had sent her reaching wildly for the flask of eggnog in her nightstand drawer.

“I just adore watching the news broadcasts from Wal-Mart on this blessed day. Will you join me?” The remote was already clicking away in his chapped red hand.

“Watch that abomination of capitalism? No. It’s disgusting.” Her retreat beneath the pillow was arrested as his girth settled next to her, bending the mattress nearly in half and sending the pillow slithering off the sleigh bed.

“Watch this one, Mrs. Claus. See how the people simply cannot wait any longer to share their excitement and buy meaningful gifts for their loved ones? They actually manage to shatter the plate-glass window in their haste for the holiday kickoff!”

“It’s like watching fast zombies. Three people died in that free-for-all.”

“Oh, and this one! Just experience the thrill along with these gift-givers as the store finally opens after a week of camping in front of it!”

“One of the dead was a child.”

“Mrs. Claus, Christmas is in the air. Can you hear it? The sleigh bells jingling? Ring ting tingling, even!”

“Stop shaking those stupid jingle bells in my ear.”

“Mark my words, this is going to be the best Christmas ever! Ho, ho, ho!”

“I’m fucking Dingle, your head elf.”

Santa started hurriedly grabbing his things in excitement. The spirit of Christmas almost seeping out of every orifice of his body.

“Help me into my suit, I must inspect the toy factory! Santa’s work is never done, especially not when Wal-Mart has such amazingly low prices! Why, I’ll bet we need to ship out another load of Action Critters and Impossibly Skinny Girls already.” Santa said.

“The mechanics are a bit difficult, him being a third of my size and all, but I’ve found a different kind of toy factory online that helps me achieve orgasm every time.”

"I'm sorry to leave you this early my sweet, but the workshop awaits and the reindeer need tending! With the surprising lack of elves we have this year it's been strenuous, I know, but I shall send Dingle with lunch this afternoon!" 

Santa did a precarious little twirl of glee on his way out of the bedroom that left a splintered door frame and cookie crumbs in his jolly wake. Mrs. Clause washed down a Xanax with a second flask of nog. Waving the sickly sweet scent of his lingering happiness away from her nose, she settled back in for a long winter’s nap. She had her own things to tend to this evening.

***

South Pole

The evil elves had not slept in days. The emaciated imps dropping like flies left and right. Mrs. Evil Clause had been maintaining their numbers by delivering  new elves almost daily. The "training room" was almost constantly full of new slaves and Evil Santa couldn't be more pleased.

Santa overlooked the factory floor in a large chair. He sat, breathing heavily, occasionally shouting orders, but he was much too engrossed in his brooding. This plan, surely, would work. He belched loudly as Mrs. Evil Clause entered the workshop with a few well fed but visibly horrified elves. Their festive slippers jingling throughout the factory floor. Some of the Evil elves were visibly affected by the sound.

"You sure do good work wench." Said Evil Santa.

"It's about the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore." Mrs. Evil clause sighed, leaving the workshop.

The new elves trembled intensely as Evil Santa's shadow enveloped them. More than one smelled of urine. With a small gesture, they were seized by thin, sickly versions of themselves and brought towards a room in the back of the factory that seemed to be screaming.

In one of the corners of the factory there stood a line of elves, each one shackled to the floor. Santa walked toward the row of elves with a large tray of hypodermic needles, beaming. Evil Santa set a needle atop a table. He began cursing at the needle. First, it was almost casual, but then, it became more fervent. Evil Santa's beard was rapidly acquiring particles of lunch and spit as more and more expletives exploded out of his now red and purple face. After a few minutes he was finished. The contents of the needle now a pale maroon, he knew he was finished. Time to test his wares.

***

Mrs. Evil Clause entered the kitchen. She sighed, longing for a plump man's touch. Dingle would do until the season was over, but it was like this every year. Neither Santa would so much as acknowledge her needs. Evil Santa always figuring out a way to kill Santa. Santa bumbling about, blissfully unaware of anything that didn't twinkle, jingle or sing. She once had to coax Normal Santa into intercourse by way of hiding actual bells and whistles in and around her body. Only slightly better was Evil Santa who, when drunk enough (which was admittedly more often than not) simply lay there, occasionally farting until she finished.

She poured more eggnog for the journey back. Dingle would be by to bring her lunch soon.

***


North Pole

Mrs. Clause lay draped across a red and white striped chaise lounge, nude but for a garland of tinsel. Dingle kept offering her tidbits from his tray of Christmas pastries, but she waved them off. She was thinking about her next shipment of elves. Oblivious as her husband was, at some point it was possible Dingle would notice and report his suspicions. But she had her ways of keeping an elf silent. The sex though... It wasn't quite to her taste. Again she pined for the thickness of a man. An idea struck, and instead of waving off the pastries, she began to feed them to her diminutive lover. "You are too kind to me, madam," he simpered. Barbara despised simpering. At least the elves at the South Pole, despite being withered and crazed, had the self-respect to be enraged and/or horrified by her presence... Power... None of these North Pole ninnies had ever so much as tossed a cocoa-scented turd her way. Honestly, they were better off below. Sure the survival rate was dismal, but at least they learned a little self-respect. Dingle was beginning to gag on buttery crust, so she jammed a candy cane in his mouth and wrapped her tinsel garland more securely about her ample bosom. This was going to be her year, she was certain of it. The glory and the terror of both poles would dangle from her like glittering ornaments. And speaking of- it was time to distract her bumbling Mr. Leaving the rapidly fattening, and suddenly more attractive elf to his choking, she donned her secret weapon and flounced out into the snowy wonderland.

