Say hello to Colleen...

I just wanted to take a minute and welcome Colleen to my account. After more than 200 submissions for my account from twitter and tumblr, I made the final decision to hand my account over to @artismyporn tonight at midnight.

Colleen is a tremendously funny lady with a sense of humor that I personally have admired since I first started on twitter. I think she'll do my account proud and I'm certain that you'll all fall madly and deeply in love with her.

I want to take a minute to give a big thank you to @getoffendedBone. When I told him I was leaving, I first wanted him to just tweet tit and vag jokes from my account. With 5,000 followers, I figured he could use it to his advantage. He refused. Then I asked him to just shut his account down and move to mine and tweet his own stuff there. With 5,000 followers, why let it go to waste. He refused. I didn't want to just twittercide... Travis refused to take over my account... we came up with a plan.

I think that plan was successful today. We (I say "we" loosely as Travis pulled the "it's all your decision" card and made me do this on my own) are handing my account over to someone I feel will do it justice and hopefully get a lot of joy out of it in return.

Take note people, when someone leaves twitter, they don't all just vanish for no reason or go down in a hate fueled rage of "fuck you and fuck you too and you're shits not funny". I'm going out with a smile, a wave and a kiss goodbye. I love you all and thank you for the laughs, the joy, the fun and the friendships.

A few thank you's before I go:
@getoffendedBone @_Vaginasaurus @Love_Gunn @pixiebelz @snowness @2ndcitysaint @ronniewk @im_tricia @theblessmess @PortlandiaGirl @idstandonthat @lastpodstanding @EasilyTempted @badadvicenurse @thethryll @poppa_steve @thebestmonkey @funsizdprincess @tamytoo2 @islander_DI @slashleen @angrylittlebee @freckless @ trialfemme @travelmonkey @redwithevny @eviloi @slyoung5 @dietredbull @ragekat @BohoPoetGirl @PlatinumShower @Cherhole @shariv67 @goldengateblond @littleharmonica @momfia @sugartits84 @billmc7 @mrfornicator @molly_kats @vagstar @UNTRESSOR @StellaRtwot @schwat @HairyJew4Life @rodney_at_large @cfishing @outofgrips @hannahantics @dumbnotdeaf @relocatable @happyhourjack @yolanda5angels @llvvzz @hoochified @filthyrichmond @tweetlebee @kervinf @wittyclitty @redicupidity @tylr1717 @Coy0teUgly @heyitslori @therealladyluck @ticking_tocking @pyrbliss @beingtheo @CroweJam @HaHaWhitePPL @lunchyprices @dannydogmouth @PaulyPeligroso @crocpunch @Paxochka @DrTwittenheimer @shelbyfero

Who wants my account?

After talking to @getoffendedBone yesterday, we decided that the coolest thing we could do is give my account away to someone who could use the account and it's 5,000+ followers to bring more smiles and laughs and help them get their voice heard. I want to pay this forward.

Here's what we're thinking. We'd like someone willing to move their account to this one, keep the laughs going and enjoy the opportunity to make people smile. The only thing we ask is the person who takes it over, from time to time, gives credit to GetOffended.com for the account as well as leaves GetOffended.com in the bio. You'd need to leave the account named "@getoffendedcom" for at least 30 days too, just to make sure people know who it is. You can change the avi immediately however.

That's it. Account is yours. Just asking for a little credit. It's the least I can do for the company that gave me a decade of joy. This is gonna be a "in good faith" transaction. No contracts or anything, just a jizz covered handshake.

If after the person who gets the account has it awhile and, for whatever reason, they are done and want to move on, we ask that they turn the account back over to GetOffended.com or do the same. Pay it forward.

I'm not sure if this has ever been done before or if it's a good idea, but god damn it, I want to try it.

If you're interested, send an email to submissions@getoffended.com. Include your twitter account name and a short note on why you want my account. We'll be looking for someone whose timeline is humorous, dirty, funny, fucked up and entertaining. We'll also be looking for someone with a follower account high enough to prove that you're serious and not gonna flake out after a month, but low enough that this is an opportunity that you deserve.

I think that's it. If you have any questions, send them to submissions@getoffended.com. One of us will check the account and reply accordingly. We're hoping to give this thing over by next weekend.

C'mon people, this is gonna be fun!

Love,
Angie

Where did Angie go?

The few people that I talk to outside of twitter know that on May 30th, I left the US for the summer traveling abroad. My tweeting has been spotty at best. I'd attempted to setup a few guest tweeters but both fell through. I've tried my best to stay up on twitter and the blog but real life has shoved it's foot in the door.

I left the US as I do every summer for a retreat from reality. This year, however, I had ulterior motives. Real Life was getting a little too much to take on a daily basis. It was time to pull up stakes and make some huge changes. I'd been in a rut for more than a decade, unable to move past a few simple truths.

Life has been good. Work has been great. I'm a lucky girl. I have friends that care about me and family that looks out for my best interests. I'm blessed in those regards, but I was still not happy.

I was tired of being single. I have a bad habit of wanting what everyone else has. This doesn't work out so well for the single girl. Especially when those you pine over are worth the pining over in the first place then, in second place, are never going to be the type of person to forget that they are the worth the pining over type person and be the shitty person I want them to be for just a second and break someone else's heart just to be the worth pining over person I know they are, for me. Yeah, time to rethink things. And breathe.

I picked up stakes, sold my house, and quit my day job to take a traveling sales position that is based in Helsinki but works out of Kowloon. I was going to continue to work with GetOffended.com but I've decided things will be better for me if I just avoid social media all together for a while. For other reasons all together.

The girl I played on twitter was not me. Sorta. She was a character I thought was interesting. I'm not the sexually flirtatious, over the top, alcoholic I portrayed. BUT, I was slowly turning into her. When your virtual life starts to dictate your real life antics, things need to change.

Change I did. As of now, I'm effectively stepping away from everything I've known and opening a new door. To all the friends I've made in real life and online, thank you for always being there. To the few people I've had the joy of meeting in real life in Chicago and Orlando, I had more fun than you'll ever know. To the few people who I let into my inner sanctum via Skype, I'm sorry my living room was always full of laundry baskets and dogs. ;) And to the few people I'm leaving behind in real life, I love you all. I'd have never made it this far without you. I mean that. You're the reason I'm as strong as I am and the reason I've finally decided to step up and put myself first. I love you now and I always will.

What does this all mean?

It means that @getoffendedcom is an open account. I'm not tweeting from it anymore. I'm only going to log in when I'm done with this letter and direct you to the blog to read it. Right now it's 4:40pm here so I'm about to go out for my last night in town before picking up and getting on another plane again tomorrow. Since the account is in the name of GetOffended.com which I've been a part of for more than a decade, I'm giving it back in hopes that they'll use it for the company or find someone else to take it over rather than just shutting it down. I'm not the twittercide type.

