My Crazy Friends

Like I’ve heard so many times before “Wow, That’s a long one!”

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“Are you ready?…” I could hear her as she stomped into the building and headed up the front staircase to our second floor apartment like Godzilla rolling through Tokyo. “Why is this door locked?…Let me in!…I know you’re in there…Can you hear me?…Come on,  we need to leave – Oh my God – are you still sleeping? Get up; we’re going to be late! Don’t do this to me. Open this door right now!!…Do I need to kick it in again!!! Don’t piss me off…”

That’s exactly how I was rudely woken up by my friend Weezie screaming and kicking at the front door of my apartment. Both of my roommates went to Albany for the weekend so there was no one else to let her in. I tried my best to ignore her, but she was relentless. “Get up, its 4:45 and you know it starts at 5 O’ Clock!” she implored.

I slowly peeled off my Navy Blue Tempur blinders and tried to steady myself. (Don’t you dare roll your eyes at me – those blinders are so comfortable and so soft that it’s actually as if you took your head and shoved it right up a sheep’s ass – seriously, they’re that soft!) As I tried to get my bearings, I knew that I should be in my own bedroom and should be sleeping in my own bed, but nothing seemed familiar at all. It felt like I had been turned upside down and was looking straight into a hall of mirrors. I knew that I should just lie back down and ignore her, but the truth is that she really would have kicked that door in again if I didn’t get up. Ignoring her would only lead to an assault!

“I’m coming” I groaned as I slowly lifted myself out of bed “Stop screaming before I smack you again.”

“Try it Bitch, and you’ll see what happens” she growled through the door.

I don’t think I can accurately describe my friend Weezie. She’s the type of person who feels that it’s more important to scream every word as opposed to speaking like a normal human being. I thought I had gotten used to it after five years, but when you’re hung over and the equilibrium is far from steady, being anywhere near Weezie is never the right choice. She was one of the toughest players on the girls Rugby team, but she was freaking hysterical and one minute with her would have you laughing your ass off. She’s a lot of fun and one of my closest friends, but that girl is legitimately crazy. When she says she’ll kick in a door – she means it.

As I opened the door, her glance told me that she wasn’t amused. There she was: one arm strategically placed on the left hip of her sparkly black formal dress and on her face a look of disgust that I can’t even begin to describe. She was ready to go out for her big night and here I was screwing that up. For some unknown reason, I had thought it was a good idea to stay out the night before until 7 AM and then sleep the day away. This would normally be her routine as well on a Saturday, but offer up free booze and she’d scale a wall for it.

Her Formal for the Girl’s Rugby Team started in less than fifteen minutes and she was not amused that I had just opened the door in grey Calvin Klein boxer briefs and a ripped T-shirt – obviously not dressed and ready to go unless by the word Formal they meant that trailer park chic was the dress code. I didn’t even want to go because I was hung over and felt like crap, but the prospect of a top-shelf open bar for five hours really enticed me. My girlfriend didn’t mind me going with Weezie and most of our friends were going, and did I mention that it was open bar so, I thought, why not.

Weezie pushed past me and went straight for a Coors Light as she started playing with my dog. When I say that, I don’t mean to beat around the bush and try to sneak in a sexual innuendo – I mean that she was actually playing with my dog, Smokey. I tried to sit on the couch and make small talk by saying that she looked nice and that I would like a beer too, but it did no good. She gave me a look and then offered me ten minutes before it was going to start getting physical, so I got moving. Once again, when I say that I don’t mean to beat around the bush and try to sneak in a sexual innuendo – I mean that she would literally smack the shit out of me! I tried to pull myself together because I knew she wasn’t above using a slap or an elbow to the gut to motivate. She said she’d walk Smokey, to speed things along, and I asked if she would make me a sandwich since I was starving.  

“Are you kidding me? Did you just ask me to make you a sandwich?”

“You make it like I asked you to clean the toilet – it’ll keep you busy while I get ready. Come on, I’m starving.”

“You can eat when we get there – We’re gonna be late.” 

