The Troof

You know what's weird? The number of decent, attractive females I've talked myself out of having sex with for having the smallest of flaws.

You know what's disgusting? The number of filthy, pink schlong coffins I've stuffed my bare dick in to after drinking alcohol.

Damn you alcohol, damn you...

She's Sharp.

The single swinging stoplight flickers twice before deciding to turn green. Brad and I walk across the street as a large gust of wind rolls through our dusty little town. I turn my head to shield my eyes from the blasts of dirt and sand. I see Greg the owner of a local hardware store standing in his doorway watching the world around him. He smiles and gives us a wave. I clinch my fists and thrust the air with my hips in a humping motion as I crack a grin. Greg’s smile turns to a laugh and his wave turns in to a middle finger salute. That man’s known me my whole life; he knows I’m an ornery little shit. We make a sharp turn into an old brick building that is the Peace Café. 

“I hate this dusty fucking town.” Brad grumbles as we belly up on our bar barstools.
“Oh you fucking yuppie!” I reply, “You never hated it until you moved to the big city of boulder. Two coffees, two waters and two menus, please Ms. Grant.”

“Not even a hello for me today boys?” The 300 year old waitress says shuffling towards us with a grin exposing what’s left of her tar stained teeth.

She’s another old soul that’s known Brad and me since we were still shitting in diapers. See, I spent 23 years growing up in this ghost town known as Peace, CO. Brad has come back for the weekend, to try and convince me to move to Boulder with him, the city home to the University of Colorado.

I find his argument is rather compelling, “Come on dude,” he pleads, “the girls are easy and drugs are practically legal there!” It’s a strange sales pitch since I don’t know much about either of those two subjects. I’ve had two girlfriends in seven years and I won an award in the 6^th grade for having the best D.A.R.E. speech. I guess drug and vagina free is the way to be? In my defense, being related to half the county, I really had to watch where I was stickin’ my dick.

Brad has been my best friend as long as I can remember. I love the guy and still consider him the dumbest smart person I know. He is more intelligent and talented than most, yet somehow has no fucking common sense. It’s incredible. We both have addictive personalities and an uncanny ability to put ourselves in bad situations. Come to think of it, I guess I don’t have that much common sense either.

I debate his proposal and reluctantly agree, “Fuck it! I’ll move to Boulder.” I probably shouldn’t trust the son of a bitch, but I do anyways. I’ve wasted too much time in this place full of dirt roads, dead-end jobs and way too many inbred families (Really though, how many is too many?) Maybe I’ll luck out and get me a girl there that’s still got all her teeth, which would be considered a “trophy wife” around here. Obviously, incest does not give birth to pretty smiles.

So it’s settled, I’m moving to the big city. I pack my bags and head north with everything I own. Brad has taken care of the leg work, he’s found us an apartment, and all I have to do is sign the paperwork and fork over a thousand dollars in rent money. It’s a one year lease, and I’m ready. Cheers to us not burning this bitch down in the next 365.   

Having a near-worthless bachelor’s degree in Sports Management, I immediately apply and receive a job managing a large fitness center in Boulder. If you are oblivious to the fitness world, I will fill you in. It is full of sex and drugs. Most single (or married), fitness enthusiasts have the same things in common; they like to get fucked up and love to get laid. For shits sake, the woman that runs my senior citizens fitness class attends gang bangs every other weekend.

One day she was scrolling through her camera showing me pictures of her son playing little league. She was busy looking at me, rambling on as she occasionally swiped the screen. Suddenly the baseball photos stopped and a picture of her getting jerked off on by three dudes appeared. “Oh shit!” she screamed, stammering through an excuse as to what I had just seen. Talk about a happy ending. FYI, she is (was) definitely married.

My nights generally revolve around the same theme. I workout, go home, get drunk, get high, jack off, pass out. Rinse and repeat. To say my life is fulfilling would be bull shit, but I enjoy the routine. My weekends I take to the next level by adding some form of narcotic to the mix. Usually one that leaves me wide eyed with a runny nose. Occasionally I’ll add a handful of pills in as well. These tend to make me kind of discombobulated at first. I’ll seclude myself to my bedroom switching between beating my chest like a gorilla and then using my hands to rub my nipples in slow gentle circular patterns. It’s a fierce battle in my mind of being an alpha male and a testosterone deprived man that is passed his prime. A man whose muscular pec’s have transformed in to droopy tender breast. Imagine a present day Rick Flare or Arnold Schwarzenegger on ecstasy. 

This has become a very interesting time in my life.

No matter what the concoction, I usually end up with a semi-hard penis, screaming quotes from A League of Their Own. I’m not sure why, but it’s always A League of Their Own. I’m almost certain it has to do with me being six years old, seeing Rosie O’Donnell and getting my first erection. This could probably explain my bizarrely strong sexual attraction to plus sized women. I hate that I love em’.