Don't be sad for me. I'm moving upward and onward. I may be back in time. I just need the space to make the hard choices.

I want to take this last second to thank a few people who I can't bring myself to do so face to face. You can stop reading here, this may get a little girly.

Thanks Dad, sorry I missed Father's Day. Life wouldn't be what it is without you.
Thanks Mom, sorry I missed Father's Day. Take care of Dad. (j/k, love you too)
Thanks Sis, I know we don't get along, but you're a big influence and someone I've always looked up to.
Thanks Craig for being the best boss a girl could ever have. Letting me take time away from work for play, soccer, GetOffended, traveling, alcoholic binging in Florida and traveling for the summer. WIthout you, I'd have been stuck in insurance for decades.
Thanks Annie for being my rock. And by rock, I mean the rock holding my extra bed to the ground for years. I love you more than you'll ever know and I miss you already.
Thanks Kristin for always forcing me to see on the bright side of life. Your smile I'll miss most.
Thanks Mike for being my knight in shining armor on many occasions.
Thanks Travis for taking me under your wing and helping me get to where I am. Thanks for being there when I needed you and not leaving me alone when I wanted you to. You're the friend every girl needs but hates having. You were always the one who wanted me to think for myself and put me first, I'm finally doing it. ;D
Thanks to all my closest online friends for being my go-to happy people. The love I've received through twitter over the last year has been overwhelming to say the least. It's what has given me the strength and determination to put one foot in front of the other and make the hard choices.
Thanks to GetOffended.com for giving me a voice and putting money in my pocket when I needed it most. I hate leaving, this has been the best family of friends since I can't remember when. I'll always be available to you and if you ever need anything, please let me know.

And with that, I'm out. Be nice to my people. Buy some shirts from GetOffended.com and be good to whoever takes over my account. Don't forget, I may still write in the blog here from time to time and check out Bone's Tumbler too.

And with that, the alcohol beckons.

Love always,
Angie

An ode to "Hey, how's your week?" Friends

You know what the best part about social media is? The free psychotherapy. Hear me out. Most of the time, when you’re depressed, worried or confused you just need someone to clarify what’s important and give you a moment to think it through for yourself. Sometimes this is harder face to face. Sometimes this is impossible with someone you can’t hide from. Enter social media.

If you’re on twitter for discounts, news and the latest gossip concerning what celeb is eating where and when she’s having her poodle manicured, then you’re missing out on the friendships and communities that thrive in this world.

It’s great for laughs, flirting and killing time, but if you’re lucky, you can actually make a friend or two. If you’re really lucky, you can even fall in love. Don’t laugh, I’ve seen it. I’ve watched people start out in @ replies and end up relocating across the country.

I’ve seen it go horribly wrong too. Someone shuts down their account unexpectedly and leaves the rest of their friends here asking, “What happened?”

Social media can become more than “hey, look at me!” and turn into “hey, how’s your week?” Instead of talking to everyone, you start talking to someone. Many someones. You’ve established “hey, how’s your week?” friends. These can be incredibly strong bonds too. You’ll see people who’ve never met face to face, throw down online to defend someone’s honor. They’ll morn their losses. They’ll rejoice in their triumphs.

“Hey, how’s your week?” friends are the greatest thing to have in your corner when you’re just fighting to make it out of the round. These friends will go out of their way to cheer you up and give you a virtual shoulder to cry on. It’s easy to confide in someone and lend support when you can choose your words before clicking send.

There’s enough trust to feel confident and just enough anonymity to be brave.

Sometimes, putting your problems in front of you is enough. Writing it out to read back and try to look at it from a different angle. Other times it feels good to just share your problems. Blogs can be therapeutic both for the writer and the reader.

“There, I got that out. I feel better.” vs “I didn’t know anyone else felt the same way I do.”

I was dealing with a lot of shit a few weeks back. Without twitter and the blog, I’d have went nuts. Thanks to those of you who read what I wrote, let me vent and offered support. I appreciate it more than you’ll know.

Don’t discredit social media and the online friends you can make or the benefits they offer. Take the time to ask for help. Take the time to offer it.

Stripping Rule #1 - Stretching is NOT optional

In 1996, a good friend got married. Me, being the best man, was entitled to throw a Bachelor Party. I’ve been the best man six times since this wedding so throwing a Bachelor Party is kind of a no-brainer. Now. Back then, not so much.

There were 12 of us. Some under 21, some over 30. This is where the problems started. What do you do where the underaged can have as much fun as the middle aged? Going to a dry, 18 and up topless bar is not the answer. After 2 hours and untold amounts of singles given watching backwoods midwestern girls spin their pasties, we decided to look for greener pastures.

The obvious choice was to hire a stripper.

A little background is needed here. In 1996, the internet was around, but it was basically AOL, dial up and chat rooms. You still had phonebooks and cell phones were of the 2 lb flip variety. In order to hire a stripper, we had to drive 40 miles to my empty house and start perusing the phone book. Strippers, under “S” right?

The drunken late night phone conversations that followed in an attempt to hire a stripper were hilarious in and of themselves. Who knew finding a stripper would be so difficult. Hair color, eye color, race, age, 1 girl or 2, do you want them to “entertain themselves” why we watch, etc, etc, etc… We ended up settling for “We’ve got just the girl for you. She’s blonde, young and ready to party.”

From here, the party split, half cleaning the house, half making a liquor run. After about an hour, the liquor search party stomps back in with, no lie, “someone in your neighborhood is dating a hooker…” What? Just then there’s a knock at the door.

What my friend mistook for a hooker walking down our sidewalk was in fact, our stripper… accompanied by the biggest, baddest, blackest bouncer I’ve ever seen. Think Grape Ape but not purple. And instead of being on top of a van he was in my doorway, towering over a tiny blonde holding a boombox, asking “did you order a girl?”

Yes, sir, we most certainly did.

We had cleared my living room out so that there were seats around the perimeter and an area suitable for whatever she was planning on doing. Also, I need to point out that not a single one of us had ever seen a stripper. We were basing everything solely on the movies we’d seen involving this scenario and the many many “Dear Penthouse, you’re not gonna believe this…” letters we’d read over our misspent youths. The girl introduced herself as Annie and she directed us to take our seats, she’d take care of the rest. She pointed to Grape Ape and told us to say hi to Cocoa.

“K. O. K. O. like the gorilla,” he said. Apparently there was going to be a spelling exam later in the evening. (Grape Ape doesn’t sound so racist now, does it?).

“Hi Koko.”

