Category Archives: Funny

How a Muppet Got Me Fired

Well, I’ve been in Boston the last couple of days, primarily snowed in.  They got, I’d say, hmmm about 16 inches or so of snow between Friday and Sunday.   Coming from DC, I don’t think we’ve had 16 inches of snow the last 3 winters combined.

I might have been slightly unprepared for the weather.

Not too unprepared, mind you.  I’ve lived in snow country before, so I showed up with my snazzy North Face jacket (with associated fleece zip-in thingie) and my super-awesome gore-tex skiing gloves.  I also had my very fashionable ear-muff things that wrap around the back of your head, so you don’t mess up your hair too badly.

This is where things started going wrong.

Firstly, in order to make room for extra clothing that GF required I bring along… I had to leave my moon snow boots home.

I also forgot what it was like to trudge around in 20 degree weather while being pelted with snow moving somewhere between 20 and 40 mph.

I needed a hat.  Badly.

We’ll just forget that the trip involved me trudging around in 16 inches of snow in a tuxedo and patent leather shoes… that’s a story for another day.

My head was freakin’ freezing.

So, I did what any other upstanding gentleman would do in this situation.

I went to the nearest Filene’s Basement to get the cheapest hat possible.

Luckily, they were having a 25% off sale on everything, so I found 2 or 3 hats that would work.

But ohhhhhhh nooooooo those wouldn’t do for GF.  No, she had a plan.  She wanted me to look “cute.”

She picked out one of those skiing type hat things with the built in ear muffs and a pom-pom on the top.

I immediately nixed that idea, but she would not relent.  And then she got her family involved, and they all convinced me that this hat was the most appropriate and logical choice.

For accuracy’s sake, I even took a picture for you:

How a Muppet Got Me Fired

Those conniving Bostonians…. they must have been conspiring behind my back, because they obviously had a plan.

They wanted me to look just like Gonzo.

Being a Jew and all, I have a bit of a nose on me.  And by a bit of a nose, I mean I once got a t-shirt from friends with the following picture on it, because they said it reminded them of me:

How a Muppet Got Me Fired

So, as you can see. Very Gonzo-like.

So, let’s fast-forward to today. I was having a very nice online conversation with the always super awesome, and finely-boobed haired Lemmonex. I was telling her this little story, when I decided that it would be a good idea to elaborate by showing her a picture.

I mean, a picture is worth a thousand words, right??

So, I pulled up my trusty google images, and went searching – and that’s where it all went so, so wrong.

All of a sudden I was assaulted with pictures of women in hats doing unmentionable things, and err well, other pictures of women with pom-poms in their uhhhh no-no spot.

On my work computer.

Where they tightly track everything I do.

You see, there’s the muppet’s Gonzo, a sweet little quirky alien type being.  And then there’s the branch of pornography known as “gonzo.”

Oops?

So no, y’all don’t get a cute picture of gonzo in a pom-pom hat.

Now I just gotta find a way to bribe IT security to look the other way.

Or else I will truly be able to say:  A Muppet got me fired.

Advertisements

TMI Thursday: Attack of the Feminine Product

And yes.  I’m male.

So I’m sitting at my desk chatting with a whole bunch of co-workers.  I turn my chair and my coat falls on the ground.

Female Coworker: “Hey, your coat fell, you might want to pick it up.”

Me: “Oh thanks!”

So I grab my coat and pick it up and hang it on the back of my chair.

The room suddenly gets really quiet.

So I turn around, and notice everyone staring, mouth agape, at the floor under my chair.

After an awkward pause.

FC: “Uhh, is that what I think it is?”

Fuck.  What did I just drop?  A condom?  Did I have a bottle of lube in my pocket?  A vibrator?  A 12 inch dildo?  Shitshitshitshitshit what did I have in that coat??????

I look down…. and the blood rushes from my head.

Keeping in mind that there are now 5 of my co-workers standing around….

And there, sitting on the floor, under my chair was…..

a tampon.

It was very clear to the entire room that the tampon came from my coat.  There was no other explanation.