Okay, fast forward two months and we’re into October. I’m face down on my bathroom floor vomiting as I hear Brad’s voice echo down the hallway, “Come hit this shit!” Ah, just another blood shot eyed Sunday at our apartment. I stagger to my feet, not wanting to leave the cool comfort of the linoleum. Swaying, I look up, in the mirror stands a new person. My youthful eyes seem to have aged overnight. “You look like a young Mel Gibson.” I reassure myself as I unravel the spool of toilet paper sitting by my sink. I blow a healthy mixture of snot and dried chemicals out of my nose. The world spins around me as I navigate my way to the living room. I find Brad and his new fling Amy glued to the couch. They’re making good use out of our new bong that we affectionately named Ted.

Just recently I pulled the wingman move of the century and hooked ol’ Bradley up with a trailer-trash hottie named Amy. You know the type: bleach blonde hair with black undertones, small shirts always flared open at the top with tits half way out, low cut jeans that expose her Guns N’ roses tramp stamp of two six-shooters intertwined with roses, and a sexy little smirk that screams, “I’ll suck that dick right off your body.” To say she dresses like a hooker would be offensive to hookers, and she always has a stash of something good on her. ¹Codeine, Percocet, Adderall, Xanax, whatever your prescription addiction, she’s got your fix. From my room I can hear she has quite the array of sexual noises. Good for her. Wait… good for him!

A RANDOM FRIDAY:

4 PM

It’s Friday afternoon and, per usual, I have a hankering to get off work, get shit-faced, and hit on random females that have no interest in sleeping with me. My phone lights up with a text from Amy, and I’m in luck, she has done the ground work for me.

“I’m bringing one of my girlfriends by your apartment tonight. You’ll like her, she’s a super slut! :)))”

I’m not sure what a super slut is or why that smiley has so many mouths, but ten dollars says I don’t wear a condom. Let’s face it, I’ll be wasted and condoms are where boners go to die.

A few minutes pass by and I receive a Facebook friend request from Amy’s slutty companion. A gorgeous girl named, Tiffany Sharp. I fumble around with the mouse as I desperately click “Accept” and begin scrolling through pictures. She is different than Amy. She’s tan with full cheeks and a beautiful smile. She has a cute little nose and big deep blue eyes. Her eyelashes look to be at least a mile long. She looks to be out of my league, perhaps out of my sport all together.

Now, in my opinion, girls are fucking terrible at hooking guys up with their friends. The broads never give a full effort to get you laid, and they always call their friends “cute,” but “cute” is actually code for ugly or fat. And we’re not talking about the thick kind of sexy that I prefer, these girls are just fat. Like a pimple covered troll that can’t find a guy willing to watch her finger blast herself on a webcam, let alone have sex with her. This time though, Amy has done me a solid. Not only would I love to see this girl flick her bean on the internet machine, but I’d pay her money (or drugs) to have sex with her. I am ready for 5 o’clock; I’ve got a potential lay to work on.

SAME RANDOM FRIDAY:

 10 PM

Brad and I sit in the kitchen awaiting the girl’s arrival. I spin a quarter on the table as we listen to some rap song that promotes drug and alcohol abuse blare through the speakers. There’s a faint knock on the door. I jump out of my seat as I quick step to the door and stop to gain my composure. I smooth out my shirt and pants then reach for the knob.

On our patio stands our ladies, I say hello and give Tiffany a once over. My eyes take it in as they run down a long set of tan legs that are dawning black strapped heels. She’s easily my height but the Stiletto’s vault her a good three inches above me. She has a small black skirt on that’s just long enough to hide her ass cheeks and at the top sits a belly button ring complete with a diamond encrusted butterfly. Above that lies a pair of tits that would get even your grandpa’s dick hard, squished together in a bulging red top. I know what you’re thinking and I agree 100%, she’s got a belly button ring, definitely a whore. We swap smiles and names as the liquor begins to flow.       

¹ If you’re a hopeless pill popping addict, a 21 year old girl should be your best friend. If even slightly attractive, horny old men we call doctors will prescribe her anything. ANYTHING. You’re welcome.

We’re half an hour into drinking and things are off to a good start. However, between the BS and copious amounts of liquor, I start to have a realization. Tiffany might be retarded... like, literally retarded. I find that her deep blue eyes have nothing behind them; she constantly stares off in to space and smiles like an idiot. At this point, I fear having sex with her could be borderline illegal or worse, she could end up pregnant. I’d have to father a mentally challenged baby whose IQ would be a cool 50 points higher than my new found baby mamas. “I can’t afford a drug habit if I spend all my money taking care of these two retards.” I think to myself as I become overwhelmed with my hypothetical burden.

After voicing her dumbass opinion that I should shave my Chuck Norris-esk beard (proof she’s retarded), Tiffany spins her chair around in a circle and dumps half her cranberry vodka out on to our pit bull, Steve. She acknowledges her error with a loud “Whoops!!” and is currently balls deep in an apologetic conversation with Steve. Now she is moving Steve’s lips up and down as if he is talking back. What in the fuck is going on here? I pull Amy back to my room for a briefing.

Me: Your friend Tiffany is a fucking idiot!