Annie, turned on her tape deck to Motley Crue’s “Smokin’ in the Boys Room” and she went right into her dance in the middle of the room. Before the end of the song, it became obvious she should have limbered up. Whenever she twisted sexily or bent over, her joints sounded like they were filled with bubble wrap. It was so bad, I was getting concerned.

Finally she starts to make her way toward me because I’m the only one holding any cash.

Let me pause and explain a little further. It was decided that instead of all of us spending our dollars on this girl, we’d pool all of our cash and just give it to her when she got there and just let her have fun and do her thing. We thought that was the honorable thing to do. Annie wasn’t having it. She took her agreed upon fee then told us we were to only give her tips if she deserved it. I was left holding the wad of $300 - $400 in 5’s and 1’s. What we ended up doing was just passing the wad around, Annie following it like a puppy after a laser pointer. Dance, Dance, Pass.

Anyway, here comes Annie with a lapdance. We’re a very tame crew so it was nearly silent at this point. A few giggles and cat calls for the lap dancee’s benefit, but for the most part, we were being very well behaved. This was obviously what prompted Annie’s next move.

She leans into my ear and whispers in a sexy raspy voice, “I want you to go get me a glass of water, sugar. And take Koko with you. Make him stay in the kitchen. I want some alone time with you boys.”

Up I go, heading to the kitchen, taking a detour in Koko’s direction. “Mr Koko, Annie said to ask you to go to the kitchen.” If I remember correctly, I had to look up at Koko to give this request, regardless of the fact that he was sitting in a folding chair.

Koko follows me to the kitchen where he takes a seat at the kitchen table and pulls a book out of his back pocket. “No worries. That just means she feels safe with you guys.” Koko could apparently read my apprehension to asking him to stay in the kitchen.

I reached into the sink and grabbed a cup. Not a normal cup, mind you, because I’m a jackass. No, I grabbed a plastic Kool-Aid Man cup received as a prize for collecting Kool-Aid points throughout college. It was the only clean cup in the strainer. Don’t judge me. Thinking Annie wanted the water to hydrate, I grabbed ice water from the fridge and filled it up.

Back in the living room, Annie was completely naked at this point with one foot on top of the back of my couch and the other on the arm, her hands on the head of the best man… grinding herself as close to his face as possible. Everyone else is in total silence. Not a word spoken or uttered. It was surreal to say the least. Annie sees me approaching and hops down. Snap, crackle, pop.

“Do you need to stretch out or something?”

“Thanks for the water, now sit back down and relax”… Annie stands up on my coffee table and slowly begins to pour the ice water down her chest. The sheer shock of the subzero beverage coupled with her overactive synovial fluid sends her foot off the coffee table, falling face first into the crotch of one of my friends who jumps up quickly, grabbing his balls, in turn sending Annie flipping over again, spilling the remainder of the cup’s contents all over herself and the best man.

The book must have had Koko’s full attention because the chaos only prompted a “You okay?” from his direction.

“Yep, I meant to do that.” And with that she was up and continued with her lapdance.

After a while, Annie suggests that we take turns laying on our backs with a bill over our face which she’ll pick up strategically, hands free. Ok? I’m confused at this point. (It was 1996 and we were young remember).

My brother sits on the ground in front of me, $20 on his face from chin to forehead. Here comes Annie, eyes locked on me, straddling my brother. She starts to squat over his face,… the snapping, crackling and popping get louder. And louder. Slowly she sways her ass from side to side as enticingly as possible…. until…. her fucking knee gives out. She goes to grab for me to steady herself, but seeing her hand coming at my junk, I jump back and out of the way (damn relfexes). Nothing to steady herself on, Annie crumples like a beer can at a frat party, planting her lady parts square on my brother’s face.

Annie’s legs are at odd angles so as she struggles to get up, she’s pulling herself back and forth, burying herself deeper on his face. Finally, she falls forward, completely nude save the $20 bill sticking out of her ass. My brother jumps up and runs to the bathroom.

Dead silence.

Annie rolls over and goes, “Fuck, you guys know how to party!”

From here, Annie did a few more dances, then ended up hanging out with us for about 3 hours while we just shot the shit and finished the beer and liquor. Even Koko came out of the kitchen and had a few. All in all, the Bachelor Party was a success.

EPILOGUE: My brother finally came out of the bathroom with the story that he was scrubbing his face just in case he got home and his wife could smell stripper on his breath. About a year later, I ran into “Annie” (it was not her real name I came to find out) at the University of Cincinnati in an Art History lecture class of 500+ people. I recognized her, but assumed she had no clue who I was. Leaving the class one day, we walked out together by coincidence. I said hi, she said hi. Ten steps into the courtyard, she turns to me and says, “Kool-Aid cup? Really?” laughed and walked away.

BASEBALL RULES - according to the Glossary of Perversion

I hate baseball. These are the rules of baseball as it pertains to sex and dating…

Baseball Rules - Dating status of (by popular recognition) a couple where their level of success on each date is based on Baseball’s succession of the bases. The rules are as follows:
1) First Base - The couple have partaken in making out, and possibly light petting. In some areas, visual confirmation of boobs is also included in a single to “First Base”.
2) Second Base - The couple have partaken in making out, playing with boobs and heavy petting including but not limited to fingering the girl, and stroking the guy. No orgasms generally happen at “Second Base”.
3) Leading Off Second - The couple have partaken in making out, playing with boobs and heavy petting including but not limited to fingering the girl, and stroking the guy. One (or both) of the couple have reached orgasm directly due to the heavy petting of “Second Base”.
4) Third Base - The couple have partaken in making out, playing with boobs, heavy petting including but not limited to fingering of the girl, and the stroking of the guy, and oral stimulation of one or both of the couple. No orgasms generally occur because of the activity occurring at “Third Base”.
5) Rounding Third - The couple have partaken in making out, playing with boobs, heavy petting including but not limited to fingering of the girl, and the stroking of the guy, and oral stimulation of one or both of the couple. One (or both) of the couple have reached orgasm directly due to the Oral Sex of “Third Base”.
6) Reaching Home - The couple have partaken in making out, playing with boobs, heavy petting including but not limited to fingering of the girl & the stroking of the guy, Oral stimulation of one or both of the couple (orgasm optional), and penetration. In other words, they did it all, ending in sex. All acts have to take place in the same date for it to be considered “Reaching Home”.
7) Home Run - The couple have partaken in fucking without effort (without foreplay) on a date. This is considered a “Home Run” because they didn’t have to worry about getting from “First Base” to “Second” and from “Second” to “Third” and so on. They stepped to the plate and pretty much scored.


Source: GlossaryOfPerversion.com

Our version of the "Flash Mob", the "Flashing Mob"

After having a little one-on-one with @OMGnakie tonight in regards to a stunt I’ve wanted to pull off for about 10 years, I think now is the time to make this happen.