Uhhhh what do I say? Err uhhh I get really bad nose bleeds a lot and so I keep it around just incase? No no no they won’t buy that.  Uhhh I have a tendency to crap my pants, so when I’m really really nervous I pop it on in just incase?  Yuck.  No.  Uhhhh shit I’m running out of time.  Quick! What’s the excuse here?????

So, I did the only thing I could think of at that moment:  I said oops yep, picked it up, and put it right back in my inside pocket in my jacket as if this was completely normal.

Keeping in mind that my face was 17 shades of red.

I guess I must have shoved one in my pocket for GF at some point in the past and forgotten about it.  Can we all say “whooooooops” together now?

Oh well.  I guess it could have always been worse.

It could have been used.

(Pause for “Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwws”)

ToBlogOr's Pocket Buddy

ToBlogOr's Pocket Buddy

But wait, there’s more!

In honor of TMI Thursday – I am posting a list of my favorite TMI Search terms from this past week.  Keep in mind, not only were these people searching for these disgusting things…. they found MY blog using them.

TMI Thursday: Search Terms Edition


  • how long it takes to poop out food
  • naked hairy man on bed
  • two muscular hairy guys fucking
  • men with really hairy butts
  • smurf asshole
  • i have hair everywhere
  • i have a hard time passing my poop out
  • hairy balls porn
  • what do genital crabs look like
  • i hate pooping in public bathrooms (Amen brotha!)
  • suck a christmas dick
  • old farts on bicycles
  • fat ball sack
  • gay hairy asshole
  • “i had bad gas” fart
  • gravity and pooping
  • how long it takes you to poop
  • how long to push for pooping
  • sexy bathroom poop
  • toilet paper stuck in crack
  • hairy muscle gay bears
  • guys poop more then women
  • how to get rid of little bitches
  • hair continues down neck women hairy
  • why does my girlfriend act like a little bitch

And my favorite for the week:

  • do all dogs have hairy ass holes

So, with that, I wish you all a fabulously fantastic TMI Thursday!

My Deepest Darkest Secrets

This whole metrosexual thing really bothers me sometimes.  It’s kind of like Bon Jovi for men.  You see, most of us deny that we like Bon Jovi, yet we’re all secretly excited when “Bad Medicine” comes on the radio.  You don’t have to admit it to me, but I know you have all the words memorized.

So, why does this whole metrosexual thing bother me?  Because it conflicts with my manly-man side.  It’s really like I have multiple personalities, where half of me is like John Wayne:

 
My Deepest Darkest Secrets
 

And the other half is like Nathan Lane:

 
My Deepest Darkest Secrets
 

And the John Wayne side wants to beat the snot out of the Nathan Lane side for even considering getting a manicure.

The culmination of this internal battle royale came last night, when I did something that I may regret for the rest of my life.

I applied a facial moisturizing mask. 

Voluntarily. 

And I enjoyed it.

WAIT!

Ok, before you get all up in arms, I know that there is no acceptable excuse or explanation.  I will not try to defend myself here, but I will provide some context:  It was free, the product was made in Israel by Jews (gotta support the tribe!), GF and I did it together, and I was blackmailed by Columbian Drug Czars. 

Let the public flogging begin.

You see, I was already cringing with embarrassment when I was applying  a thin layer of paste evenly over my face while making sure I avoided the area just around my eyes. 

And then I got to thinking, while I was letting it set for 10 to 12 minutes.  (But not too intensely thinking, as to avoid inadvertently removing any paste before the time was up.) 

And then it came to me… while I was gently removing the mask with warm water.

No one really cares.

Except for me.

I alone am causing myself this stress.  My John Wayne side is embarrassed about all the girly things my Nathan Lane side likes…. and my Nathan Lane side is embarrassed about all the neanderthalish things that my John Wayne side likes.

I’ve been harboring all sorts of fears, and resentments, and embarrassments over my likes and dislikes, and it has to come to an end.  I need to come clean.  Because once it’s out in the open, I can truly feel comfortable with who am I.  I need John and Nathan to be comfortable with each other, and maybe even man-cuddle once in a while.

