TMI Thursday: Brownaconda Attacks

November 18, 2010

I’m weird. This is something the wife tells me all the time. People’s eyes tell me this all the time too, but my doctor said I should stop saying stuff about talking eyes.

(I’ll be here all week.)

Oh look the parenthesis are back. I don’t know why that started. I don’t know when either so don’t expect an answer or a link.

(Mostly too lazy)
(Shut up)

Whatever. You stopped reading after the title I’m sure. Now I’ve developed a fun (depending on who you ask) habit of naming my pooping ventures. Sometimes I announce the names to my wife as I head into the bathroom. Sometimes it doesn’t get a name until after the fact. This is usually based on amount, size, difficulty and or color. Oh and generally (read always) these excursions are named for some movie. For example:

Off to film The Hunt for the Brown October.
I just got done shooting Pooptanic.
Just got off the set of Brownaconda.
Indiana Jones and the temple of Poo.

The best instance had to have happened in Florida. After filming I come into the bedroom where kat and Pelvic Joann are and say:

Me (very seriously): “Have you seen Alec Baldwin?”
(Now after some initial ignoring I finally get a response)
Me: Yeah just finished shooting the sequel to Hunt for the Red October…Hunt for the Brown October.

I don’t do this every single time and I try to mix it up and not use the same one. Carissa—which if you aren’t reading here you should be—has convinced me to create a list. I am and so thank her for that disgusting list when it happens.

Anypooping back to the tmi. This happened late at night (like 2am) so there was no announcing of a shooting schedule. The wife was sweetly tucked away dreaming of sugar plum or murders. More likely she was dreaming of murders and kidnappers but that’s another story. Check one out here. So I went to the bathroom without being able to say some witty movie name.

(Poor jimi)

I’ll spare you the details of the actual event. I will say that there was quite a lot of it in the bowl afterwards. Now above the toilet on a rack sit her collection of duckies. You know the little rubber duckies? They have different versions. You know like punk rock duck, bad girl duck, Hitler duck,devil duck, irish duck, Jean Bonet Ramsey duck.

(Horrible jokes jimi)

So they’re up there. I finish my business and wipe and all that. As I finish I happen to put my hand up there. I knock poor Chicago duckie off balance and he falls. I like Spider-Man grab out for it. I catch it but the Green Goblin comes along and distracts me and Chicago duckie falls out of my hand. I almost catch it again but instead as it falls out into the air leaps the fabled Brownaconda and snags it into his jaws.
Sorta like this:

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Yes we apparently pee and poop into a misshapen bucket. We classy like that. It was horrible how angry it sounded as it grabbed poor poor Chicago duck. It fell pretty much directly into the poop and sunk in too.

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So I don’t know if it was because it was late, I was sleepy or the trauma of the brownaconda attack but I without hesitation reached right into the misshapen bucket the toilet. You know brownaconda and all. I grabbed Chicago duckie (sunk in a bit more as I did) and it I swear made a sort of plop-pop sounds as it pulled free. I managed to not get anything on my hand. I’m still not sure how because there was a ton in the bowl and poor Chicago duckie was covered in it. I tossed it into the shower and turned it on. After it was all gone I dried the poor fellow off and replaced him. I thought about not telling her about it but I did first thing the next morning. For 2 reasons I knew I’d use it on here and I wanted to gross her out. So I told her about the spin off to Anaconda.

Brownaconda: Dead Duck

I of course embellished some of the details of the story for her. I may or may not have said something about
pieces of food sticking to her duckie.
You’re welcome.

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New Poem: Blueberry Ale

November 2, 2010

Here is another poem. It is part of the book titled: Love is a Donkey. Now for some interaction (should you choose to accept your mission.) from you all. The poem is titled Blueberry Ale (right now) but the wifey thinks it should be titled “The Art of Giving Blow Jobs”. What say you dear reader? As always any comments appreciated.


After the third bottle the topic turned to sex.
This was usually the case but never with so many people
mulled and munched veggies. The party should’ve been over.
Rick finished off the hummus by himself. It was thick and homemade.
We found him on the toilet a joint in one hand and the other knuckle deep in the bowl.
“At least he’s not jacking off again” Johnny offered. He was right.