 She found the over-sized man leaping, as much as man of his girth could be said to leap, amid the tiny gingerbread houses his elves lived in. An awkward dance, a nibble off an employee's chimney, another dance. None of it disrupted his hearty rendition of 'Santa Baby'. Several roofs in, he noticed his wife. 

"Mrs. Claus! Let us dance, and delight!" He extended a meaty paw. Mrs. Clause struck a pose instead, allowing his twinkling gaze to take in her intent. 

"Oh, ho! Mrs. Claus, you may end up on my naughty list this year!" You finally found your Christmas spirit! Come here, you little minx, and let me stuff your stocking!" 

***

South Pole: December 23rd

Evil Santa looked across the factory floor, dazed. The lack of tiny screams was unnerving to him. He had apparently killed quite a few elves in a stupor the night before. Little smashed corpses dotted the area. He stumbled through the factory floor towards the row of chained elves. Each one had tested positive for both syphilis and anemia. Over the last few hours, boils had begun to form on their faces and asses. Each elf was a cesspool of disease. Now it was only a matter of time for Mrs. Clause to infect Santa.

Mrs. Clause loved her eggnog so Evil Santa had dosed the last batch with his concoction. It was incredibly simple really. She would feel no symptoms other than an increased libido, then after a couple of days the sudden onset psychosis. The mixture of maladies brought on by his poison were designed to spread the infection as fast as possible. Boils, open sores, insane sexual desire, all would help infect every moving thing in the north pole right down to those stupid fucking reindeer. 

Evil Santa felt pleased with himself. He frantically started trying to find something to hate. He drank a glasses of gin, tried conversing with the elves, even started caroling to himself. He couldn't stand it... He had somehow become... Jolly.

Evil Santa racked a shotgun,

"Four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves..."

And single shot echoed through the workshop...

***

North Pole: Christmas Eve Morning
Santa awoke from his slumber to tiny screams.

"Your roundness! I have terrifying news!" yelped a tiny elf Evan.

"Well what could it possible be? I have much to do!"

"It's Dingle! He was found nearly frozen outside the workshop! He says he's got grave news!" Elf Evan squeaked.

Santa rolled out of bed and donned his gay apparel. He and Elf Evan rushed to the workshop. Mrs. Clause lay still. She felt sick, not from the prospect of being outed as a murderous cuckold, but physically ill. When Santa was out of earshot she sat up and said "Turd croquet!" and pissed herself.

Santa was attempting to wake Dingle and the elves were all chattering. The room was tense and all eyes were on the tiny elf in Santa's lap. Nobody noticed Mrs. Clause enter the room, grab an elf, and fart her way out the door like a deflating balloon.

After a few moments of unsuccessful recessitation, Santa gave up. “Looks like our little Dingle had a few too many cookies, eh?” He chortled, poked the elf’s newly rotund belly a few times, and tossed him on the floor. “Let’s get back to business, then, shall we? Who’s on beard grooming duty?” The elves looked at each other and shrugged. If he wasn’t worried, neither were they. Although most of them had other things on their mind besides preparing Santa for his big night. Looks of lust flew as rampantly as the sleigh on Christmas Eve as the elves paired off. No one noticed Dingle drag himself out of the room on boil-covered arms.

Santa began to load the presents himself. “Those naughty little elves are celebrating earlier than usual this year!” Around him, snow-covered bushes shook with rapid elfin copulation. 

Evan’s libido was among the first to subside. He felt queasy, and wasn’t just from the realization that he’d shagged several female elves. Hoping Santa hadn’t noticed his absence, he trotted to the barn to begin harnessing the reindeer. When he got there, he couldn’t believe his eyes. He donned his oversized glasses. No, it was true. Some debauched elves were shagging the reindeer. “On Comet! On Cupid!” they shrieked and cackled.

Evan was initially disgusted, but a new feeling was growing inside him. He shat himself. “Flaming balls,” he muttered. “Flaming fire ass!” A Molotov cocktail swiftly assembled itself out of eggnog and his ball-topped cap beneath his twitchy little fingers. “On Donner! On Blitzen!” he screamed as he lit the fuse. The process hindered by his violent masturbation.

Dingle finally looked like a real man, so his corpulent lover didn’t even mind that had expired halfway through their final act of love.

Mrs. Claus lay in the hay next to Rudolph’s twitching corpse, the screams and chaos wafting through the air as the stables burned around them. She let out a long sigh, finally satisfied.

Santa took note of the growing flames coming from the barn. He wished the little dears would have waited a bit longer before celebrating. They had always had a hard time handling their eggnog. It wasn’t as if he needed the reindeer to fly the sleigh, but he had an image to upkeep. He fluffed his beard a final time and smoothed the Nice List. Off he flew, as the flames overtook his small kingdom.

“God bless us, everyone!” he cried, pleased with the sound of it. It sounded a bit familiar, though… Tiny Tim! That dear boy was going to find himself the recipient of a brand-new pair of ice skates for coining such a delightful phrase. He yelled it again and he flew out of sight.



The writers of this story do not, in any way, apologize for what you have just read. So... Yeah... Kevin can be found on twitter: @Amendkevin
Kayti can also be found on twitter as @Kaytiiswriting

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