Among my friends, there has been a long standing joke about how we want to hire a few strippers willing to do a public striptease in an inopportune place at an inopportune time.

Here is what I am proposing: 3-5 experienced and willing strippers (age, race, hair color non-specific), ready to strip down to the barest of legal attire (ie. bikini bottoms and duct tape ala Maya Von Doll), one portable radio with a copy of Motley Crue’s “Girls Girls Girls” (I know this is beyond cheesey, but that’s kind of the point), a covert camera operator to catch it on film, a spotter (ready to press play on the stereo), a getaway vehicle with a skilled wheel man and a location sure to bring about chaos and mayhem.

I should also point out that being arrested is a total possibility if the proper precautions and necessary escape routes aren’t in place. Being privy to Base jumping in Cincy, Ohio an escape plan is doable and executable. Avoiding arrest shouldn’t be hard if properly planned ahead of time taking into consideration the allotted time for police to arrive and an escape vehicle waiting, out of sight, but in the wings.

As far as a proper (improper) place for this “Flashing Dance”, we’ve considered everything from Best Buy the day after Christmas to The Creation Museum in Northern Kentucky. A few other possibilities are Bob Evans on a Sunday morning at 10:00am, Labor Day sale at Bed Bath & Beyond and in line the night of the sneak peak for “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2”.

The key to making this work is the crowd and speed. Getting the stripping going and done before the song ends and the cops arrive is monumental.

I am completely willing to help fund the first “Flash Dance” as long as GetOffended.com gets credit when the video goes viral. And believe me, it fucking will.

Assholes to Assholes

This is why I should never be allowed to make a present for anyone… With GetOffended.com, I have various resources at hand as well as the lack of cooth necessary to take a child’s game and have an entirely new experience created. What you see is “Assholes to Assholes”, the X-Rated adult version of ”Apples to Apples”, made primarily to enhance an evening of alcohol consumption between friends with a complete disregard for good taste.

Before you ask, yes, every card is real. Hundreds of cards… all sick, all twisted. No, the game is not for sale. Although I’d love to offer it mass retail, even I know when taking something to the lawyer is gonna be a waste of the $200/hour consultation to hear, “are you fucking kidding me?”

Misery loves company

I wear many different hats. I put them on and take them off so frequently and with such smooth transitions that, at times, I don't know which hat I have on. I have the boss hat, the parent hat, the coach hat. There's the husband, son, the brother, the lover, the fighter, mentor, friend and drunk. Plus I can't forget the insomniac, the clown, the director, writer or the artist either. So many hats.

Of all the hats, there's one that I wish I wore more. Once upon a time, I was an artist. No, really. I was a commissioned, payed to create, professional artist. I have the college degree to prove it (or disprove it depending on your stance). Somewhere along the way, I went from the artist, to the teacher, then to The Man. I still work in a creative capacity, but I spend more time directing people to create for me than I do involved in the process myself. I went to college to be a fine artist and a fiction writer. After 7 years, I graduated at age 23 with the degree I now use, a BSA in Industrial Design. Basically I became an inventor.

I like what I do, and being an insomniac and a workaholic I get my hands in nearly everything, but it's unsatisfying at times. Watching someone else create something based on your idea and concept blurs the line of who the outcome belongs to intellectually. Is it mine because I had the vision and approved the result or is it the artist who brought the creation to fruition? I tend to give all the credit to the artist.

Here's where I am going to start rambling…

Doing what I do, I end up surrounded by artists. Both in my professional life and in my personal life. If you are truly surrounded by artists you'll understand this. If not, I'm going to lose you. Also, friends that play musical instruments, graphic artists and the friend who makes jewelry are not necessarily artists. They CAN be, but not necessarily and definitely not usually. The artist is the person whose life revolves around their creativity. Every moment of every day is leading toward their next moment of creative genius. They are usually single, because no one can put up with them and their obsession. They are usually addicted to multiple things which may or may not include drugs, alcohol and sex. They usually have obsessive personalities and a total disregard for anything, everything and everyone besides their own passions. Many are black holes of despair and self destruction, one bad night away from death or rock bottom. But they can all do beautiful things.

Suicide is also a likely outcome when someone lives for their own creativity. I've seen more death and suicide than I care to talk about. Everything from self inflicted gunshots to driving their car at top speed into the propane tank on the back of the movie theater we all used to work at. I've seen overdoses and car crashes and even an alcohol induced coma. But they all did beautiful things.

Recently I had a very close friend experience rock bottom. I unfortunately laid witness to her collapse as she fell from the top branch of her tree, limb by limb, to the rocky ground below. The fall took years, and she would fall 2 branches, climb up 1, fall 3, climb up 2, over and over until she was finally standing on the lowest branch. She asked for support in all directions, but by then there was none to give. She had to fall. It was inevitable. I know this now, but coming to this conclusion has been very difficult to say the least. I've seen her do beautiful things.

Surrounding yourself with these kinds of people can be wonderful and horrible all at the same time. Having that artist hat in my closet, I have more sympathy and understanding for their plights than most. When I'm at my lowest, my creativity is at it's highest. Feeling the pain of life lets you tap into the raw root of everything that is holy to the creative soul. Happiness begets greeting cards. Despair opens doors to the art the world will remember centuries from now.

I personally hate watching someone fail, but I'm also the guy who gets more entertainment from the human condition than most. That includes people's failures and successes. For some reason though, the failures are more intriguing. Especially when you get to witness the recovery as well. Think about your favorite movie or book. I can almost guarantee there is a point in there where the main character feels a crushing blow, devastating destruction or loss... Now, what's your favorite part? Is it the falling down or the getting back up? Or both?

Misery loves company, happiness is infectious and the world would be a boring fucking place without beautiful things.


For Kay.

Gather round for an epic campfire story....

The following was originally posted in several parts on Twitter. Because it seemed to be enjoyed, I'm reposting here. It's gathered in 140 character tweets so just excuse the format....

By request, and because @getoffendedcom isn't around today, I'm about to post an epic story for twitter which is 100% true. I'll change

some of the names to protect the innocent, but other than that I'll depict it in it's glorious fashion.

Circa 1994, Country Concert in Ohio. Kinda like Coachella for drunken inbred rednecks. Those that know me, know I have only 2 allergies...