It’s going to be tough, I have some secrets that are so deep and dark that I shiver even thinking about admitting them in public.  But I know it must be done.  I’m doing this to improve my life, and to be an inspiration to other men in my position all over this fine planet.

So world?  I’m coming out of the closet.  NO, I’m not gay.  I’m not a metro-sexual.  I’m a metro-man-ual.

 

The 6 Confessions of Why I’m a Woman

 

Getting Clear

  • I was looking at my face one day many eons ago and I really didn’t like how clogged all my pores looked in my nose.  I thought to myself, hmm maybe I could use a piece of tape and that might help unclog them.  And then I learned there’s a product out there that does the same thing, and isn’t as harsh on the skin.  So yes, I’ve used Bioré Face Strips.

Yummy face-yness

  • It was free, and it happened in the back woods of Vermont.  I had some dude give me a face/head/neck/shoulder massage for like 30 minutes.  He used hot towels on my face.  And then he cleared all my clogged pores.  And my skin felt all soft afterward.  Yes world, it’s true.  I had a “Man Facial.”  And you know what?  I’d do it again.

I pay more than $20 for a haircut

  • I got faked into this one, because I have a friend who is a hair stylist.  One thing led to another, and suddenly I had this lady giving me head/neck massages while washing my hair.  What can I say?  I’m a sucker for a good head rub.

I love shoes

  • I can’t travel with less than 3 pairs of shoes.  In fact, I get excited when I get a DSW coupon in the mail ($20 by December 24th!).  So what if I leave the shoe store with more boxes than GF???

I like nice soap

  • No, I might not use body wash, but I love me some nice smelly soaps.  I’m not talking Irish Spring, I’m talking the good stuff you can buy at those girly stores like Bath and Body Works and the like.  It pains me to even say it, but I…. *deep breath deep breath* …. I…. know how to spell exfoliation.  And I can’t live without it.

I dig a good chick-flick

  • I recently saw “The Holiday”…… and I liked it.  In fact, I even watched the entire Sex in the City series.  Of course, I do still have a pair of testicles, so there are some lines I just can’t cross – so, I haven’t seen Steel Magnolias or Fried Green Tomatoes.  Though, I might have read “The Bridges of Madison County” and teared up.  (you like how I snuck that last fact in?  So sue me, I read it, I liked it, and I did it for a girl… that I never even hooked up with.  I sure was a sucker on that deal, eh?)

My deepest darkest secret

  • I enjoy reading People Magazine.  And Us Weekly.  Whoa.  Talk about a load off my chest.  It was getting expensive having to keep going to the doctor JUST so I could read the most recent copies. 

 

The 6 Confessions of Why I’m a Man

 

My Massive Tool…… Box

  • I own a huge tool box with just about every hand tool known to mankind.  I haven’t used half of them, but I am prepared incase just about anything breaks.  I even own a 6 inch Medium Mill Bastard File, just incase I ever have to file a bastard.  And yes, power tools give me an erection.

Size Matters

  • When it comes to multi-media products.  I have huge-ass speakers that are totally inappropriate for the size of my apartment.  But who cares?  They look great.  And no, I’m not  compensating.   Though watching action movies on a 50+ inch widescreen TV does make my balls bigger.

I Love Sports

  • If sports are on TV, I cannot tear my eyes away.  It doesn’t matter what sport it is… football, hockey, boxing, UFC, bull riding, golf, tennis, basketball, greco-roman wrestling, badminton, etc.  If it’s on, I’m watching it.  The bloodier, the better.   Multiply this by 623 when Philadelphia sports teams are on the tube.  Hell,  I even teared up when the Phillies won the world series.

I fart/burp

  • Publicly.  And take credit for my work.  That is all.

Grill me

  • I can’t really cook a lick in a kitchen, but stick me in front of a grill, and I can create a gourmet meal.  I think, genetically, all men are able to cook using fire.  It’s like a caveman thing.