“Weezie, when you’re worth it they’ll wait.” Picture her unamused.

About fifteen minutes later, I was ready. Anyone who knows anything about me knows I was under duress to be ready in fifteen minutes. I locked the front door behind us as we headed down the steps. (This is important – I normally never carried keys or bothered to lock the door but my roommates made me swear to do it before they left for the weekend because of people coming in and taking stuff. It was a safe town and they didn’t think twice about anyone stealing the TV or DVD Player – the crime they were talking about was beer theft. Lisa used to sneak in (sometimes through the keyhole and sometimes through the front window – she is a small girl) and take the beer. She’d then blame Weezie who my roommates would scream at and accuse of lying when she tried to deny it. I knew it was Lisa but didn’t care because it was hysterical how crazy Unibrow would get. Unibrow was one of my roommates and we called him that because he was from New Jersey. I’m kidding, we called him that because he had the bushiest strip of felt impersonating two eyebrows that I have ever seen on a man’s forehead. It was as if Bert on Sesame Street had a baby with Peter Gallagher.    

As we were leaving the front porch I said “Weezie, will you put my keys in your bag? My pants are tight and I don’t want to have two distracting bulges.” She put my keys in her bag and cracked a smile so I could tell that she was loosening up a bit.

“I’m really hungry – what are they having for dinner?” I gently asked.
“Hooka, I told you they’re not having dinner – it’s passed food” She rudely responded back with.
“What? Who doesn’t serve dinner? It’s five hours long.”

“It was cheaper this way so the planning committee thought people would eat first to keep costs down”

When she said cost-effective, she really meant it. Their idea of offering something to nosh on was nachos, potato chips, and pretzels. I thought they might be putting the real food out later since this must obviously be a joke, so I started drinking to fill my stomach with something. I was going through my vodka phase and just took a tiny bit of orange juice to gently color the vodka a bit. Little did I know what a dangerous game that would be to play on an empty stomach…
“Weezie, when are they putting out the other food?”

“They have nachos right there – eat those.”

“Are you kidding me? I don’t eat with my hands remember…”

“You and that OCD bullshit again…”

“They don’t have any silverware or napkins either, how am I supposed to eat anything here?”

By seven, I was drinking heavily and dancing violently. I apparently thought it was my job when Michael Jackson’s Beat It came on, to get in the center of the dance floor screaming the words and busting out a few karate kicks. I looked good, but I’m clumsy normally so a kickin’ beat and all that alcohol did nothing to stop me from bumping into almost everyone on the dance floor.

That’s actually the last thing I remember of the Formal. I don’t have any recollection of the events for the rest of the night following that dance. My recollection is that I had a lot of rhythm and looked really hot, but some pictures have surfaced that drastically contradict that idea.

I have heard many stories of my activities from those missing hours, but since I can only hope that they are exaggerated, I refuse to accept them as fact. What I do recall is being surprised that a December night with so much snow could feel so hot. I was sweating like rice pudding left out in the sun all day.

The next thing I remember is walking down Main Street towards my apartment. It was just about five AM on the Savings Bank digital clock. I had absolutely no idea where I had been since the bars closed at two or where Weezie was. I also had no idea where my shirt and tie were for that matter as I was now only wearing my white undershirt. For some reason it also wasn’t as warm as it had been earlier. Did I mention that it was December in Upstate NY?  

When I got to my building, I tried to open the front door but it was locked and I didn’t have the key – Weezie did. Right about then having two distracting bulges didn’t seem like such a big deal after all.  

That’s when I remembered about the back fire escape that led into my bedroom. I had never actually used the fire escape before, mostly because I’m terrified of heights and partly because the slumlord that rented it to us actually said never to use the fire escape. It wasn’t really attached to the house and actually banged into the house on windy days. (The building was being torn down after the Spring Semester and was actually condemned). There was also a lip in the doorway leading into my bedroom from the fire escape about five inches high where a plate had been laid down, leaving an opening under the door so snow came into the room. It didn’t just come into my room, it accumulated. The gap was so big I was always afraid Smokey would crawl out through it.