Penicillin and Country music... but since Country Concert is a weekend excuse for alcohol & sex away from home, it's a big summer thing even

for those not going for the music. A group of bout 20 of us from our HS went up for 4th of July weekend. Day one was normal, drinking galore

and the promise of a few precursory hook ups for Saturday night. Everyone woke up Saturday morning in the heat & started pounding beer early

too early. Way too early. Being 16, 17 & 18, those kinds of decisions aren't made with the clarity of past experience. By mid afternoon...

people were already hurling behind trailers and sleeping it off in tents. Things turned from alcohol to liquor late in the afternoon when...

the girls started to put their whore hats on and began suggesting moonlight rendezvous with their guy(s) (or girl) of choice. With alcohol

in the air and the sun going down, things started to take a twist for the worst. One chick in particular started to make her rounds. First

with one guy, then about an hour later with a second, then a third... she was out of hand. I also need to point out that her hame was "Tera"

This will come into play a little later. At this point, the music is done and things are in full party mode among all the campsites. Tera...

makes her way over to my campfire and in a drunken slur asks who is next. One of my friends jumps up and grabs her by the hand to lead her

into his tent much to the dismay of the rest of us. Sloppy 4ths at this point (or so our drunken logic had surmised) wasn't the most...

appealing to say the least, but "C" (we'll just call him C) took her up on her offer anyway. After 5 minutes we hear screaming coming from

the tent. Then a series of "what the fucks" and "are you fucking kidding me?" then shrieking. The tent is going apeshit at this point...

pulling the stakes out of the ground and making it's way toward the creek. We all jump up to see what the fuck is going down when C crawls

out from one side of the tent in his boxers and Tera rolls out from the other side with her shirt in her hands and runs off between the

other tents. C just stands there panting, then turns to us before he starts laughing his ass off screaming "holy fucking shit! You're never

gonna believe this!" He sits back down at the fire, putting his jeans back on and this is the story he told...

C got her in the tent and she pulled her skirt up and was ready, drunk but ready. He told her that after all the guys before him he wanted

her ass or she wasn't get anything. LOTS of alcohol on both their part at this point I have to add to be fair. She obliged and got up on all

fours... BY THE WAY... it's obviously gonna get pretty NSFW from here. Take action accordingly. yeah right.

C spits on her ass, but he's so cotton mouthed at this point, he can't spit, so he decides to take a drink of his beer and spit that on her

ass instead. She'll never know right? Well he proceeds to rub his dick in the PBR and then shove in as best as his alcohol filled dick will

allow. Which, I am assuming wasn't very much. Tera starts to get concerned at what is going on and according to C, she turns around over her

shoulder and says, "here let me help". Whatever drunken logic went through her head, who knows, but as best we can figure, she attempted to

"loosen her ass up" by relaxing to let him in. Unbeknownst to C, she had so much beer in her system and hadn't shit all day that this simple

act of relaxation "let open the cage door" for what she'd been holding all day.

At this point in C's story, the rest of us are literally rolling on the ground pissing ourselves laughing by firelight to the point we were

being told to keep it down by other campsites. Back to his story. C says at that moment, while he's pressing against her ass & she's trying

to let him in the backdoor, the dog snuck out.

And by "dog" I mean a turd about the size of a Robusto Cigar. This is when the screaming had started. Tera had no idea that she had even

done it, so as C yelled, she started yelling. When he showed her what she did, she thought it was a snake and tried to get out of the tent

C was yelling at her that she shit on him, then under flashlight inspection, confirming it was in fact feces and not a snake, Tera takes the

"high road" and starts the "that's not mine, it's yours" argument. In embarassment, she snuck out from under the tent and ran back to her

own campsite. At this point, the rest of us are picking up the tent, looking for the incredulous piece of excrement.

Upon finding said piece of poo, we laughed even harder. "SEE I FUCKING TOLD YOU!" was all C could repeat for the next 30 minutes.

A few of our group left to try to track down the missing people from our HS and to check on Tera to make sure she got back to her tent ok...

The rest is kind of a blur, but by the next morning, C was asleep face down next to the firepit, his tent in the creek, the turd gone...

along with Tera who had packed her shit up (all but the piece in C's tent...) and drove home, probably sobered from the experience, in the

middle of the night. Sunday was basically an excuse to tell the story over and over and over again. The rest of the summer the story had to

be repeated at least a dozen times by our group. The best part is, that at some point, Tera took on the nickname "Tera the Turd" which, to

this day, she is still referred to by our clique of friends. This took place July of 1994 right after we graduated from High School.

18 years later, and we're still telling the epic campfire tale of "Tera the Turd".

I am addicted to people

I am a chronic insomniac. It takes its toll, but I see it as glass half full, so you'll never hear me complain about not getting any or enough sleep. I generally enjoy life and relish spending 85% of it awake. I do not have OCD. I am not a hoarder. I am not manic and I don't suffer from depression. I do not have ADD or ADHD. I am pretty fucked up in other ways though, this I admit.

I collect. I collect a lot. It's not hoarding though because it's organized to a level of obsession. Take my DVD collection for example. I have at current count 11,571 DVDs. How do I know that? I keep them cataloged in spreadsheet format and cased into 31 DVD books each holding 200 or more DVDs plus stacks and stacks of spindles that have not yet found their way into a final resting place. I have more tupperware containers than I know what to do with containing t-shirts. This I have never organized so I can't begin to guess how many shirts I have. We won't even get into video games, comic books, books, music, photos, trading cards, movie scripts, posters, toys or shoes. Don't ask about the shoes. It's an addiction. Once I start collecting something, I just can't stop. I can't quit. Anything.

That gets me to my next issue. I can't quit anything. Something else has to step in and execute the execution of my involvement, for me, in order to quit. This goes hand in hand with the collecting, my sleep habits, my work habits and my friendships.

Friendships. This is where it gets difficult. I'm addicted to people. I fall head over heels in absolute love with people and all of their flaws and inconsistencies. Not run away to Cabo in love, but oh my god this is the best pizza I've ever had and I must eat it every day for the rest of my life in love with people. Couple that with my inability to quit and you end up with a group of friends that can make your day or rip your life to shreds.

Not all of my friends fall into the rip my life to shreds category. I have a handful of close acquaintances that I've been friends with for nearly 3 decades. They are my rocks. Yes, there are a few that I have had to distance myself from in order to keep my own sanity, but in a pinch, I'm there if they truly need me.

Other friends are helpless black holes of despair and self destruction. I also collect these. I befriend them. I take them in. I hire them. I help them to the best of my ability get back on their feet if I can. Unfortunately, these are the same people who often end up taking advantage of me because that's what they do. That's what I do. I let them.

Before you ask, or accuse, I'm not an enabler. I'm not patronizing and I don't interfere. I just observe and suffer silently. Adults make their own decisions. You can't make them for them. You can't even really lead them in the right direction in my opinion. They need to make their own mistakes and learn from them. That's life. A series of decisions. You revel in the good and learn from the bad. Repeat as necessary. I just enjoy watching other people go through those choices. Life is my soap opera.