I hug

  • No, not a wussy-man hug.  A MAN hug.  My only question is: who was the brilliant person who designed it?  It’s a recent development and whoever designed it needs to win a Nobel or something.   

Bonus Confession

  • I don’t use “product.”  In spite of all you’ve read above, I don’t actually own any moisturizers or anything like that I use on a regular basis… other than deodarant.  I have some sort of aftershavey type stuff, but I haven’t used it in ages.  Sometimes I feel like I really should be using some stuff, but the product aisle always confuses me.  This makes my John Wayne side happy.

So there you have it.  The cat’s out of the bag.  You now know my deepest darkest secrets. 

I’d write more about my feelings and stuff, but I don’t really have time for that right now.

The new US Weekly just came in, and I have some reading to do.

Oprah Pissing Makes Me Hard

I had some real excitement on that first date.  And I don’t mean “excitement” in a good way.  I mean that it in the, oh-shit-I’m-about-to-be-really-embarrassed-and-people-will-talk-about-this-for-years-to-come-and-I’ll-never-live-it-down kind of way.

Or I’ll just harbor the embarrassment for 10 years and blog about it when I can finally find it amusing.

The year is 1998, and I had just moved down to the DC area.  I didn’t really know a whole lot of people, but I was kinda social and ended up meeting a gal through a co-worker at a happy hour.   She was fun.  She was attractive.  She was interesting.  And she apparently really liked tall geeky dudes.  Saweeeeeeeeet.

So…. almost exactly 10 years ago I grew a set of balls and asked her out.

I was young and hadn’t really dated a whole lot before, so I was pretty stoked about the whole thing.

Our first date?  A movie.

Yes yes yes ok ok yes I know I know, I violated one of my own rules – but I hadn’t created the rules list yet, ok?  Get off my back.

So, we meet up at the super classy Centreville Multiplex Cinemas to see “Beloved” – a movie that includes a scene with Oprah Winfrey peeing standing up.  Ok ok, maybe not the best 1st date movie, but I think LiLu would approve.

Anyway, so we find our seats, and have a nice little chit-chat beforehand.  Since we didn’t have any dinner beforehand, it was a good time to get to know each other a little bit better.  It worked out well since the movie started about 30 minutes late, because they apparently forgot to “turn it on.”

But I digress.

So, the lights dim, and we’re sitting there, practically alone in the theater, watching a pretty deep movie about slaves and stuff.

And then it happened.

She touched me.

Apparently this is what happens when you go on a date with someone who likes you.  They touch you.  In completely inappropriate places.  Like on my hand.  AND my arm.

Holyshitholyshitholyshit She’s touching me.  What do I do?  Do I hold her hand?  Do I touch her back?  Do I just grab her boob now and get it over with?  Argh!

So we’re sitting here watching this movie, and I’m internally freaking out because I’m completely clueless.  And excited.  And nervous.

And I have a huge boner.

Fuck! Go away! Stop it! What are you DOING?? This is NOT a sexy movie!  We just saw Oprah Winfrey piss standing up.  And it wasn’t a sexy piss either!  Argh! She’s gonna think I’m a freak because I’m all hard over Oprah.  FFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKK!

Yeah.  I had a HUGE problem.  (and yes, I mean huge *wink wink* )

Firstly, here I am on a first date and I’ve popped a major woody.  Secondly, I had absolutely no way to hide it.  I was wearing a nice flannel shirt, tucked into my acid washed jeans (shut UP, it was 1998 ok???).  It was so obvious I could have just hung a flag from it and we could have all said the pledge of allegience to my crotch.

The Star Spangled Crotch

The Star Spangled Crotch

What the hell do I do?  I don’t want to let go of her hand or accidentally push her away – I like her!  But at the same time, if she sees this, is she going to still like me?  Probably not.

I make the executive decision and shift a bit in my seat.

Ooof.  Ok.  that’s a bit better.  You can’t really see it anymore…. but errgh now my leg is starting to go numb.  Crap.

So, as you can see, this date is going really well by now.

