My toilet started life in Bulltown, New Mexico where the Chicago Standard Toilet Factory lives. My toilet wasn't made in this particular factory but since Bulltown has no other distinctive features it only made sense to mention the factory. My toilet was made in the back room of a small pottery studio owned by Francis Williamtion who used the room for not only making custom toilets but also bongs and crack pipes which she in turn traded to the neighborhood children for candy and popcorn balls (without razor blades, she always insisted).
How I came into ownership of the toilet is a story so predictably made-up and full of shit that it cannot be kept secret any longer. And here it be...
I visited Bulltown August 19, 1789 on a dare. My roommate and I had been playing strip checkers and after I had lost the fifth game in a row and was completely naked he still insisted I play another game. "I'm fucking naked already. I can't get any more naked." I said. "Alright then. The loser of this game has to go to Bulltown, New Mexico and kill Francis Williamtion." my roommate said.
The thought of killing a women I didn't know bothered me. If I was going to have to kill this women, I'd have to get to know her, sleep with her even. I might even have to dress up in some of her clothes, take a bath in her sink, wash her dog, and worst of all take picture of myself wearing her panties over the top of my clothes like some freak superhero custom. This was going to be a sick and twisted job for sure. First though, I had to lose this game of checkers.
My roommate opened with doosy of a first move; middle checker forward one square. Fuck! I couldn't let him know that he had totally fucked my game plan on his very first move. This was going to be the checker match of my life.
After six torturous minutes of game play there was finally a winner and a loser. I was the mother fucking winner. It would not be I who went to Bulltown to kill Francis. I felt like squeezing my dick and balls together.
As I watched my roommate gather his things, I realized two things. One, he needed new luggage and two, I was not going to let him walk out of this apartment alive.
How I came into ownership of the toilet is a story so predictably made-up and full of shit that it cannot be kept secret any longer. And here it be...
I visited Bulltown August 19, 1789 on a dare. My roommate and I had been playing strip checkers and after I had lost the fifth game in a row and was completely naked he still insisted I play another game. "I'm fucking naked already. I can't get any more naked." I said. "Alright then. The loser of this game has to go to Bulltown, New Mexico and kill Francis Williamtion." my roommate said.
The thought of killing a women I didn't know bothered me. If I was going to have to kill this women, I'd have to get to know her, sleep with her even. I might even have to dress up in some of her clothes, take a bath in her sink, wash her dog, and worst of all take picture of myself wearing her panties over the top of my clothes like some freak superhero custom. This was going to be a sick and twisted job for sure. First though, I had to lose this game of checkers.
My roommate opened with doosy of a first move; middle checker forward one square. Fuck! I couldn't let him know that he had totally fucked my game plan on his very first move. This was going to be the checker match of my life.
After six torturous minutes of game play there was finally a winner and a loser. I was the mother fucking winner. It would not be I who went to Bulltown to kill Francis. I felt like squeezing my dick and balls together.
As I watched my roommate gather his things, I realized two things. One, he needed new luggage and two, I was not going to let him walk out of this apartment alive.
To be continued....
...And now continued.
Call me old fashioned if you want because I don't give a shit. I'll just turn right around and call you fat. Go fuck yourself. The point being, once I've made up my mind to kill someone there's no turning back. I've spoken to a lot of people who say they're going to kill someone then get cold feet or get arrested or fall down and sprain their ankle or something else and end up killing no one. Not me. I wear one of those lace-up braces on my ankles that makes it virtually impossible to sprain my ankle and I haven't fell down in like six months.
Killing my roommate wasn't going to be easy. He was a trained assassin himself and he always wore body armor. Poisoning him was going to be the only way that would work. There was one other catch; he was immune to all known poisons. I was going to have to shoot him. Then I remembered that he wore body armor... but not on his face or feet.
My mind was made up. I was going to shoot his cock-sucking feet off. Wait. Would shooting someone's feet off really kill them? This was when I wished I paid attention in murder school. I changed my mind and decided to blow his mother fucking head clean off the top part of his neck and into the lake that sits directly behind our apartment.
I pulled my bazooka out of my pocket lined the targeting system up with the middle of his forehead and pulled the trigger.
Nothing.
There was a fraction of a second that seemed to last a million-billion days between the time I realized my bazooka wasn't loaded and the time my roommate realized I was trying to blow his fucking head off. That time just sort of hung in the air like Micheal Jordan used to do when she was jumping out of a moving vehicle.
Once my roomy finally realized what was happening he did the impossible. He turned invisible.
To be continued...
...and then re-continued.
Someone who is invisible is only slightly harder to kill for a trained assassin. In murder school they teach you to kill just as easily by using your other senses such as hearing, smell, and in this instance taste.
Upon realizing what I was dealing with I immediately started licking my arms and shoulders. I wanted to make sure and rule out the obvious hiding places first. My arms, shoulders, inside of my mouth, upper lip, lower lip, palm, back of hand, and then I tried my foot but couldn't reach. Didn't matter. He wasn't there.
Once I ruled out my own body I moved on to the toilet in our apartment and then the urinals and the floor immediately underneath them located at Skippy's which is the bar we like to hang out at. I did not particularly want to do this because it was super gross and there was a ton of pubes and piss on the floor but it was the only other place I could imagine that an invisible man might be hiding. I wanted to make super duper certain for surely sure he wasn't secretly hiding there so I took all my clothes off and even wiped my butt with a paper towel but didn't wipe it all the way through, just let the paper stay between my cheeks. Then I licked the floor for about an hour and was about to quit when this big cowboy riding a two-wheeled motorcycle came flying in and about scared the living shit out of me.
"Am I interrupting something important, George Washington?" he said and then he started doing burn-outs and flipping me off.
Not wanting to show any signs of intimidation, I put on my best "sex-kitten" face, plucked a few pubes off my tongue, and stood up to face this piece of shit man-to-man.
To be continued....
...and then re-continued.
Someone who is invisible is only slightly harder to kill for a trained assassin. In murder school they teach you to kill just as easily by using your other senses such as hearing, smell, and in this instance taste.
Upon realizing what I was dealing with I immediately started licking my arms and shoulders. I wanted to make sure and rule out the obvious hiding places first. My arms, shoulders, inside of my mouth, upper lip, lower lip, palm, back of hand, and then I tried my foot but couldn't reach. Didn't matter. He wasn't there.
Once I ruled out my own body I moved on to the toilet in our apartment and then the urinals and the floor immediately underneath them located at Skippy's which is the bar we like to hang out at. I did not particularly want to do this because it was super gross and there was a ton of pubes and piss on the floor but it was the only other place I could imagine that an invisible man might be hiding. I wanted to make super duper certain for surely sure he wasn't secretly hiding there so I took all my clothes off and even wiped my butt with a paper towel but didn't wipe it all the way through, just let the paper stay between my cheeks. Then I licked the floor for about an hour and was about to quit when this big cowboy riding a two-wheeled motorcycle came flying in and about scared the living shit out of me.
"Am I interrupting something important, George Washington?" he said and then he started doing burn-outs and flipping me off.
Not wanting to show any signs of intimidation, I put on my best "sex-kitten" face, plucked a few pubes off my tongue, and stood up to face this piece of shit man-to-man.
To be continued....
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