Twitter has quadrupled this by exposing me to new people, all with their own fucked up lives. From what I've discovered, twitter has an entire community of raging alcoholics, sex addicts and tragically single and depressed. It's no wonder it only took a couple months for me to get sucked in like a pedophile in a daycare. I should quit. I should pay someone to take over my account and promote our sites for me like I originally wanted. I should do a lot of things. I should quit it all, move into a shit hotel and finish my epic novel before I die. But no. I'm like a recovering heroin addict hanging out at the methadone clinic because I like the water cooler conversation. Not everyone on twitter is fucked up. I've made a lot of friends, some have even made my life better. I wouldn't change meeting any of them for the world. Even the fucked up ones.

But I digress.

Watching and observing without interfering has its perks but it also has it obvious drawbacks. Sometimes, I think if I interfered, things would be easier… for me at least. But, if you're going to believe in something (ie adults make their own decisions), you need to stick with it. I do not deviate. I prefer to suffer silently.

Well, not "silently" per say… there may be some intense eye rolling and "hmphs" and groans from the peanut gallery… maybe even throw in a look of disgust or two, but mostly silent. Mostly.

Every once in a while, witnessing this spiral into the abyss becomes too much for even me to bare. I lose my jovial good humor and lust for life in a cloud of what the fuck. I wish I could just rip em off like a band-aid but that's not me. What makes it worse is the guilt of feeling like I had a part in the spiral by watching and not stepping in. But, alas, I do not deviate. I prefer to suffer silently.

Mostly.

How long can I drag this death rattle out?

Imagine you have a friend who is a raging alcoholic. You invite them to parties and stuff because they're the fun drunk. This goes on for a few years, then one day, they do something that makes you realize under that alcoholic haze is a brilliant mind. You ignore it... go on like you didn't see it. Drunk drunk drunk, party party party... brilliant mind. Just for a second. Wait, did I just see that again? Drunk drunk drunk, party party party... brilliant mind. Can't ignore it at this point. Now the drunk drunk drunk, party party party is making me want to vomit. Like watching a sex tape with your sister on it. You just can't look away, but the thought of it makes you want to gouge your eyes out and put a .38 to your temple. How's your Monday going?

I fell in love with Elphaba Thropp

I fell in love with Elphaba Thropp. I didn't mean to or want to, it just happened.

About 10 years ago I was traveling for work and ran into a girl I had went to college with. She's a fellow Designer and we've always been really close, especially in taste. We had lunch and ended up discussing movies (always ends up there with me) and music, and eventually books. I read a lot. I'll read anything too. Everything from "Water for Elephants" to "World War Z" to H.P. Lovecraft to the Bible (I also watch Fox News… can't argue if you don't understand both sides of the argument right?). She had just finished "Wicked" by Gregory Maguire and was pretty adamant that I read it. In fact, she left lunch, bought a copy of the book and tracked me down to give it to me before I left town.

That was it, I was obligated to read it. I started the book on the plane, but it put me right to sleep. Slow as dirt and I just couldn't get into the characters. Anyone who knows me, knows I'm cursed with the inability to quit. Anything. I can't quit. Fucking anything. With that spelled out, I had to finish the book. After a week at home, I picked the book back up. I reluctantly finished it within the week.

After getting through it, for some reason, I got a little depressed. I kept going back to specific parts of the book in my head. Trying to remember exactly what happened and why. I found myself asking people who had read it if they remembered, but no one could answer my specific inquiries. I couldn't let it rest, so I picked it back up and started reading it a second time.

This time I couldn't put it down. Could not. Would not.

I finished it a second time over the weekend. Insomnia has it's perks. This time, I read it thoroughly, paying attention to the characters, the nuances of the plot and the development of the story as it paralleled The Wizard of Oz.

And Elphaba.

Up until this point, I'd never been so invested in a single character in any book I'd ever read that I felt that if I read it again, maybe something would change. Maybe I missed something and there was a happy story there that I just wasn't able to pull out. Within 6 months, I ended up reading the entire book four full times. Each and every time, I fell a little more in love with Elphaba.

I'm drawn to tragic, fucked up souls. Broken, downtrodden, in need of fixing kind of people. The emotionally destroyed or handicapped… this is my crowd. I'm also an emotional sponge of sorts, sucking up their sorrow and eating it as if it's my own. It's taxing… it's exhausting, but it's what I am and at this point in my life, it's easier to run with it than it is to avoid it. Elphaba is the perfect metaphor for this attraction. A horribly disturbing childhood complete with a drug addicted adulteress mother who came from wealth only to end up in squalor. The father, blinded by religion and disgust for the daughter he feels is the manifestation of the punishment for all his sins as a man of faith. The siblings who she must both take care of and hide within their shadows. Oh, and she's fucking green.

The story takes her from birth through death and all the train wreck that lies between. Love, life and the complete disregard for her own happiness. Despite all this, I fell in love.

Skip to 2011, and I've read the book at least 15 times. At any given moment, about six months pass, and I'm like a secret CIA assassin reaching for his copy of "Catcher in the Rye". I'm a total fanboy. I've bought the book at least a dozen times for friends and relatives.

No one ever reads it on my recommendation.

My sister did get to see it in New York in the Musical form and she fell in love with it on the stage. She agreed to read the book if I went with her to see the play. I go to a reasonable amount of plays and musicals as well, so this wasn't out of the question. Last year, my sister seized the opportunity and took my mother and I to see "Wicked".

I was kind of excited. One of my favorite books in live form? Awesome right? Donna Vivino was playing Elphaba and from what I had read prior to the performance, she was stellar in her portrayal. Color me double pumped.

Finally, the day arrived. My excitement was at its peak... it was also short lived.

By the end of the first act, I was nauseous. It was NOT tragic. It was NOT heart breaking. It WAS fucking "Grease". I felt betrayed. I found myself sitting through intermission trying to pull myself together. It's just a musical. Get a grip.

By the beginning of the second act, I was full on crying. By the end of the performance, I felt like I was drawing a crowd. I'm a little bitch when it comes to stuff like this so fuck you for judging me. When I get involved in something, I give everything. I hold nothing back. If you're one of those people who suppress your emotions because you're afraid of what someone else might say or think, you're doing life wrong. Seriously. What's the point?

Back to my tears… I'm talking 5 year old girl watching her pet bunny get torn to shreds by the neighbor's Rottweiler crylng. Donna Vivino was amazing. Her vocal performance was breathtaking. I tried to enjoy it, I really did. I promise.

But alas, I'd rather've been ass-raped with a bowling pin, lube-free, than sit through the entire musical. Seeing as I was with my sister who really wanted me to see it and enjoy it as she had, I stomached the monstrosity to the best of my ability.

I left the theater physically ill. Physically fucking ill.