Two years from now he’d jump off a highway over pass.
His body smashed through the windshield of a brown Taurus.
He always had to take someone down with him. A pocket full of peach schnapps’
I got drunk at his funeral. “I always hated smooth tongued Johnny Ray.” I quipped
to the pretty girl at the bar. I undressed her with my eyes.
It turned out to be his sister.


At one point I must have met her. She may have even been at the party.
Pieces of poetry and scraps of art were thrown about.
It was the last of its kind. The only one where we were all friends and artists
If we had known that it may have changed things.
Of course in the end we’d still be high and debating the art of blow jobs.


The one with Vodka and hate

October 18, 2010

The night progressed as every other night fueled by free vodka would. This is to say much quicker than normal. It started with me not going and then somehow ending up on a bar stool drinking Finlandia next to the two people I’m always drinking with.

On my left there was an open seat and the bar was occupied by my star wars bag which I instinctively held anytime someone, not refilling my empty glass came near. The bartenders were nice, attentive and generous with the vodka. I made two new friends that evening.

Finlandia Tangerine and Finlandia Mango.

Mr. Grapefruit wasn’t too bad either. We only met through other acquaintances though.

There were shots. Plenty of them actually. I know that the number of shots I had was plenty because the guy in the bathroom told me so. Me and the nice warmth slowly filling my head made our way to the bathroom. I pushed the door open with what felt an inappropriate amount of surrealism. It swung open too easily and with a force that bolstered my ego. The music the DJ refused to let die faded just a bit. My thoughts were once again free.

“I am superman” I thought! Shook my head strongly no, not superman he is a douche nozzle.

“Why would you choose Superman?” damn you thoughts and your warm blanket of vodka. First you choose my arch enemy and then you try to overthrow my mind and accuse me of the horrible crime you in fact committed.

“Did I ask that out loud?” Damn.

Oh man did I ask the Superman question out loud? No I couldn’t have, because surely if I had there would be someone in here to hear it. Of course there was nobody in there with me. It was just me, my rebellious thoughts, the Finlandia and the sticker of someone’s face inside the urinal.

The room was one step from the bathrooms with one weak light bulb swinging from a chain you see in horror movies. The walls sported the typical bar restroom graffiti. What would we do if there weren’t any drunken sentences scrawled on the walls? The thing that always gives me pause (and did yet again that night) is the words carved into the mirrors. This act would involve effort. Said “artist” would have to crawl up in some instances and at the very least leaning over an endlessly wet sink. Plus the work it has to take to cut into it.
I stood in there soaking the entire room up. Not that there was much. Said mirror with all sorts of meaningless things etched into it. A pink flyer leaned on the side wall like a drunk. I kicked open the stall door and I’m still not sure why.

Nothing of note.

Just a bit of toilet paper looped lovingly over the handle. Suddenly the stall was filled with sex. I could see the shoed foot pushing up against where the stall and its door connected. It pumped. The leg bent and lengthened. Her dress pulled up and tucked with a neatness not matching what was happening.
I was writing a poem starring into the stall at bar on Coventry. Was this actually happening? My notebook was out and I was scribbling away. I heard the music start to get loud and turned. The poem would have to wait. I stepped up to the sink and slid my notebook into my bag. It thumped in against my leg and a line screamed out.

“Hey buddy nice night huh?” That was the dumbest line I ever heard.

“Deep in thought?” the intruder continued. He was wearing skinny jeans and a “Killers” shirt. Over this he wore a button up shirt, unbuttoned and yet somehow still tucked in. I explained off that I was lost in a poem. He nodded and grunted an approving-esque sound.

“Hey we shared a shot together didn’t we?”As I dried my hands he made his way over. His eyes were brown and he wore beat up Adidas. I knew he’d be the guy banging the girl in my poem. He’d let her pay for the shots and then fuck her talentlessly in the one dirty bathroom stall of a men’s room. She’d have to finish herself in the parking lot after the two minute warrior was long gone. I hated him. I wanted him to shut up. I wanted out of here. I wanted my glass refilled, and the warmth in my head to burn brightly instead.
The free vodka hour was over though.

“Uhm yeah I think the whole bar got shots.” I said.

“Right. Who was the girl that did it?” He shifted. I really hoped he wasn’t getting any that night.

“The bartender?”

“She bought them?” It was a gargley voice. It was as if each letter poured out of his throat. Did he whisper wet nothings into her ear as he used her? Surely she’d vomit all over his checkered shirt?

