There are certain things in this world that rub me the wrong way. This week I’m sharing my pet peeves, fears, and situations that make me downright paranoid. These are the things that make me cringe when I’m stuck with my own disturbing thoughts. I’m sure some of the themes and situations will make you ask, “Really?” Others however, I’m sure you’ll be able to relate to.
I’ve always had a hard time shitting in public bathrooms. I’ll do it if I’m about to Dumb and Dumber Harry Dunne my pants, but those times are rare. It all started when I walked by a Port-A-John with the words “Hot Lunch” spray painted on the side of it with a ghoulish gray shit color. It stopped me in my tracks as it forced one of the worst visuals I’ve ever assembled in my head. All I could think of was school cafeteria chicken patty topped with mashed potatoes covered in gravy marinating in blue shaded piss at the bottom of the trench. Imagine that splash back.

Lately, even pissing in public cesspools has become a real problem. The Port Authority bus station has scarred me forever. Most of us are familiar with the stable of bums that call the Port Authority home. For those of you who aren’t abreast with this lovely hobo sanctuary, picture the Thriller video after Mike turns into a zombie and the choreography stops. Many of these homeless folks, without makeup, look like the extras that chased that hot mocha piece to the abandoned house that led to her doom. It is apparent that Thriller zombies made their way to Manhattan and now pan handle while you’re trying to get the paper in the morning. Bums like to sleep in the bathrooms because the stall feature allows them to sleep in accommodations you’d find at your local Motel 6.


I think bathroom sleepers are at the top of the bumdom hierarchy. Top dogs get to rest in the bum den. So as bums sleep in The Fonz/A.C Slater reverse style facing the backs of toilets resting their heads on cold pipes or tanks, I was forced to go into their den to piss after a serious happy hour session before my bus took me back to Jersey. The urinal I chose was so disgusting it could have made the lemonparty.org guys gag. The highlight of this particular porcelain petri dish was a piece of gum covered in Templetonish looking rat hairs. I naturally thought it was covered in every virus east of the Mississippi. When I pissed in this gum’s presence it forced me to half my stream to avoid splash back which would bring forth a steady mist of disease. It was so disgusting it made me paranoid that the germs could actually find its way up my urine stream and infect me. I thought of watching Ren and Stimpy, and how they warned me not to pee on an electric fence because the electricity will go up your stream and make your dick look like exploded cartoon dynamite. My dick was Dr. Peter Venkman and my piss was the Ghostbuster’s plasma beam sucking in a diseased Slimer. I can’t even piss outside anymore.

When I was living in New York, I came home from the bar after a 45 minute subway ride and had to piss worse than my prostateless gramps. My buddy shielded me while I pissed behind a Burger King. A car rolled up behind us and stayed still while I finished up. Then, my friend decided it would be a good idea to say, “Hey what are you looking at you fucking faggots?”
My first thought was that it was strange that my friend called these guys fags. It wasn’t as if they were sword fighting or flashing an X at me with their cocks. Big Triple H fans I suppose.
Two guys roll out of the car in street clothes and take their badges out from their jackets. My friend mine as well of thrown a prison cocktail in their faces. They were pissed, no pun intended. There was no talking my way out of this one. I got a public urination ticket, so it was a $50 piss. Due to paranoia of being caught again, I no longer partake in the joys of pissing in alleys and porches, that make even the youngest of lads smile with glee. The only safe place to piss is in the comfort of my own home.

Other bathroom situations also make me sick. A friend of mine recently feels that he has contracted IBS otherwise known as: irritable bowl syndrome. My IBS friend and I went to a Chinese buffet the other day. I counted; he went to the bathroom four times. If Chinese restaurants served general tso’s chili, he would have had to wear a diaper at the table. Despite my fear of public shitting, I was forced to go into the bathroom with him for one of his four explosions because that slop even catches up with a normal shitter. It was either use the buffet accommodations or make some “hot lunch” served on some boxer briefs. I saw my friend standing at the sink through the little crease in my stall due to not having anything else to look at besides the beautiful artwork of a stick figure with a giant penis and KKK carvings. Also, I wasn’t about to call Ned for a good time. Anywho, I saw him turn on the water, look right into the mirror, look both ways and turn off the water. He then took paper towels and wiped his hands. I was confused at first, but then it hit me. It was a fake hand wash. He wanted me to think that he washed his hands. It takes an asshole to not wash their hands after #2, but it takes real evil to take the time to set up the illusion that good hygiene is taking place. I couldn’t help but stare at his hands like they were glowing with green radioactive sludge on them. I had to confront him. Back at the table I said…
“Stop touching everything, I know you have at least 4 shits encrusted in those hands.”
“What do you mean.”
“Don’t play dumb with me man, I saw your phantom hand wash.”
“But I didn’t even wipe that time. It was a clean break deuce.”