Total truth, sitting through that musical is one of the worst moments of my life. If I could take it back, I would. For three hours I watched an entire audience blindly enjoy my beloved Elphaba turned into a comedic circus monkey, organ grinder in hand, tipping her fez for treats, coming of age and cracking quips about being green. Fuck you. Fuck every single one of you who enjoyed that horrible piece of shit.

FUCK. YOU.

If I'd have known what they were doing to my Elphaba, I would have stayed home. I'd have kept my love affair tragic, dark and full of despair with a heavy dose of heartbreak.

I'd also like to point out this was the last Musical I have ever attended. Will ever attend. AND, given the opportunity, I'd unleash ebola on the set of "Glee" out of pure principle.


EPILOGUE:
If you've seen the Musical "Wicked", but never read the book "Wicked", don't. And don't ever speak to me about it. Ever. Just don't.
If you've read the book, but never seen the Musical, DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE.

It's Just Us...

This post comes courtesy of a wonderful writer and perversely fucked up friend of GetOffended, @2ndcitysaint and her blog, The Blog of Shame. Here is the story in it's entirety.

Last year, for my birthday, we decided to go to the strip club!

Surprisingly, prior to this, I had never been to a strip club. I was pretty excited to go! So, my best friend and I and a couple of people from work, end up at the club, and we’re all hanging out by the bar… because, y’know, only the perverts go and sit down by the stage.

It’s my birthday so everyone’s buying me drinks/shots and I get drunk enough that by the time they are announcing “last call for stage tips,” my best friend is able to convince me to go do one. Now, for those of you who don’t know what a stage tip is… it’s when you go up on stage and roll up a $5 (usually) bill in your mouth and the stripper takes it from you, in some way. Usually she’ll grind on your junk or your face, and she’ll take the money with either her mouth, her tits, or in some special cases, her pussy. If you’re a particularly lucky dude, the DJ might order you over the mic to take off your belt, at which time the stripper will then pull your pants down and spank you with it. We saw that happen to one dude, who was celebrating his 19th birthday. I didn’t have to deal with that, thank goodness.

So, I take the $5, and head up to the stage, and lay down with it in my mouth. A couple of other people are on stage, so I have to wait my turn. Some of the people I was with from work came down right next to the stage and started yelling “it’s her birthday!” when it came to be my turn. One girl even tried to take a picture! At which point the bouncer snatched her phone and started to cuss her out. Apparently, it wasn’t quite obvious to her that you don’t bust out phones in a club with strippers!

So, it’s finally my turn, the stripper, Jade, wants me to show her my tits. NOW… despite me flaunting them all over Twitter, I’m actually pretty shy in person, and the fact that I was on a stage in front of like, 100 men kinda freaked me out. So, she starts to pull up my shirt, and I push it down all “no, no, no.” So, she leans in, starts nibbling on my ear and whispers, “it’s just us.” I was putty in her hands after that. I totally fell for the line. So, she proceeds to stick her head under my shirt, and lifts up my bra. As far as I know, she was the only one who saw anything, thank goodness. She nods in approval and then starts doing her dance on me. I don’t even remember how she took my money. It definitely wasn’t with her vag, and I assume I’d remember if she did it with her tits, so I can only imagine that she took it with her mouth, and I was just too dumbfounded by the ear-nibble-line-combo to notice.

Also, there was a sort of “special feature” stripper there who was doing a show every night that week when we went. She’s some pro-stripper or something, so she was selling posters. My best friend bought me one as a birthday present. It’s autographed, and says “Breast Wishes.” I put it on my “wall of shame” which is my sleazy bathroom door.

Don't miss @2ndCitySaint's weekly podcast, The Podcast of Shame either. We love this girl.

I'll Sleep When I'm Dead

Insomnia. Chronic Insomnia. I'm not going to lie, sometimes it's a lifesaver. I work so much and am involved in so many different things that the lack of sleep, or requirement there of, makes getting everything done doable. Other times, it's horrific.

I hear "I have insomnia" tossed around a lot nowadays. Let's get the facts straight first. There are 3 different kinds of insomnia. 1) Transient, 2) Acute, 3) Chronic.

Transient is short term. Usually caused by a change in your life or stress. Have a big decision to make or change jobs? Hard time getting to sleep for a week? That's Transient Insomnia (T.I.).

Acute is Transient taken to the next level. If the insomnia persists (usually because the stresser persists) then T.I. can turn to A.I.

Chronic is the mother of all Insomnia. When A.I. starts lasting for months, and you start re-evaluating what caused it in the first place, your A.I. has turned to C.I.

I have Apeirophobia. It's the fear of infinity. It sounds stupid, but to me it's anything but. The concept of infinite nothingness has kept me up, deep in thought, for 25 years. One fateful night, when I was 9 years old, the James Bond movie, "You Only Live Twice" triggered it. I know, I know… James Bond? There was one scene in particular that caused an entire summer of diagnosed A.I. The simple scene was of a black spaceship "swallowing" another craft. During this maneuver, there was an astronaut in the middle of a space-walk. When the ship "swallows" the other ship, the astronaut is cut free and floats away to his death. The implications of this caused a series of unanswered questions about our existence and the concept of infinite space. After 3 months of laying on the couch, watching European Soccer on ESPN throughout the night (this was long before the MLS or even professional soccer in the US), I was diagnosed with Acute Insomnia. It subsided, but the fears did not. What started out as a phase because a norm. My body's sleep requirements dropped to 3-4 hours per day. I was a high functioning insomniac throughout the rest of my childhood.

Once I went to college, the 3-4 hours per night became 8-10 hours per week. I would stay up for 40 - 60 hours at a time without question. I would power nap as required, mostly to keep from hurting myself behind the wheel or in the shop using power tools. Over 10 years, my body had begun to feel rested on just a few hours of sleep.

That's when the health problems started to kick in. First it was recurrent Walking Pneumonia, then it was the ulcers, then it was the bi-weekly flu. Being in college, I didn't have proper health care and insurance so I was forced to see campus clinics. Everything was treated as a one-shot deal and the issues persisted. It wasn't until my senior year that my ulcers got out of hand, and it came to screeching halt. It was then that my sleeping habits were brought into light when I went home to see my childhood Pediatrician.

Fast forward 10 years. The sleep hasn't changed. I refuse any and all forms of narcotics or drugs stronger than Advil so sleep aids are not even an option. I drink caffeine but not in excess. I exercise, run and take extremely good care of my body. I just don't sleep like a normal person. My average night consists of 2 hours of sleep. 3 hours if I'm lucky. Usually 1 or 2 nights a week, I forego sleeping all together. Sometimes it's a choice, sometimes it's not.

Biggest problem with this is the type of sleep I'm getting is a deep stage 4 sleep, without dreams, without enough physical recovery. I supplement with Protein, Vitamin C and Nitrogen Monoxide but sometimes it isn't enough.