“Well the bar bought them.” I hate you. “The girls on the other side of the bar asked for them and the bartender included us all.” I hope yours was poisoned!

“Oh.” He washed his hands with a violence that was almost pretty. Water splashed the floor, the mirror and him. “I only got one shot. What about you?”

“4.” I felt the warmth being taken over by the coldness in my chest. I would not write the poem if he was portrayed in a good light. Muse be damned.

“That’s plenty.” He wiped his fucking hands on his jeans. “Don’t you think?”

“I could always use more.”

I pulled my ninja turtle stocking cap down tight around my head. I’d trap the disdain inside there if I could.


The one with the Mount Everest of poo

September 16, 2010

Today is Thursday and you know what that means. Well yes it does mean Its Always Sunny in Philadelphia returns. That was a mean thing of you to point out. I mean I can’t compete with Sunny. Why even bother?

It also means it’s time for another TMI Thursday. I know I know you can hardly contain your excitement. It’s been a while (not really) and technically I should begin some of the chronicling the Key West roadie.

But it is our first Thursday back and well when I told Pelvic Joann and the wifey the story they were thoroughly grossed out.

So I’m back. I’m baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack in the saddle again.

So as I was thinking about what joke to make about Steven Tyler (drugs and alcohol being too easy) something hit me. This freaked me out because there’s nobody else here.

Heyoooooooooo!

I was going to go with how he resembles a (wide mouth) vase when he sings and doll up some vase with hair and scarves but that seemed like too much work.

Lazy ftw!

As I looked at pictures of Mr. Tyler there was a joke that wanted to come out but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

Because of the restraining order it has out on me. Heyoooooooooooo!
(What?)

He looked awful familiar to me—but who? And then I figured it out:

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Am I right? He is so creepy.

Anybeautyandthebeastjokes I should probably move on. This TMI Thursday took places on the Three Shillelagh’s Hunt for the Key Master Tour (2010)

(Uhm what other year would it be?)

Sorry I digressed yet again. (I do that a lot.)

I’m writing this as we make our way into the rainy Florida night (10:33pm) on the final leg of the trip (to Key West). As we do we are listening to Katy Perry so yeah there might be some more digressing.

(Roar)

(See.)

We decided it was best to stop at a gas station and fill up the tank right before truly hitting the way to Key West. The rain was slowly coming down as we headed into the store to stock up on some drinks and what not. We bought a couple big pineapple (there were no big peach like in GA) to mix with the pinnacle whip vodka.

As Pelvy and I paid for our stuff the wife grabbed the key to the bathroom (it was outside) and took care of the diet Pepsi max she drank on the drive. I figured after I paid I’d head on over to the crapper and drain the lizard (make a sissy—take that wife!) My turn finally came and as I waited for it to be approved I felt the annoying (and often terrible) rumblings.

This did not bode well.

I mean the stomach rumblings and grumblings at a crappy looking Florida gas station late at night. Unfortunately it wasn’t going to be up for discussion. It wasn’t urgent or anything but I didn’t want to start a 3 or so hour drive with the need to film The Hunt for the Brown October.

I paid grabbed the grubby looking keys and handed off my purchases to the wifey. I made my way to the bathroom and switched the lights on. There was trash (empty candy wrappers and soda cans) on the floor. The rain from outside (or at least what I hope was mostly rain) had tracked in and made the floor very slippery.

One step in and I almost fell.

Woah.

2nd step inside as the door closes and yet another slip. This time I almost fell. I mean one foot came way up and I had to grab onto the sink to stop from falling. This is the time that my head went down near (not too near thankfully) to the toilet. Of course I was not too happy with what I saw. In the watery grave was a hill of poop and brown tinted toilet paper. It was high.

Some dick head didn’t flush this I thought to myself. Well just flush it first.

Oh.

There wasn’t even a handle. Or any other discernable way to flush either. Whatever. I can probably hold it. Maybe just take care of the pee part.

I peed.
I thought maybe I’d save someone else by destroying the fortress of poo and tp. The water in the bowl muddied a bit but otherwise the hill did not change. Washed my hands grabbed the key and made my way out.

Slip.

And as I caught myself for the 3rd time there was another slip. This one of the insides variety and it became apparent that it’d be best to take care of the filming of the sequel to the Hunt for the Red October right then and there.

