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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The Bar.

Everyone and their grandfather likes to unwind with their favorite beer or cocktail after a long day of work  right? It's as american as apple pie and race-wars. Be it going out with co-workers and venting frustration or simply socializing with friends on the weekends, we can pretty much all relate. Most of us have our favorite bar or restaurant in which we frequent and much like Cheers we probably know the bartender by name as well as the saucy cougar that sits in the corner eye-raping you every Saturday. Personally I like smaller, relaxed, and homely bars as opposed to the rambunctious clubs filled with overdressed hooligans and insane drink specials. When I drink, I like to hear what the person in front of me is saying, and the last thing i need is to be worried weather or not that sad fat girl in the corner is going to throw up on me.

Bars offer a few key elements in which attract people. They present a great place to gather and/or meet new people. Some bars host live music to listen or dance to with your buddies. Some portray the ambiance and cooled atmosphere of a sophisticated coffee shop built for hipsters and art majors. Though I'm pretty sure we all  know the main reason humans gravitate to these establishments. Alcohol. The booze is what the building was built around. That's what keeps it running. The bartender knows how make all the cool drinks you have never had a fucking clue about. Like an Old Fashioned or a Mojito, I don't know what the fuck is in them, but my guess is booze, and magic. Then there are some with quaint little names like "Red Headed Slut" and "The Panty Dropper." You know... Classy shit. Bars offer an absolute plethora of insanely overpriced concoctions in which give you the audacity to talk to the hot chick sitting in the corner. She has "Totally been eyeing you bro!"  Hey maybe you might even make a pass. Unfortunately in these situations, things don't always end up as they would seem. Many mornings are met with as simple question. "Oh god... Why?"

"I swear to god, last night she was a 7."


Though these watering holes offer a different type of environment than normal day to day life. The downsides of drinking in public are many. I would just like to lay out a couple key reasons in which I try and stay away from these places.





Absolutely fucking ridiculous drink specials...

Living in Kansas, there isn't much to do. Like... At all. Unless you have an insane amount of money you are willing to dole it out on expensive entertainment, your usual weekend consists of going out to a bar with friends or sitting at home and slowly cooking your brain with television. There just isn't much to do here in the mid-west. Therefor we supplement our lack of interesting local attractions with booze. The bars around here are numerous and nearly always full past about Ten o' clock. Though due to the over-saturation of drinking establishments, there is a lot of competitive marketing.
I remember hearing "dollar drink night" at a local place in town (lets call it "The Vom Locker") for the first time at about 22 years old. To me this sounded splendid. We could go out, get drunk, save money for pizza and have a night of it. Then, what felt like a week later, a different bar (lets call this Pukers) introduced the 75 cent drink special. The Vom Locker countered with the 50 cent drinks. Then Pukers migrated to beer, cutting prices of shitty beer to attract more people with dollar pints, $2.50 pitchers and so on. This sounds like alco-heaven doesn't it?
Consider then that they are not only driving down price, but also quality. Now, five dollars gets you more drunk than you need to be, but considering you are used to spending ten bucks or more on a night of drinks, you step up the game! The mix of shitty beer and even shittier bottom shelf liquor typically doesn't end well. It invites all kinds of bad mojo. These kind of specials are deals nobody can say no to! Especially bro-tastic alcoholics. You can only imagine where that lead.

Soon after the drink war started there was a wave of bar fights, public indecency and police activity around these places. Cops would literally line up outside these bars to watch the staggering masses climb into their cars and take off. This made it shitty for those of us who would only go out and have a beer or two and drive home. The mix of terrible booze and intense social situations leads to a lot of stupid fights. Like the "Did you look at my girlfriend bro!?" or the "You're wearing my Tapout shirt bro!" I could count at least one fight a week at The Vom Locker and I once literally saw a guy beaten with a chair at Pukers. That's about the time I decided it was best to leave these places to the cavemen and loose women.
Speaking of loose women. Lets talk about some sluts!



Bar Girls...

We're attractive! I swear!

As a single man. I sometimes I feel like the only place to meet women is to go to a bar, get drunk enough to start talking to them, and then try and finger bang them in the bathroom. What can I say? I'm a gentleman. In reality I tend to look for women with a decent sense of humor and who actually shows some form of knowledge. It took me quite some time to realize that going to a bar wasn't the best way to meet girls.
The problem about picking up chicks at a bar is that, most of the time, you can't get a single intelligent word out of a drunk girl's mouth. I'm not saying all women are stupid when drunk, but I am saying that there is one special breed of retard out there. That is the bar fly. Also known as "Woo Girls", or my favorite... "Dumb Cunts." You know them, the loud ones taking so many pictures that it makes you feel as though you may have a seizure. Their screeches have the power to make you physically ill. If you are unfortunate enough to have a seat near a group of these... things... You may as well wear sunglasses, earmuffs, and a hat that says "GO... THE FUCK... AWAY."

