Archive for Underpants

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #7

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 14, 2008 by Buck Frain

#7 Other People’s Genitals

 

I don’t have issues with nudity per se. I think streakers at sporting events are funny and I’m cool with the genitals of anyone I’m intimate with. However, other people are another matter altogether. I am OK with other people having genitals just so long as they’re not flapping around at eye level when I’m sitting in the kitchen trying to eat my breakfast.

 

What the weeping-nob-scab is wrong with people? So, you picked up my house-mate last night and brought her back to a house you’ve never been to before inhabited by people you’ve never met and in the morning you wander out through the kitchen in search of the loo…naked. Nice one! And then you look at me like I’m the one with the problem and ask:

 

What are you lookin’ at?

 

I don’t know, fuckhead, is it a bonsai penis? I was worried you were going to try to fuck my breakfast with it!

 

Seriously, what are you doing? Do you have super-complex underpants that take 3 hours and a Ph.D to put on? Use a fucking towel, arse-face!!! In an ideal world one might hope that girls would have more modesty, however, I haven’t really seen any evidence of that.

 

What are you doing here?

 

I live here. I’m eating my breakfast. The toilet’s that way…um…you’re dripping on the fucking floor.

 

One morning I walked out to see a naked guy sitting with his naked arse on one of our chairs at the kitchen table eating our fucking cereal. What the SHIT??? I don’t mind too much about the cereal but how can I use a kitchen chair that’s had some fucker’s sweaty nut-sack and unwashed ring resting on it? Do I disinfect it or just throw the fucking thing away?

 

Inhibitions – they’re great! We have them for a reason. We have them because we aren’t solitary animals, we live in societies and these have only maintained a semblance of order and civility because people covered their genitals up and stopped scent-marking everything in sight. I’m stoked that you’re comfortable with your hairy, hail-damaged body, but do me a favour: COVER IT UP!!! No, really, take this guest burkha! Not because I have issues with my own body, not because I won’t be able to control my primal urges but because I can’t eat and vomit at the same time and I can’t spend my whole life buying new dining furniture.

Why does the fish man smile at me like that?

Posted in Things Rank And Gross In Nature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 31, 2008 by Buck Frain

Within the seafood industry there is a joke. A nasty, nasty joke.

 

I went the market on Wednesday and bought some fish. I enjoy cooking and fresh fish is a wonderful thing.  So I looked at the various things on offer and my eye was caught by some big butterfish steaks on special. I lived in South Australia for a while and butterfish is the standard fish-n-chip-shop fish. It’s a mild, white flesh fish, nothing fancy but very pleasant. These steaks looked fantastic, they were from a much bigger specimen than the fish-n-chip-shop fillets back in S.A., thickly cut, succulent-looking and at a price that was impossible to go past.

 

I asked for one of the butterfish steaks and the thin guy behind the counter pointed at them with eyebrows slightly raised to check he’d heard me right. Yeah, just one. I confirmed with an upheld index finger. He smiled a little quizzical half-smile, barely noticeable, was it a polite acknowledgement of a wise choice? Was it nothing to do with me? I paid for the fish and thought no more about it.

 

I pan-fried my butterfish steak with some chopped spring onion, fresh ginger, soy and lime juice. Served with steamed vegetables and wasabi mash, and accompanied by a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, it was pretty damn good if I do say so myself.

 

The next morning I got the joke.

 

I had to go to work early, there was a briefing for a new business job that was coming into field. Fuck, briefings are boring. Sit in a plastic chair and listen to some reasty twat who doesn’t know the first thing about communication, with a monotone, barely audible voice drone on and on about some bullshit survey. Sweet cunting Jesus, I could fucking kill myself! I stopped at a café on the way to buy some liquid fortitude.