As I mounted that frozen monstrosity that they were calling a fire escape, I somehow knew in the back of my mind that this wasn’t such a good idea but there was no other way for me to get in. It was snowing lightly, my hands were frozen, and as I forged ahead, I just couldn’t look down. As I got to the top of the ladder, I tried to steady myself and climb onto the landing but it was very slippery. Just as I thought I was on steady footing and stepped towards the door, I slipped on a patch of ice and fell off the back of the fire escape toward the snow-covered ground two stories below. Everything went black.

I have no idea how long I was out for, but there I was in the snow looking up at the fire escape and my first thought was that this was exactly the reason why the slumlord had told me never to go on that fire escape.

My second thought was that my head was pounding and something was wrong with my left shoulder. Every part of my body was fighting to let me know who was in the most pain. I think the back of my head won out, but then came the worst pain of all: I realized that I was still locked out.

Believe it or not, that second climb up the fire escape was a lot easier than the first. In addition to being drunk, now I was dizzy and in horrendous pain, but I made it up there. Slowly, I found my footing on the landing. I held onto the railing very tightly as I opened the door and rushed into the room.

Remember that lip on the door I told you about? Yep, it got me. I tripped on the lip of the door and fell forward with no time to react. I closed my eyes as the desk got closer to my face because I just couldn’t do anything else. The corner of my desk ripped through my forehead like a knife through cheese and I forgot all about the pain in my shoulder or the back of my head. Blood was gushing everywhere and Smokey was going nuts.

I couldn’t get myself off the floor partly because the pain was too intense and partly because of all the blood that was now in my eyes. I tried but I just couldn’t lift myself and Smokey’s barking and jumping around like a lunatic were not helping the situation. It was barely light outside, and I had to squint to see anything at all. I knew I should call my girlfriend because I needed to go to the hospital, but the phone was all the way through the bedroom, through the long hallway past the bathroom and then in the corner of the living room. I dragged myself through the house leaving blood everywhere as I crept to the phone and finally dialed her number.  

“You’re not gonna believe this, I’m bleeding. I fell off the fire escape, and..”

(Cutting me off) “Oh my God Is Smokey OK?”
“I’m fucking bleeding, he’s jumping all over me, HE’S FINE – I’m not OK!”

“Are you drunk?”

“Of course I’m drunk, what would I be doing on that fire escape if I was sober? It’s not even attached to the house! I need help over here. I can’t get off the floor”

“Go to bed and call me tomorrow – you’re so dramatic” and she hung up.

I think that’s the exact moment I knew that I would marry that girl.

I got Weezie’s answering machine next (she told me later that she was in bed hysterical laughing listening to me leave the message because all she could understand was me slurring “Hooka…Hooka…it’s not right…I fell off the fire escape…you have my keys…”

I finally got a friend to come over and take me to the hospital and a few hours later I was back in my bed with torn ligaments and a slight concussion after a good “talking to” from the doctor in the Emergency Room about drinking. I was so out of it that I was agreeing to his points and nodding to everything he said and didn’t realize that he was talking about me. I stupidly thought he was just making small talk about the way people drink when they’re in college.

I had just fallen asleep when I woke up to Weezie hysterical laughing as she stood above me dangling my keys. I tried to explain what happened, but she just kept laughing. She thought it was poetic justice for me leaving her alone at the Formal last night.

When my girlfriend came over, she couldn’t believe how seriously I was hurt. She thought I was just drunk and rambling on when I called her. I immediately forgave her because I was in love with her. I also immediately forgave her because no one else would take care of me and clean up my apartment and I was starving. I was heavily medicated that day but still made it out to the bars two nights later.

I wish I could say that night was a wakeup call for me and that I never got that drunk again, but that would be a lie. I had to leave school early and get an incomplete in all my classes and I looked like Mikhail Gorbachev with that big gash that went from my hairline to the top of my nose. I made scars trendy way before Harry Potter did but it didn’t go away for over two months and I had trouble with my left shoulder for much longer than that. I was in a sling and it was impossible to do anything for myself. I wish I could also say that was the last time that I got hurt while I was drunk (see broken ankle number one, broken ankle number two, St. Patrick’s Day 2009 when I fell face first into a brick wall and looked like Rhianna, etc.) As the saying goes: if you fall off the horse, you get right back on and I‘m pretty sure that applies to fire escapes too.