Someone call Alec Baldwin!

I looked back in to the toilet. I sighed and decided that sitting down (the seat amazingly looked pretty clean) was not really an option. The hill of poop looked dangerously close to where the butt would rest. So I hovered and let go.

And let go some more.

And a little bit more.

Then I wiped and looked down.

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If it was a math equation it would look like this: pre poo + jimi poo = poo hill over the brim.

Yes kiddies that picture isn’t exaggerating all that much. The poop reached a bit over the top of the bowl. I washed my hands, returned the keys and jumped in the car.

Of course I told them right away. The Katy Perry was momentarily replaced by a chorus of disgust by the ladies. I knew I had a tmi post for when I returned.

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when snot attacks

August 19, 2010

Gather round everyone. Yes come closer and prepare to be entertained and enlightened. Oh and by entertained and enlightened I mean grossed out (probably) and wishing they no longer read me (more likely).

The family (and maybe most of you others) will be glad to know that this post is sex free. Although the post still has penis in it. Hooray Penis! Oh man that really came out wrong.

(that’s what she said!)

Anypenis (damnit I’m straight I promise) I should set the scene a little bit. It’s a hot muggy Cleveland night. The wife is ready for bed and I decide it’d be good to go be a good husband and snuggle with her till she falls asleep. My allergies had been acting up a little during the day and a bit worse at night but right before bed time they went all terminator on me. It was horrible. My nose felt like it was filled to bursting and no matter how I blew nothing came out.

(That’s what she said)

It was permanently stuffed (twss) and getting really annoying. I was tossing and turning the whole night and making horrendous sounds as I tried to breathe. It was gross and annoying. Eventually I tumbled headlong into dreamland. I woke up around 4 my nose still stuffy and sinus pressure building. I got up to make a sissy.

Side note: I like to use the phrase “make a sissy” to say peeing because it bothers the wife. Yeah I’m a nice guy like that. She married me.

So as I’m peeing I can no longer take this nose that feels like a stuffed pepper. I reach for a tissue and blow my nose. The only problem is as I blew there was considerable collateral damage. That’s right we lost two fingers as they were covered in a nasty string of snot. I tossed the tissue that as the front line of defense let the rest of the troops down into the toilet. Of course now I had to deal with the wounded troops of my right hand.

Sleepily I decided to fling the enemy snot into the toilet. It would’ve worked fine too if it was for those meddling kids or you know if the snot hadn’t landed right on my wang.

I had to work wang into it at least once.

(That’s right you guessed it: That’s what she said.)

So it sort of went like this:

Fling. Splat.

Me: Oh…oh…you evil enemy bastard. You dare bring this to our shores?

You see and you thought I only act/talk like that on here. Oh no it happens 24/7 baby. So I cleaned off my totem pole and sort of just stood there sleepily thinking. You know thinking about how this is gonna be a tmi post someday. Then the enemy began to attack again. I tried to clear my nose and breathing in but all that did was help the enemy infiltrate my throat. The enemy made its slimy way into my mouth and I decided it was time for a swift attack. I was gonna kill them quick and easy. I looked down at the enemies soon to be pee watery grave and spat.

Sabotage!

Like 24 this seemed to help their secret other plan along. It landed you guessed it write on my jimmy crack corn. In case you are wondering why it was not safely tucked away—it’s because I sleep naked. It’s factoid #2. Scene:

Thibbt. Splat.
Me: Fuck! The villainy!

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So after another cleaning of the bishop in a turtleneck I headed back to bed.

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Tmi Thursday with a side of Ranch dressing

May 13, 2010

I once again pull from the pool (that may soon dwindle) that is known as my former place of employment. It appears I worked at a circus or at least with a bunch of side show freaks. There was a long list of characters. We’ve documented the fact that this place hired quite a bit of the handicapped (of all sorts). I applaud this. I do. I got a long with almost all of them. There really was only one exception. I won’t talk about her, but she was a jerk, and was mean to those not all there mentally.

Anycoworker there was one in particular who was not all there mentally. This post is about her, or rather that something that occurred to me because of her. Her name will be (like any time I post about someone) ever changing. For right now she is Diane. She could get a tad annoying but you know honestly the “intelligent” people there could get way more annoying. Her problem is she liked to ask a lot of questions. That isn’t quite true—she asked the same questions over and over.