You may not know this about guys, but when we get….er…. excited, it sets off a chain of events that cannot be stopped.  Step 2 of surgation is the release of a small amount of lubricatory liquid.  This is unavoidable.  In normal circumstances, undergarments are enough of a barrier to keep things on the down-low.  But not when your jimmy is straining at your zipper.

Wet spot.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

I try to subtly blow on my crotchel region.  That said, in public it is not possible to subtly blow on your groin and still have it be either 1: subtle or 2: effective.

The spot keeps growing and I start realizing that I’m really in trouble here.  At this point, I start to think that I might be better off if I had just crapped my pants instead.  Maybe not.

Anyway, let’s recap.

We are an hour into date #1.  The girl is touching me completely inappropriately, I have a stiffy the size of the Washington Memorial, and keeping with the DC theme, an appropriately placed “tidal basin.”  Did I mention that I had completely lost feeling in my left leg about 20 minutes earlier?

I figured I had three choices at this point.

  1. Fake death.  If I just slump over and die, maybe she would just get up and leave.  Or when she called 911 and the ambulances comes, I can just explain the wet-spot away as a side-effect from the massive heart attack I apparently had.
  2. Crawl to the bathroom and try to fix things.  Have you ever seen a movie theater floor though??  Yeah, this one was out immediately.
  3. Hope God hears my pleas for help and things clear up before the lights come back up.

Being the optimist I am, I vote for #3.

Another hour goes by, and things don’t get any better.  I try to shift around in my seat, but nothing works.  The wet-spot has subsided a bit, but in its stead, I now have a nasty looking stain.  And both of my legs have fallen asleep.

Hello God, it’s me ToBlogOr.  Why do you only help that Margaret chick?  This isn’t FUNNY ANYMORE.

The movie ends.

[Insert continuous stream of expletives]

I convince her to stay and watch the credits with me… because I really want to know who the assistant 2nd grip is.  Plus, hopefully the extra time will help me formulate a real plan.  A plan that will help me get out of this situation with at least a shred of dignity.  A plan that involves never having to stand up ever again.

We sit…. we wait…… she keeps petting my arm….. I keep sweating….. and bulging….

The credits are winding down, and I’m running out of excuses as to why we have to stay….

Marty Elfalan …. assistant accountant
Pablo Ferro …. title designer: main title sequence
Peg Flynn …. office and stage production assistant
Elena Gavrilova …. assistant: Rachel Portman
Bob George …. invaluable assistance

Invaluable assistance.  heh heh Nice title buddy.  Hmmm… actually. I could really use some invaluable assistance right now….

And then I saw a bright light…

God? Is that you?  Are you coming to save me?  Bob George??????

But no, it was just the theater lights coming back on, and I was on my own.

My date stands up, and I am royally fuck-a-doo’ed.

I start to stand up…. and I do the only thing that came to my head….

I start humping her leg.

Just kidding.

I try to nonchalantly un-tuck my shirt.  It’s a bit awkward, but it gets the job done.  Sort of.

Of course, at this point, she doesn’t really care about my crotch.  Why?  Because both my legs are completely asleep and I have to lean on her for support as we limp out of the movie theater.

Maybe Bob George really did have a plan, since she just ended up thinking I was cute with my whole invalid act… and she agreed to go out with me again

Of course, our 2nd date involved seeing “What Dreams May Come” which is about a guy who dies, and his wife commits suicide…

More hard-ons?

That’s a story for another day…

And another set of underwear.

12 Steps to Becoming a DC Celebrity

Ever want to be a celebrity?  It’s fun to be famous, and whether you realize it or not, ANYONE can be famous at any time.  It’s really up to you to make it happen.

Becoming a celebrity is all about a process.   I mean, you could go out and work really hard and pick up a serious set of skills (or get some major plastic surgery).  But that isn’t necessary.   Since every celebrity has followed the same process,  it is proven that you don’t need to have any visible talent in order to become one.     Why do all the work, when you don’t need to?

That’s why I came up with my list.  I’m here to help you out.

Just realize something:

You can’t become an international star without first being a national star.