I Hate Birds: Part Two – Dirty Words about Filthy Birds

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It’s a thin line between love and hate for most people, but for me and my relationship with birds – the line isn’t very thin at all. I realize that I might be crossing a line by condemning your flying friends, but I’m willing to risk it. Some of you reading this and a few of my close friends are actually bird lovers, but I don’t hold it against any of you. I am disgusted and appalled by it, but I don’t hold it against you.

People get so offended when you talk about their pets and, as a Real pet owner of a very cool dog, I totally agree when that happens – but here’s the thing: Dogs are pets. I will even concede that cats can be considered pets – even though I severely dislike them. Having a cat is like having an arrogant roommate that won’t let you touch their stuff and they shit on your stuff. Not to mention that when cats see a baby sleeping those sneaky bastards jump on the baby’s chest and try to suck the milk out of their mouth; but, like I said – birds aren’t pets! They are disgusting rats that just happen to have wings! Why in God’s name is there a rat on display in your house? Also, it is really fucking weird when a parrot asks me how I am, how my day was or do I need him to fluff my pillow! THAT IS NOT COOL IN ANY WAY – IT’S ACTUALLY VERY FREAKY AND WEIRD! 

Weezie and her surprises

My friend Weezie and I have known each other since college and she is one of my craziest friends. You’ll see a lot of stuff about her on here for one very good reason – something is seriously wrong with her! I mean to say that she’s truly nuts but that’s why we get along so well and I wouldn’t have it any other way! This is the girl that didn’t catch the bouquet at her brother’s wedding when the bride threw it so she rugby-slide-tackled the girl that caught it. That would have been OK if she let it go at that, but as they were rolling around on the dance floor tugging at the flowers – Weezie threw her legs around the girl, pincer-style and wrestled her for it. Talk about a wedding to remember! That is the very reason that my wife refused to throw the bouquet at our wedding – the last thing she wanted to see was Weezie taking out one of our friends from work with a sneak attack off of one of the banquet chairs like the Flying Karamazov Brothers! I, on the other hand, thought it would add a certain element of fun and bring the reception to another level – but marriage is about compromise and regretfully, I lost that battle.

Weezie and I were out drinking one night in Queens, so I crashed at her house since she lives nearby. Her mother Hazel has two gross tenants in their house that they call pet bids (but as I said earlier, birds are not real pets!) and after too many drinks to remember, Weezie explained to me how her mother does this “thing” when they have people sleep over their house which they think is really cute and fun. I, of course, immediately thought how great it would be to be woken up to breakfast in bed with pancakes made in the shape of the Fraggles or Luke Skywaffles, but that wasn’t the “thing.” What they think is cute is to have one of their filthy birds wake up their houseguest!

What’s wrong with her mother?

Her mother has one of those birds wake up the person staying over their house! “Wake Up, Wake Up! Good Morning!” it bellows as it literally struts across the bed and scares the shit out of (I mean, wakes up) the poor, unsuspecting visitor…I begged her to keep those birds away from me, but she just kept laughing at me and went off to her room. I told her that I didn’t want to be remembered as the guy who strangled their bird or shit the bed when the bird tried to wake him up, but she went down the hallway and ignored me. She went to bed and I couldn’t go to sleep in that house. I was up all night hiding out under the sheets terrified like that kid who saw dead people in The Sixth Sense. Literally, I got no sleep there out of sheer terror!

Luckily for that bird, she listened and didn’t bring it anywhere near me or have it try to wake me up. I am like a dead body when I’m asleep – I’m literally out cold – and I have been viciously attacked in the past by birds (see “I hate birds – part one”), so I get up ready to rumble if I’m jostled (sort of like my friend Sue who actually punched her Sorority sister Collette in the face as she tried to wake her up because she was going to be late for class – needless to say Collette didn’t try to wake her up twice!) I think Weezie realized that if I woke up and that thing was anywhere near me, I would have went all Kung Fu on that bird and beat the shit out of it!