 

While waiting for the coffee I felt the sharp pain of a rogue fart just bursting to get out. There was no-one else around me so I figured I could just gently let it out silently and no-one would be the wiser. I misjudged. Not by much but it was enough. It would have been literally a matter of milliseconds before I resecured my sphincter but the damage was done. No sound, but the deadly warm wetness of a shart. I’d shat, just a little but there was no mistake. In the middle of a coffee shop I had shat myself. Escape. I caught the eye of the girl making my coffee Excuse me, I just need to use the bathroom. I shuffled off to the bathroom trying desperately not to look conspicuous or to spread the damage too far, or more imortantly to let go of my tightly clenched sphincter which, I was certain, was holding back a great tsunami of shit.

Through the door, into the cubicle, lock, belt, trousers-undies-sit, release. Oh fucking hell! A terrifying splatterfest of semi-solids and jetting liquid erupted from me. The stench made me dry retch. My own stench made me dry retch. The tsunami subsided. I realised I was sitting on the toilet arms outstretched, bracing against the walls of the cubicle. I relaxed my arms and looked down at my underpants to inspect the damage. It was just a small streak of liquid at the arse crack. I checked and it hadn’t soaked through to the pants. Big relief. Leg by leg I extricated myself from the soiled undies replacing my pants. What to do with them.

 

I stood and turned to see the damage in the bowl. WHAT THE FUCK? To my unmitigated horror, the fairly regular, squishy looking turds floating in the bowl were in surrounded and coated by a layer of clear orange-brown oil. I swear it is true. There was a layer of oil over the water in the bowl. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. I’d shat an oil slick. I looked at the crotch of the undies. It was oil. I sniffed them. EW! Only once, dry retch again. They stank of shit (surprising!) and old fish. Fucking butterfish! That was the fucking cryptic smile. He fucking knew. THAT DIRTY MOTHERFUCKER KNEW AND HE SAID NOTHING!!! CUNT!!!

 

Butterfish should come with a warning – MAY CAUSE ANAL LEAKAGE! I never understood the term anal leakage before but this was it. The sphincter, that wonderful muscular device which can tell solid from liquid from gas so effectively. That magical sphincter is rendered completely useless by oil. And just for those of you laughing your arses off right now: anal leakage SUCKS!!! FUCK YOU, FISH GUY!

 

Keep it together. I had to get my coffee and go to work. Ah, the coffee. Fuck, work! My gut rumbled. Ooh. There was going to be more visits today, I would be on anal guard like a bastard all day. But now I knew the score, I wouldn’t get caught again. It’s not a fart, just remember it’s not a fart, maybe you’ll never be able to fart with pants on ever again. That’s OK, I can live with that, just please let me not shit myself at work.

 

I wiped and straightened myself out. I flushed. Oh God NO!!! The horror. Oil, being lighter than water, doesn’t want to flush away. After four flushes I gave up and left a few little pools of oil floating in the bowl. I opened the cubicle door, still alone, took my oil-shat undies to the sink and washed them rigorously with hand soap, wrung them out and stood at the hand drier drying them, silently praying no-one would randomly enter, or even worse, come looking for me. Fuck, how long had I been away?

 

The undies dried. No-one came. I was ready with a what-the-fuck-are-you-looking-at expression if someone did come in. What, you’ve never seen a guy drying his underpants before? Back to the cubicle, pants down leg-by-leg undies back on. Two more flushes, just for luck, out, wash hands.

 

I returned to the café, paid for the coffee and left. It was cold, the coffee girl looked at me a bit funny, I realised I was sweating, she probably thought I’d gone in for a sly phone-wank, I was late for work – fuck you, wobblers! During the course of the day I had five more shits – all with, thankfully, decreasing amounts of oil.

 

I tell you this: everything in this post is true. Beware of butterfish! Be afraid of butterfish! VERY FUCKING AFRAID! Butterfish causes anal leakage. Unless you are buying it from a fish-n-chip shop in South Australia, in which case I suspect it’s just flake, DON’T FUCKING BUY IT!!! It’s a joke fish, we’re not meant to eat it, fishmongers stock and sell it purely for comedy value, the rotten fuckers! If you buy and eat it then your arse will leak oil and you’ll shit your pants.

 

If, on the other hand, you’re looking for something to serve to people you hate, this is the dish for you, it’ll fuck ’em!