12 Steps to Becoming a DC Celebrity

You can’t be a national star, without first being a local star.

12 Steps to Becoming a DC Celebrity

But you need to start someplace.

12 Steps to Becoming a DC Celebrity

So……are you ready to proceed down the road of fame and notoriety?

Great! Let’s go then!

12 steps to becoming a DC Celebrity


Step 1: Have your GF convince you to buy tickets to see Cirque du Soleil.

Advice:  You’ll never become famous by keeping your fat ass planted on your couch.  Get out of your apartment and go someplace where people gather.  They’re only in town for another week, so get your ass in gear!

Step 2: Try to convince other friends to come along, but fail miserably when they use such derogatory references as “gay” and “french”

Advice:  In order to succeed, you must first taste some defeat.  By not being able to convince your friends to hang out with you and your GF, you’ll be extra motivated to do what it takes to become famous.  That’ll teach ’em to diss you!  Plus, no one likes to be called “french.”

Step 3: Purchase tickets online and realize that the price to see the circus has significantly changed since childhood.  The days of $5 tickets are gone.

Advice:  One of the keys to celebrity is spending mass amounts of money.  Why?  Because that’s what celebrities do.  Paying exorbitant prices to see short/fat clowns jaunt around a stage is just the kind of gratuitous expense only a celebrity would make.  It’ll be hard for you to swallow, but it’s a big first step towards attaining your dream.

Step 4: Get caught in massive amounts of traffic on way to “National Harbor”  No, not the Inner Harbor, the NATIONAL Harbor.  Where the fuck is that?  Exactly.

Advice:  In order to reach celebrity status, you have to start by being a big fish in a little pond, so heading to a place that no one knows exists will give you an advantage.  In the DC area, the National Harbor is a perfect spot, since no one goes there.

Step 5: Meet nice group of people at dinner who got confused by Step #4 and actually drove up to Baltimore first.

Advice:  You must meet your potential constituents, and be nice to them.  The dumber the better.  Why dumb?  Well, unless you have some major talent, it’s hard to become a celebrity.  Therefore, you must meet people who are significantly dumber than you, so that they’ll look at you like a star.

Step 6: Surprise GF with front row seats at show.

Advice:  Celebrities always have the best seats.  You want to be seen and that’s hard to do if you are sitting in the nosebleeds.

Step 7:  Have a great laugh with GF when all the clowns keep coming by our seats.  Oh what fun!

Advice:  See, celebrities are always smiling and looking like they are having the time of their life.  Even when freaky ass clowns are harassing you.

Step 8:  Be a random moron.

Advice: This is THE most important step.  By being a random moron, this means that you’ll be chosen to come up on stage during the show and be harassed by the aforementioned clowns.  They don’t pick smart people.  They don’t pre-plan these things.  They ONLY pick random morons from the audience because they are easier more fun to pick on.

Step 9: Endure clown tickling, leg humping, skipping, dancing, and crotch zapping at the amusement of about a thousand of your closest friends.

Advice:  I never said becoming a celebrity was easy.   You don’t even wanna know how many legs were humped in order to get Brittany Spears her first record deal.

Step 10: Exit stage left to much applause and handshaking.

Advice:  Leaving gracefully is key.  You might have been embarrassed, but people only remember the last thing they see.  Yes, you might have had your zipper open on stage, but no one cares.   No on remembers that stuff.  They only remember that you were on stage, and that means you must be special.  A celebrity!  However,  if you trip down the steps on your way out?  1 word: Fucked.

Step 11:  Say things such as “yep, I was the guy on stage” and “Thanks, glad you thought I was super funny” while walking around the tent during intermission, after the show, and on the shuttle bus back to the parking garage.

Advice:  Acknowledging your own celebrity is a key component of being a celebrity.  If you think you are a nobody, everyone else will think you are a nobody.

Step 12:  Realize that fortune doesn’t necessarily come with fame.