You innocently invite someone into your home and then you turn on them and go all Man vs. Wild? I mean, what if that bird farts on the pillow as it’s casually strolling around – Do you then catch pink eye and bird flu? What’s next – are you gonna teach that bird how to talk with a Jamaican accent? Picture waking up to that filthy little thing bopping on the headboard with a little Rasta hat with dreads hanging down his neck asking if you want a Red Stripe or if want him to braid your hair. Not cool at all! This post should actually be hung at their front door and used as a public service announcement to any of Weezie’s friends about the dangers of sleeping over her house: Hazel is the cutest little thing on two wheels – but you have to beware of the cute ones!

I hate birds: Part One – London (long but worth it)

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I have fear and loathing and more than just a mild disgust for birds. More than disgust, I actually hate all kinds of birds: cardinals, pigeons, vultures, thunderbirds, anything.  It’s not the movie that did it to me because I actually really like anything by Hitchcock, and when Darlene dressed up as Tippi Hedren on Roseanne‘s Halloween episode it was genius. Like I said, it isn’t the movie that made me hate birds – it’s the birds that have actually attacked me. Not just circling the car at the McDonald’s by the water that my mother used to take us to when we were little, but I have actually been attacked more than once by vigilante birds looking for trouble. Here is part one of my vendetta against birds…

 

When I studied abroad in London, we didn’t live in dorms on campus. We lived in apartment building across the way from Marble Arch and the Speaker’s Corner section of Hyde Park. Now, I will go into the stories about that building with the poor tenants that we terrorized, Neville the always drunk doorman, and the convenience store at the foot of the building where Crazy Mary and I forced the cashier to hang a photo of us on the register at another time or this entry will be ten pages long.

 

The building was in a great location, and from the outside looked perfect, but the place was filthy and infested with roaches the size of matchbox cars. I would get out of the shower and see my towel speeding down the hallway on the back of what looked like a small toy yorkie. Anyone that knows me, is scratching their heads right now and saying with my Extreme OCD – how the hell did I live with roaches and I hear you. Wanna know how – ALMOST DAILY ALCOHOL BLACKOUTS. It was either that or go back home…

 

There were five of us living there and the rooming situation was like this: Me and Jeff shared a room because we got along really well and he used to sleep at his girlfriend Laura’s room across town a lot so it was almost like having my own room half the time, Gregg and Brian shared a room because Brian’s girlfriend got the single room in  her apartment on the ninth floor and Chris ended up with the single in our apartment because none of us really liked him or wanted to share a room with him. Stop it right now, I know what you’re thinking and that is not a mean thing to say because in this world, we don’t have to like everybody and something was really wrong with him!

 

The only good part about the apartment was that we had a housekeeper, but the negatives far outweighed that: the stove and the oven were very ghetto and didn’t work and the washing machine only sporadically worked and there was no air conditioning; it was like the London version of Clayton Street. My other big gripe was that there were no screens on the windows. We were on the fourth floor and we were always hanging out those windows to heckle people on the street or to throw things at our friends below and having screens on those windows would have kept us restrained inside the windows. Or kept other things out…

 

As a preface to this next bit, I need to tell you that I am a very heavy sleeper. I have slept through policemen & firemen, alarms & sirens, and one time, an actual fire. I put my blinders on and I’m out! (Brookstone Tempur Blinders are amazing by the way – it is literally as if you took your head and shoved it right up a sheep’s ass – They are that comfortable!) I also don’t move when I’m asleep, so I’m a little bit like a dead body laying there with my mouth open as if rigor mortis has just set in. People have made fun of me for years, but I just cannot sleep without the blinders. In addition to the blinders, I desperately need air conditioning or an open window with a cool breeze because I am a very hot person. (Yes, I know that is what all those girls in college always used to say about me, but I am talking about temperature right now).