O then fine to-shay, to-fucking-shay. That was the first time I’ve heard that expression. I wasn’t familiar considered my deuces do not break cleanly. His underwear must look like a Snickers bar (he did have the peanut chicken) microwaved in a paper towel. Quick side note, one of my biggest pet peeves is when I have to take a shit right after I just got out of the shower. It’s like getting your car washed, only to go rally car off roading two seconds later.
Well enough about shit. I have a serious fear of delivery guys. Do they have change in their pockets? If he does not have change for my $40 dollars, what happens? I’ve always wondered that. Maybe that is the moment the world ends. I hate the concept of making a guy come to your house to deliver food because you were too lazy to drive 2 minutes to pick it up. The most awkward situation was when a delivery guy ended up being someone I went to school with. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t even want to ask a simple question. I imagined it going something like this:
“How are things going?”
“I’m your fucking delivery boy, how the fuck do you think things are going?” I don’t have an answer for that.

Besides questions about my fatness, there is one simple question that I fear the most. When someone asks me, “Hey what do you do for fun?”, it is a scary question for me. Should I be honest? It is usually really interesting people who love to ask this question. They rattle off every great accomplishment in their life, including breast feeding abandoned seal pups, adopting Katrina Persian cat victims, or even being way into recycling. If I tell the truth I have to say I’m loving life right now because my buddy gave me his Brazzers username and password. I have to mention that I came right before we shook hands. Don’t really play any sports anymore because I’ve turned into quite the veal, but I suggest you take the over on the Liberty vs. Sparks game. You can parle that with two other WNBA games and make a nice hit. Honesty is not the best policy. However, technology has a way of trapping us into being honest.

Clearly almost everyone communicates through the luxury of the internet. People e-mail friends and family across the world for free while an hour phone conversation to someone in another country can cost a day’s pay. Despite this, e-mail and social networking sites are the enemy for drunk communicators like myself. Drunk dialing is an inevitable evil that I participate in, but is not overly embarrassing because your friend usually double clicks the side of his or her phone sending your call straight to voice mail not allowing you to make an ass of yourself. Don’t get me wrong, drunken voice mails are dangerous, but are usually deleted because they are usually not coherent. However, when you communicate while intoxicated and use the internet you are not restricted to the numbers saved on your mobile device. You can seek out any of your hundreds-thousands of Facebook friends and contact them without having to get their phone numbers. Also due to the fact that it is done in writing, your stupidity is cast in stone forever for all to see. I am deathly afraid when I wake up still bombed and see my laptop opened next to me. I once wrote on this girl’s wall in the wee hours of the morning, and I quote, “O heyo your bodsies is like teaching technology…quick fleakin ques, are you feelin randy baby?” Lets just say I blew any shot with her. When I start drunk web-caming girls sporting the Buffalo Bill unit tuck, someone kill me. Technology even fucks me over when I’m sober.
Have you ever attempted to talk shit about someone through a text message to one of your friends, but you texted the person your talking shit about instead? “What the fuck does Melissa see in that tool Gary? I want to fuck her so bad.” Five minutes later Gary texts you back that he is going to kick your dick in the next time he sees you.

Speaking of dicks caving in, I have a serious fear of dying in a vicious car wreck. When I drive late at night I constantly pass out and have mini dreams that must be only about 2-3 seconds long. When I’m extremely tired I’ll do the obvious moves like blast the radio, open some windows, or when possible pound coffee to stay up at any cost. I find myself focusing really hard on staying up and all of the sudden I’m late for football practice, I didn’t know their was a math test, failed it, coach is mad but its cool because I’m eating an orange at halftime, and finally o shit that’s a fucking pole. You literally just had a two second dream with a beginning, middle, and end with character development and a heavy plot. I don’t want to die due to one of my car dreams because it would lead to one of my biggest fears; having one of those memorials on the side of the highway at the exact spot I shit the bed.

I don’t understand why mourners put a memorial in the exact spot of where someone dies in a car accident. I just picture my ghost looking over a group of people holding candles and putting obnoxious flower arrangements next to where you can see some tooth fragments, hair from when I was scalped by the windshield, and my left nike that launched off my foot after I hit the Smokey the Bear fire danger measurer at 80 mph. As a ghost you’ve got to be thinking “Can we move this death party somewhere else? Thanks for coming but come on, my blood still stains the streets. Call me crazy but I have bad memories of this place.”