Advice:  Just because people know who you are, doesn’t mean you’ll be rich.  True, you might sign an autograph here or there, but don’t rush right out and purchase that sweet Aston Martin yet.  You see, in order to make money, you actually have to have some sort of skills.  Though, if you play your cards just right, you might get asked to star in an Indonesian Soap Opera, and then you’ll be on your way to international stardom!

————-

So there you have it.  If you follow each and every one of these steps, your success is guaranteed.

Because, as shown by my recent experience one fine evening this week.

Any moron can be famous for a moment.  Even me.

My Big Ass Mouth

My co-workers and I take a quick break to grab some coffee.  Unfortunately, our coffee maker is broken, so we have to head over to the executive office area and use theirs. 

I work for a Fortune 500 type company, and over the next couple of days, there’s all sorts of big time meetings going on, and all the executives are actually in town for once.  So, as we walk into the area, I quip, “I better watch my mouth, you never know who is walking around here!”  Everyone kind of snickers and we move on.

Co-worker 1 to Co-worker 2: Have you read ToBlogOr’s entry yet today?  It’s funny.

Co-worker 2:  Nope not yet.

Me:  Nah, you’ll know she’s read it when she barfs all over her desk.

CEO who happened to be walking by JUST at that moment: …………………..

Yeah.  Me and my big mouth strike again.

TMI Thursday: Work Edition

I’m pretty sure this is going to be the best (worst?) TMI Thursday post ever.  LiLu over at Live, it Love it inspired me with her post on Tuesday about her first day of work.  And it got me thinking about my first day at my last job.

I learned a lot that first day of work, and 1 important lesson will stick with me for a lifetime.

You know when you buy new shoes you can “wear them out” of the store?  Well, apparently you can do the same thing with new boxers at the Gap.

Maybe I should start at the beginning……

It was April 2005 and I was massively nervous.  Why?  Because I was just about to embark on a new job and a completely new career.  Even though I was brand spankin’ new at this stuff, I’m not completely moronic, and was able to negotiate myself into a pretty nice position at my shiny new company.  That said, while all my peers were about my age, they were also all significantly more experienced than me. 

I hate it when people know more than me.  It makes me nervous.  Being nervous gives me gas.  And I had bad gas.  Really bad gas.

It started right at the beginning of the day, when I transformed from ToBlogOr the sterling-new-employee, to ToBlogOr the fart-o-matic.

 Work Edition

To the front desk assistant:

Me: Good morning! I’m ToBlogOr, it’s my first day. *fartfart* I’m supposed to meet Lisa – where should I go? *fartfartaudiblefartfart*

FDA: Welcome! Just go ahead and sit down in the waiting room and I’ll call up for her.  She’ll be here momentarily.

Me: Ok! *fartfartfart*

Me: *Waiting* *fartfartfartreallystinkyfartfart*

*Lisa walks in, breathing normally*

L: Good morning ToBlogOr! coughcough It’s coughcough nice to coughcough see you.  Hmm it smells like someone might have left rotting carcasses spilled something in here, lets coughcough go out to a conference room to talk. coughcough

Me: Uhhh, yeah, I noticed it uhh smelled a little funny when I uhhhh walked in.

L (while walking with me down the hall): Oh hi Steve, this is ToBlogOr, he’s just starting with us today.

Me: Hi Steve, great to meet you! *fartfartfart*
 
S: Great to meet you.  Looking forward to coughcoughcoughgagcoughcough Excuse me please. *walks away dry heaving*
 
Me: Who was that?
 
L: Oh, Steve?  He’s the president of the company.
 
Me: Oh.  *fartfartfartfartfartfartfartfartfartfart*
 
So, let’s review. 
 
I’ve been at my new job for about 15 minutes and I’ve already gassed the secretary, the HR lady, and the president of the company.  In fact, in those 15 minutes, my ass was the 4th largest gas producer on Earth.
 
Great. 
 
I’m so fucked.  I can see it already, Steve is going to go talk to the IT guy about the smelly new guy and my email address is going to be fartface03@company.com
 
So anyway,  Lisa and I talk for about an hour and I do my best to keep my butt cheeks clamped as tight as possible.  Last thing I need is a police investigation about the death of a local DC HR officer from unknown sulfur and methane gas emissions.
 