 

One night after a particularly drunk evening, I was wasted and needed to get some rest. I took out my contact lenses, took off my clothes, opened the window because the room was so hot, put on my blinders and passed out. My roommate Jeff was away in Paris with his girlfriend, so I didn’t have to contend with his usual snoring.

 

I awoke from my dead sleep at about 8:30 AM to my shoulder being repeatedly poked very hard. My immediate thought was that it was one of my roommate’s ready to get his ass kicked for disturbing me, but I lifted my blinders to find a pigeon on my shoulder pecking me with its beak. A fucking filthy pigeon was attacking me! I thought that I was hallucinating again and was squinting because I didn’t have my contacts in. That pigeon was all up in my grill shaking its beak and staring me in the eye as if to say “What’s up, Dude.” I started screaming like a little girl and tried to get it off me with my hand, but it freaked out and went nuts! That pigeon clenched its claws and dug into my shoulder and really scratched me up (it drew blood!) and then it really freaked out! I threw that mother fucker off me and it landed onto Jeff’s bed. As it got it’s bearings, it tried to fly away and started crashing into walls and was making the most terrible screeching imaginable.

 

I was on the floor by this time, since I had fallen out of the bed in the commotion and was trying to get out of the door and see how badly that pigeon tore up my shoulder. At the same time that I was trying to get out the room, my roommate Gregg burst in and smashed me in the head with the door. He turned on the light, saw me on the ground, the pigeon crashing from wall into wall into wall shitting everywhere and he ran out the door and shut it behind him. He almost closed my head in the door because he tried to slam it shut to lock the pigeon in.

 

I got free and ended up in a ball trying to compose myself on the hallway floor while our other two roommates came to see what was going on. I couldn’t even tell them what happened because I started to get myself worked up and freaking out that it might have shit in my mouth (because I sleep with my mouth open) and started gagging. They, of course, thought me getting attacked in my bed was the most hysterical thing ever but I was like “get that fucking thing out of here.” And of course, I was bleeding from where it got me in the shoulder.

 

Gregg went to open the door very slowly when the noise had settled down because he said it probably flew out the window, which must be how it must have gotten into the room. He looked in the room and saw the pigeon perched atop Jeff’s dresser. Apparently, the banging we heard was the pigeon knocking everything off of Jeff’s dresser. Gregg shut the door and turned back to me and said “the window is closed – how could it have gotten in here?” I thought about it and remembered that I had gotten up at about 5:30 AM and closed the window because it was raining…Oh my God, how long was it on me? It had been in the room for almost three hours with me…

 

Between the four of us, no one would go into the room to get the pigeon out. After round one with my flying friend, I was certainly not going back in there or anywhere near that thing and I would have gladly slept on the couch and left it in there. Finally, my friend Crazy Mary came over and said she would get it out. She went into the room with a loaf of bread and I thought she was going to feed it but she was throwing the slices of bread like a frisbee at the pigeons to get it to move. That pigeon just sat there staring at her with a quizzical look as if to say “what are you doing, crazy girl?” She connected with one good shot and that slice of bread whacked the pigeon right in the head. That pigeon let out such a screech and kamikaze pilot flew right at her and almost hit her in the face. It whizzed right past her and into the bathroom and she didn’t even flinch. I, on the other hand, was once again screaming like a little girl and almost shit my pants as I dove down the hallway to get out of the pigeon’s way as it zoomed past.

 

The pigeon flew out the bathroom window a little bit later on, but not before it left a ton of shit all over the bathroom in addition to the lovely gifts it had left earlier in my bedroom. Fortunately for me, the pigeon shit mostly on Jeff’s stuff and his side of the room. The unfortunate news was that when Jeff came home the next day, he didn’t find that as funny as we did.  He kept blaming me as if I invited that pigeon to come in and date rape me. I had a really big scratch on my shoulder for a long time where the pigeon attacked me and for the rest of my time in London I NEVER slept with the windows open again. To this day, I still get uneasy whenever I sleep with the windows open…