What this means is eventually my body takes over when the mind is unable to do its job. This first comes by way of active functioning sleep dreaming. Insomniacs can go on about their activities in a state of stupor, then have no recollection of the events that have occurred. Have you ever driven a very long distance, reached your destination, then can't remember doing the drive? You kind of zone out? It's sort of like that. I can look at a clock and all of a sudden not remember any conversation or action I've performed for the last 30 minutes. Sometimes even the last few hours. Often times it involves monotonous activity or conversations with friends. People who know me, find it entertaining. People who don't, find it annoying as fuck.

When this stage occurs, I know it's my bodies way of sounding the warning siren. Sleep is coming whether I like it or not. Actually, "passing out" is a better description of what is about to occur. I've been known to sleep upward of 24 hours during this stage of recovery. It usually depends on my responsibilities and obligations. After the recovery sleep, the body continues with an all out evacuation of toxins. Usually in the form of a mild flu. Basically I feel like shit for the whole next day and throw up as soon as I get to my feet.

Is there a solution? I've been told that because of the nature of my fear and the near impossible task of meeting it head on (how do you "face the fear" of infinity?) the best course of action is to change my lifestyle, change jobs to a less stressful one and medicate heavily. I refuse medication, I love my job(s) and the lack of sleep lets me take advantage of a 22 hour day and actually accomplish things I wouldn't be able to otherwise. I am a smart guy, I know it's not the smartest course of action. It's going to lead to an early grave. BUT, the way I look at it, I'll have experienced more lucid time in my life by the time I'm 50 than most will if they live to be 80. Now I just need to make it to 50.

With that said, hold your personal opinions. I could give a flying fuck what any of you have to say in regards to your personal diagnosis and tips for falling asleep. I don't mean to sound like a dick, but after spending 25 years with something, it becomes your own personal friend, passenger and nightmare. It's my precious and I'm not sharing.

If you are one of the unlucky few who get to witness me when the warning sirens are sounding, I'm apologizing in advance. It's annoying and not pretty at all. Especially if I get belligerent when you try to get me to lay down. (Ever try to take the car keys away from a drunk? Yeah, it's like that).

No worries folks. I'll sleep when I'm dead.

Tigger and the Comforter

The year was 1996. I was living in a 2 bedroom apartment in Cincinnati with my wife when she was still my girlfriend. We lived in a good area but the laundry facilities were shit, so i saved every penny I had and bought a portable washer and dryer. You actually wheeled it into the kitchen and hooked it up to the sink. It worked great but only did very small loads. We also had a miniature pinscher named Tigger. She was our baby, both in age and in love for the only "child" of the house, sense of the word. I was in college and working full time as a Designer. She worked 2nd shift and went to school full time as well. We never saw each other (much like now) so all of our interactions involved us passing through an open apartment door.

Because we were so broke, buying a birthday present for her was quite difficult especially after dropping everything on the puppy and the washer and dryer. It was decided that we needed a new comforter for the water bed (yes, I said water bed… don't judge me) so I dropped our last $75 on a new King Size Comforter. Fast forward a couple of weeks. Still broke. New puppy, new washer & dryer, new comforter, no money. It was college at it's finest.

She was working a double that day so I slept in. About 11am, I rolled my lazy ass out of bed. Tigger was hiding under the covers per her usual routine. I decided she needed to play so I got a firm grip on the comforter and in one foul swoop, ripped it off the bed like a magician removing the cloth from a loaded table. Problem is, not only did the comforter come flying off the bed, but a barrage of shit did as well. Spraying the wall behind me like blood splatter at a crime scene. Worst part was, I was also in the direction of the flying excrement. It was a few seconds before the gravity of the situation kicked in and I realized what had happened. Then and only then did I realize that the warm feeling on my face and in my mouth was also part of the same cavalcade of crap.

I immediately ran to the bathroom to vomit. This normal reaction was followed by the distinctive sound of my dog shitting all over the wall. Again. It was then that I came to the conclusion that today was going to suck ass.

The next 6 hours involved cleaning up shit, cleaning up more shit and cleaning up the shit I missed the first 2 times.

With all the shit cleaned off the walls, the floor, me, the bed and inside Tigger's cage, it was time to start laundry. First my clothes, then the sheets. All going well. Now the new comforter. Realizing that it's too large for the apartment size washing machine, I walk to the laundry facilities. EVERY single washer full and a line of quarters at each. Back to the apartment I go, with the shit covered comforter uncomfortably in my arms.

Even though I've cleaned the comforter in the sink to the best of my ability, the smell is starting to get out of control. I make an executive decision and shove the comforter into the apartment sized washer and hope for the best.

Three hours later. I've washed the comforter 4 times and somehow it's actually worse than when I put it in the first time. What used to be a huge shit stain is now a $75 comforter covered in hardened dingleberry dog turds. As I pull the comforter out, my girlfriend walks in from the worst day of work at the nursing home she's ever had.

"I've had the worst day of work at the nursing home I've ever had" she says (see, I told you) as she comes into the kitchen seeing me struggling with the comforter.

"No, I've had the worst fucking day ever" I retort. Apparently a little more aggravated than I had intended.

"Mrs Jenkins decided to shit herself, roll it into little balls, line it up on her bed rail and flip them at us every time we came into the room. Fuck you and your worst day ever" she says obviously unimpressed.

"I ate Tigger's diarrhea. Now help me with this comforter." She just stood there. Apparently I won.

After trying to wash the comforter a 5th time unsuccessfully, at the laundromat, I decided to cut our losses and dry it, baking the dingleberries into the comforter. Realization of the loss of the comforter and our current state of being broke beyond belief brought my girl to tears. Anyone who knows me knows that I can't stand people around me upset. The wheels started turning, I developed a plan.

First, I called around to see if our Wal-Mart had another one of our exact comforter. They did not, which actually worked out. Modifying the plan, I drove to the next town, about an hour round trip, and bought another comforter on a credit card. I brought it back to the car, pulled the comforter out and put our shit stained one into the bag. I should point out that it's about 2:00am at this point, in Cincinnati. The vampires are the only ones at Wal-Mart at this point.

Next, I drove back to my Wal-Mart and proceeded to walk in and bee-line it to the customer service desk. "I need to see a manager immediately." I said in the most pissed at the world tone I could muster.

I spent the next 15 minutes explaining to the manager that I just bought this comforter at the Wal-Mart up the road and showed them that it appears someone used the comforter, stained it and tried to return it. Here, I just bought it and almost put it onto our bed. I wanted a replacement immediately. Since I already knew they did not have a replacement, I opted for credit back on my credit card or cash. To get me out of the store, because I was apparently making a scene, they opted for the faster, cash option.

Moral of the story, when in doubt, Wal-Mart will let you return anything, even a dog shit covered comforter,.