It was a constant droning. Which may have been somewhat bearable but she said “huh” or “whaa” after almost every sentence you said no matter if she heard you or not. All too often a conversation would go like this:

Her: How are you doing?
Me: I’m good…how are you?
Her: Huh?
Me: Just fine Meredith. You?
Her: Whaat?
I refuse to respond and continue to go about my business.
Her: Huh? What did you say?

Anysamequestions we’ll fast forward to the end of the line work wise. It seemed like every single day of my last 2 weeks I found myself taking my break at the same time as her. Now I don’t really want to come off too mean here. I liked her. It always pissed me off when people there treated her poorly. They often did and more than a few times I had to tell people off (or at least tell them how I disagreed with what they were doing)

I mean I didn’t have a problem with her but went it came to my break it was a different story. On break I did one of these two things.
1. Read
2. Listen to my mp3 player while working on some writing.

Both activities become very hard to do when she is up there at the same time as me. It doesn’t matter where I sit in the break room she’ll choose the seat right next to me. A couple times I moved and then about two minutes later she moved to where I was sitting. I mean I know I am your ambassador of awesome, your secretary of being too sweet, and your prime minister of pimpin (what?) You get the point. Which if that’s true that makes you gentle reader a weirdo.

But I love you anyway. The problem with her always wanting to sit next to me is she liked to talk.
And talk.
And talk
And then you guessed it talk a whole lot more.

It was similar to the above conversation but lunch was different. It would start like:

Her: I bought a pop.
Me: good.
Her: Huh?
Then she’d try to open it (and every attempt always appeared to be half hearted)
Her: Nuuuuh. Nuuuuh. Nuuuuuuh. I can’t open it.
Silence.
Her: Nuuuuuuh. Nuuuuuuuh nuuuuuuuh. I can’t get it…can you open it…
Open it for her.
Her (to someone else even though nobody else is up there): He is a nice guy. That was nice. Thank you. Thank you. He is such a nice guy. You are such a nice guy.
Me: Thank you Debbie.
Her: Huhh?
I go back to reading.

Now I’m reading and she is next to me and gabbing away about the pop she has and how she wants to eat her candy bar. I sort of to the half turn into my book and turkey sammich and so she gets a bit louder. Mary is all blah blah blah and some more blah for added emphasis. She keeps talking but then a glorious event happen she stopped. There was silence. Glorious and wonderful silence that I imagine you’d have in heaven. I read on.

(Cough cough choke cough squiish slurpt slhiptslapt.)

The other constant of the break room visit with Vivian is how she goes about eating. This also means her inevitable semi choking. She eats similar to someone who is in prison. That is she shovels it in as quickly as possible. So fast that she forgets to chew or doesn’t chew fast enough. So you get loud chews that sound like two really oiled up or wet fatties are having some hot n heavy sexy.

Slap
Slap
Splat
Slurp
Slip-slapht
Gurgle
Choke
Cough
Her: I almost choked.
Me: Yeah be careful.
Her: Huh?
Me: Eat slower.
Her: You don’t want me to choke.
Me: (Oh god I do I really do) Nope.
Her: What did you say?
Silence.
Her: If I did what would happen?

I will just stop here and get on with the rest of it. Now as all of this is happening she is eating. We are on our break after all. So she is eating a big ole salad. She’s covered her salad in about 4 packets of ranch dressing. Covered of course meaning there is a Mount Rushmore of Ranch dressing sitting in the middle of her greens. There is also a good portion of it on her fingers. It appears to cover them no matter how much she slurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrpz sllllllllllllllucks at them.

Anydressing she begins to talk to me again. This time her mouth is full of lettuce and gobs of dressing. You can hear the fat oily people sex chews as she talks and this somehow makes the lisp she generally has worse. It is now a wet slippery worse. Like slapping a fresh outta the water seal in the face with Ron Jeremy’s overly lubed up dong Yeah. I’m doing my best to pretend the only thing that matters is my book. I don’t hear the fat people sex or the Ron Jeremy wet dong slapping. I don’t.
Then a 3 bite chewed piece of lettuce flew across the table.

Oh man.
Slap slap slurppe Thwipt
Missle like glob of ranch dressing shot.
My sandwich here. Glob missle here.

Oh man. Oh man. Shots fired. Shots fired. Full retreat.