It’s A Dog’s Life

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A friend of mine just randomly told me a crazy story about when they masturbated their male cat. Please take that in for a moment before we go on. I know exactly what you’re thinking – how does that come up during a casual conversation? I don’t know either. Now, I’m not usually prone to speechlessness, but I gotta say that one got me. They said it only happened one time, to which I say that’s all it takes: One time and the cat’s hooked. I promised I would not put that on this website, so I will not reveal their name or gender, but it made me think of treating animals bad and of course my thoughts drifted back to college…

I’m not going to get graphic and tell you about the female roommate that I had on Clayton Street who had sex with her boyfriend’s American Terrier on his coffee table in front of his friends – I want to talk about that dog. (By the way, she’s now a school teacher and one day when my son is older, knowing my luck, I’m sure that I will walk into a Back-to-School night and come face to face with her) That dog was as big as a small show pony: he was over a hundred pounds, had huge teeth and paws, and his head was the size of a barbecue grill. I use the barbecue grill as a point of reference because he was always tied to that grill out on their porch. One day, he took off after someone and proceeded to drag that barbecue down those porch steps and then right up Clayton Street. The sparks were flying as that barbecue bounced around like a tennis ball and they had to go chasing after him. They didn’t think he’d run away, they were just chasing after him because they were afraid of the propane tank still attached to that barbecue he was dribbling up the street like a basketball. We thought for sure it would explode and take out the whole block, but they were pretty fast and caught up to him about twelve houses down. Most amazing of all though, is that the barbecue still worked after that – those things are really solid.

This is also the same dog that another day, dove through the screen of one of their front windows and made a run for it. He came straight across the street and up the stairs right into our apartment. He broke through our front door causing my two roommates to panic and jump onto the furniture trying to get away from him before they got bitten. One of them did get bit in the ass, but he didn’t break the skin. I, of course, happened to be taking a shit during all of this and when I heard the commotion and screaming, I thought the house was on fire. I didn’t even get a chance to react, because right then he broke through the bathroom door and I was literally, face to face with a monster and the bathroom door shut behind him. Picture it if you will, because I was sitting there thinking “Oh My God, I’m going to get mauled on the toilet by this killer.” I was trapped inside that small bathroom with him and I couldn’t even try to get up or move in any way. I thought that I could take it like a man if he bit me anywhere above the waist, but I was terrified that he would go for my sack if I stood up. If he got me there, I would have had to call it a day because my life would have been over! I could have lived with scars on my face or body, but you mess with the Goods and you’re screwed in a way that won’t leave a smile on anyone’s face!

He then sat down and proceeded to lick his lips while giving me the stare down (like a certain grandmother I know) mere inches from my face. I was sweating profusely and on the verge of tears when his owner and three or four other people on the street heard the commotion and screaming so they came running to find the dog. They peeked in the front door and said “you guys seen my dog?” and then started hysterical laughing when my roommates directed them to me and they opened the bathroom door.  The crowd all thought it was hysterical seeing me pinned on the toilet like that by this beast and they just kept laughing. All I can say is thank God they didn’t have camera phones like everyone does now or I would be a YouTube sensation with the way I was screaming bloody murder. They finally got that monster out of our place and I learned a valuable lesson about shitting in college: Go as fast as possible because you never know what’s outside the door!

They finally had to put that dog to sleep after he bit a few more people, but his memory lived on every time they used that barbecue. Even though he was like a wild boar, no one was happy that they had to put the dog down because it was a sad situation. Well, I shouldn’t say that because our mailman was very happy about the dog being gone. In the mailmen’s defense, he did get chased and bit quite a few times so you could understand him being happy. We never thought he minded because it was pretty funny to watch the dog attack him and then after it he always used to stick his head through the front window and smoke a joint with us. I would say he had a radar to know when we were smoking, but it was a safe  bet that if it was light outside, we were smoking.

So, my friend says they will leave the cat alone, and was just curious that one time. I say that a cat’s private parts are a gateway drug and that the next stop is a trip to the Nature Center and a meeting with an Alpaca with a golden smile…