There are a few ways to figure out if the girl you are talking to is one of this lot. First, is she screaming everything she says at the top of her lungs? Have you seen her ass crack or a nipple slip out of a scantly outfit more than once? Is she surrounded by three or more girls that look nearly the same? Does the bartender know her last name and keep looking at her warily? If you said yes to any of these questions. Run away as fast as you can before you get chlamydia. Seriously dude. They emanate that shit like the common cold. Ask a doctor.
(Cute fact: The town I live in has the third highest chlamydia/gonorrhea rate in the mid-west) 

Glad i brought my penicillin  


I'll be completely honest with you. I used to have a drinking problem. Though no matter how much I drank, THIS shit was never cool to me. It's smart to use caution with alcohol, because if you don't. You will end up fucking a hideously ugly person, showing your naughty bits to the world via the internet (your dad WILL find it) or getting injured or arrested. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy the occasional "Lets get fucktarded drunk and do stupid things"  but I typically set them up with drivers, days off and a spare stomach pump. I suggest that we don't go to these places that support the slow decline into alcoholism and syphilis. Hey, you know what? Lets try and class things back up again. Go all speakeasy on this shit. Like the olden days. O.K? Lets all relax, grow a sick mustache and drink like a sir. Wouldn't that be nice?
I think it would
Because I'm a god-damned gentleman.
Thank you.

The Internet...

Let's get one thing right out in the open before we begin... I am addicted to the internet. Be it news, information, entertainment or just trying to waste away a day looking at new memes and photo-shopped images of Emma Watson in a onesie being fisted by a ocelot (I'll almost guarantee it's out there). The web has changed the world as we know it. For god's sake we call this the Information Age mostly due to the use of the internet and it's ability to connect you directly to any bit of information mankind has ever recorded... Ever... You can learn about anything you ever dreamed of. Do you want learn how to crochet? You bet your  sweet little ass you do! The internet is there to teach you, guide the way, and be your friend every step of the way to a shitty birthday scarf for your friend (fuck you Todd). It allows you to connect with your friends, your boss, your neighbor or jump on Omegle and talk to some random pre-pubescent Newfoundlander who wants to know all about your sexy things. It's referred to Information Highway (which is just a cool term for "that thing we use to look up funny pictures of cats while we pretend to actually work.") because it virtually is the entrepot of everything mankind has to offer. Especially adorable, doltish, borderline retarded cats.

Fact: Antifreeze makes your pet 450% more adorable.

The internet is a vital part of research and education in our times. Find me one college student who hasn't literally jumbled a Wikipedia article around to avoid plagiarism in the past three years and I'll find you a gerbil that can effectively alter the space time continuum with the business end of its ass. The simple fact is that both of these thing don't fucking exist whatsoever (Get on it Science!). From research papers to in-class studies and presentations, the internet has proved vital to education. Laptops are literally required for an education it seems. This is actually a beautiful thing. Think of it, learning on a god-damned global scale. This means more cultured and well rounded students (and abominate artsy pricks). At the same time it has helped students, it has rendered many college presentations a Ritalin addled ramble of what-the-fuckery due to too much time spent procrastinating with addictive flash games and the absolute void that is internet porn. In fact, I'm watching porn right now! Do you have ANY idea what kind of multitasking this takes!? DO YOU!?

As you can see here, there is a direct correlation between "research" and tendonitis!

While growing up we didn't have the musings of the internet. I don't remember what me or my friends did for fun as a kid before my first dial-up connection, but I'm pretty sure we went outside or something. Either way that information has been mostly deleted and replaced with countless amounts of  rage comics. Now i can't look down my street without seeing a toddler sporting an I-Phone reading Dora the Explorer's latest tweet. Is it a good thing that the youth is being exposed to such a volatile thing such as The World Wide Web? The seedy underbelly of the internet encompasses all of the exact things we don't want them to see or even know about! It's only a matter of time before your nine-year-old misspells the word "goat" on Google and runs into one of the most horrific images ever published! How will you explain that to them? Can you even IMAGINE having "The Talk" with your kid after they have already been exposed to Lemon Party and Tub-Girl?
Something to think about before you give a kid the omniscience that lies online.

Well, there goes my innocence.

Overall the net is just there to store information. Weather it be about quantum mechanics or prego-sex. It has changed the world for both better and worse. We can't blame the internet. It never did anything to us. It's just like a really smart friend who has pictures and diagrams of everything. A place to create, connect, masturbate and learn.

I am Kevin Amend and I fucking LOVE the internet

I started this blog today as a new project. I have no history with writing or proper grammar. Bare with me.