She grabs my arm (with her ranch fingers) and now I have ranch elbow. She pulls at me to get my attention because apparently what she has to say is really important. Then she says

“What would you do if I choked?”

The corners of her mouth were coated in dressing and when she spread them it dripped/stuck to them. There is this tiny piece of frightened lettuce (I hope it was lettuce) clinging to her bottom lip. She kept talking and well I stopped listening. I was mesmerized by the lettuce, by the corners of her mouth slick with gross. It was this hesitation that caused all the damage. As I suppose I didn’t answer her question of what I would do after calling 911 for her she decided to get louder. That is when said piece of lettuce and more globs of dressing and lettuce (she was still eating) flew off and landing on my fucking sandwich!

Man down.
Man down.
Oh the humanity. We need a medic!
Of course that glob was the end of Jennymeredithdebbie my sandwich. I went back to reading and tried make sure I didn’t choke her to death.

Oh how I miss work.

Or do I?


TMI Thursday is that a spit up or are you just happy to see me

February 4, 2010

Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s! So if my Too Much Info doesn’t slake your thirst for the gross click on over to LiLu’s and read them all.
TMI Thursday

I know you all are eagerly awaiting my TMI Thursday post but first a little update. Plus I don’t know how eager people are to read my TMI posts after the snot/poo wiping one. I’ve been sick again as of late. This has really caused me to slack on lots of things—especially this place. Now dear faithful readersit began to bother me that I was too sick and etc to blog but each and every day I got my coughing ass up and over to work. Why? Mostly it was the money. I mean I thought to myself fuck that they cut my hours I’m not going to help them cut them some more. Then there was the fact that I can’t help but feel bad when I do. Dam you responsibility. I don’t know if this is the cough or not. At this point it still just seems like a bad cold but then the cough just keeps going after one of those. I don’t know. I’m hoping it’s not. 3 months of coughing with no help from medicine or doctors is not what I consider fun. Anycoughy on to the TMI which is lucky for you brought to you by me being sick.

So it started harmless enough with a bit of a sore throat and then quickly progressed into a cough and a nose so stuffed it felt as if it would explode. You know sending a thick spray of snot everywhere. Sort of like a dirty bomb made up of brown, yellow, greenish goo instead of chemicals? So I resorted to medicine but nothing has really worked. I took to sleeping on the couch to spare the wife. The first night and day were spent really just sitting up in a daze coughing and blowing my nose. I really could not sleep at all. I did manage to fall asleep a couple times. Each time I would eventually wake up finding myself with one arm over my head (sitting up) 3000 pillows behind me and one foot on the coffee table. As this nastiness progressed the colors of snot and whatever was in my chest changed (as you’d probably expect) but they were coming up in an out of control fashion. It seemed as if I couldn’t go 1 minute without having to blow my nose. To make matters worse with every cough (which was way too often) stuff would come up. The cargo imported from the ports of my chest and nose was shipped in dark brown, blackish green and often blood colored boxes. As the days continued it became necessary on a consistent basis to spit up said nasty colored gems into Kleenex. Surprisingly the wifey did not care or want to see any of the colors making their rounds through my chest and onto the soft tissue tarmac.

Okay it’s been established that when coughing I’d spit up something onto a Kleenex. Not fun but you know I didn’t want to do it either. So there! Stop judging me! Sorry. This led to many a late night mistake of grabbing the spit up tissues for nose blowing. Now two different things happened when grabbing these. 1. The goo from my chest had hardened into stalagmites that I crushed onto my nose or 2. The big lump of dark brown, bloodishly green nast got lathered all over my nose as I blew more nasty onto the tissue. So after making this mistake more times than I will actually admit to (F I guess I just did admit to it.) I made an executive decision. There was a glass that I had filled with water to soothe my throat but had long since gone unrefueled. So I took it and began spitting the x filesy goop into it. Soon it began to fill and fill. At some point I tossed it and cleaned it out and brought it back to the couch (home base for 4 days) and periodically coughed the stuff up into it again. It became a soupy like substance (in the cup not what I spat out) and well I took pictures for you. Enjoy:

Here is the goo cup:
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And here is one of the bloody looking spit up tissues:
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Okay so I only posted one picture because well the other ones were quite gross and I felt bad for you all. I know what you are thinking. When will he just get back to telling us about blow jobs?


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