We finish, and I’m off to find my new desk and computer. 
 
Unfortunately, the company has been running out of office space, so instead of having a nice little office or cubicle to myself, which could privately contain my gaseous emissions….. they stick me at a desk in the middle of the hallway, right next to the main printer.
 
FUCK!
 
So, for the next 2 hours or so, I basically gas every employee at the company.  They must have thought I wasn’t very nice, since I was so embarrassed I never even looked up when someone walked by or stopped at the printer.
 
Ok, ok.  Enough of this.  I should go to the bathroom and see if I can do anything about this problem. 
 
So I search out the bathroom, sulfur smell in hot pursuit.
 
[Editor’s note:  Why hadn’t I gone to the bathroom earlier?  Well, if you haven’t been keeping tabs, I’m not a huge fan of pooping in public bathrooms.  But since my career was at stake here, I had to suck it up.]
 
As I’m trying to decide which stall looks best, I feel a HUGE fart coming on… since I was alone in the bathroom, and without thinking, I just let ‘er RIP.
 
Except.
 
It wasn’t a fart.
 
KABLOOOOOIEE!!!!!!
 
I just shit my pants.
 
And I didn’t just shit my pants.  I totally explosively diarrhea’d my pants.
 
You know the saying “shit rolls downhill” right?  Well, apparently it drips down the leg as well.
 
There aren’t enough expletives on earth to explain what went through my mind in that moment.  Thankfully, I’m a quick thinker, and just about as fast I could, I dove into the closest stall, whipped off my pants/boxers, and planted my ass on the toilet.
 
Problem solved, right?  NOOOOOOOOOO!
 
Problem 1: I had a pair of boxers that were absolutely destroyed.  And when I say destroyed, I mean completely shit soaked.  The biggest problem is that boxers are un-flushable.  The last thing I needed right then was to clog a toilet, so I had to figure out what to do with them.  It was like I had just murdered someone and had to dispose of the murder weapon.  Except in this case, the murder weapon was a pair of extra-soiled boxers.
 
Problem 2:  I was in possession of a very nice pair of khaki’s with a huge brown shit stain from the ass part right down my leg. 
 
Work Edition

What. The. Fuck. Do. I. Do.

Here it is my first day of work, I’ve gassed out the whole company, and now I’ve shit my pants.  There’s no way I can walk out of the bathroom without any pants on and still keep my job.  But, if I wear my pants, there’s no way I can get through the day without people barfing on me from the smell.

I tried to quickly formulate a plan. 

Hmm this toilet paper is pretty hardy.  Maybe I can weave it together tightly into a new pair of boxers and pants.  Damnit, if only I had my loom. 

I created a small diaper out of TP, but it ended up sort of looking like a thong.  Since I’m not really a thong kind of guy, I decided it was best to just go commando and I put my pants back on.

Then I waited.

Once the coast was clear – in one swift cat-like motion I exploded out of the stall while simultaneously shoving my tp-wrapped soiled boxers as far down into the trashcan as I could get them.

I had several things going for me at that moment.  Firstly, it was lunchtime, so not too many people were around, and secondly, the bathroom was right next to the stairwell.

Out of the bathroom and down the stairs I bounded – going 6 floors in a world record time of 4.2 seconds.

I ran out onto the street.

FREE!! WOO!! I’m out!!

Uhhhh. What do I do now?

Since it was my first day on the job and I didn’t really know the area, I had no idea where to go. Luckily I had my cell phone on me, and I called the only person I could think of. 

My girlfriend.

I spoke quickly and gave just the most relevant facts.

Me: Shit myself. Need new pants quickly.  In middle of DC.  Where do I go?

Her: ……………

Thankfully, there was a Gap only about 4 blocks from me.  After sprinting to the store, hoping no one caught a glimpse/whiff, I was able to purchase a new pair of pants and some boxers.  My career was saved!

Oh, and there was 1 positive that came out of all of this.

At least I didn’t have to fart anymore.