Amy: Umm, yeah she is! She takes like, a ton of adderall. She’s like, a crazy good artist though!

(I begin to wonder if she is retarded or autistic savant like Rainman?)

Me: Does she fuck? Because that’s what I really care about.

Amy: Oh yeah, she’s fucked like a ton of guys! You should probably wear a rubber though, dude.

Me: Gross. Thanks, dude.

So many brain cells lost in my conversations with Amy.

We head back to the living room where Tiffany has a wash cloth wrapped around Steve’s head like a bonnet. I send an apologetic look to Steve, he deserves better; fuck it… he’s a team player. I shake my head and pull four ecstasy pills shaped like Barrack Obama’s head from my pocket. Tiffany suggests that instead of us swallowing them whole, we should snort them instead. This confuses me, I’m not really sure why she wants to do this but I assume it’s because she’s stupid. I sigh as I place them on the kitchen table and meticulously chop them in to a fine powder forming four evenly shaped lines. Brad retrieves our “snortin’ straw” from a kitchen drawer and passes it around as we each take our turn.

The amphetamines kick in almost immediately. I feel my testicles shrivel in to the shape of a small walnut. My penis follows in suit, but it takes a form more similar to Vienna sausage that’s been soaked in too much salt water. I lean back, slam my right fist against my chest and roar, “THERE’S NO CRYING IN BASEBALL!”

I must be rollin’, baby. That retard might be on to something, I’ve never had pills kick in so quickly. All of a sudden her dumb ways are a thing of the past; I think I’m in love…

… and then I black out.

I remember leaving our apartment and the rest of my night is touch and go from there. Here’s what I recall:

--We only go to one bar, the music is loud as fuck, I hate it. But tonight, I’m not just listening, I’m feeling the music. I love the music.

--Tiffany spends most the night grinding her ass on me while I try my best to rub both my nipples on her back, it feels good. So, so good.

--Half way through a few bourbon and waters Brad and I hit the bathroom together for another load of Obama, we swallow this time. That sounds gayer than it was.

--More bourbon, more grinding, and now Tiffany is grabbing my junk, I am too amped to care that she’s grabbing the equivalent of a grub worm and two raisins.

--I look at Brad and notice his pupils have taken over both his eyes. This shit is crazy.

--The bar closes, we decide the titty club is in order. It’s BYOB and has a free taxi service. I assume we stopped by our apartment because we show up with a plastic bottle of vodka and two dirty adderalls that I dropped on the ground. We break them in and half and share them. Only the best for our ladies.

--I am lying down on the stage as a stripper slams her haggard beaver against my face trying to claw a five dollar bill from my lips. I am a very frugal person, I do not want to give up this five dollar bill.

--I sit back down at our table. My mustache smells funky. I can’t actually smell at this point in time, but I assume it does.

--Looking at the clock by my bed, it’s 5:02a.m. Tiffany is naked and I am trying my best to dry hump my worthless, limp dick inside her. No use. I find the hole is gaping so I jam three fingers in with no problem. She cums (maybe, but probably not.)

--I pass out

THE KIND OF HUNGOVER SATURDAY THAT MAKES ME WANT TO KILL MYSELF:

10:30 AM

I absolutely love to party, but the morning after can go fuck itself, especially since I discovered amphetamines². I used to drink like a fish and be perfectly fine the next day. Now-a-days, I drink say, half a bottle of vodka maybe do a line or two off the toilet paper holder in a bathroom stall and all of a sudden I wake up feeling like somebody beat the fuck out of me. Old age, I tell ya what!

Well I just woke up with one of those horrendous hangovers. It’s almost noon and I feel like a Saint Bernard just took a big hairy shit in my mouth. My head is pounding, my gut hurts, and I only know one equation to solve this problem:

     5 pulls of cheap vodka

     3 bong rips

+   1 mega shit

=   the perfect hangover cure³ (Thank you, science!)

Fuck the hair of the dog⁴ that bit me, I hated that bitch anyways.

I look at my right arm, it’s pinned under a drooling dimwitted sleeping beauty. “I’ve definitely woken up beside uglier creatures in my day.” I think to myself, reminiscing about the occasional wildebeest that finds her way into my bed. I slide my arm out from under her, and head for the bathroom. My piss is highlighter orange and I wonder how a body goes about producing that particular color. I shrug it off and stumble my way to the living room.

Brad is cursed with the same narcotic induced hangover disease as me and I find him there nursing what’s left of our plastic bottle vodka. A pipe loaded with marijuana sits on the coffee table.

“I knew you’d be waking up any minute.” He grins as he passes me the pipe followed by the bottle. I smoke my smoke and twinge as I gut my first pull of vodka. The initial gulp is always rough, maybe even a little intimidating to the novice drinker, but it only gets easier after that. Plus, in order to complete the hangover cure calculations, it must be done. An hour of drinking and diarrhea passes by. My hangover has now begun to fade.

             

² Those endorphin producing bastards.

³Again, seriously, you’re welcome.

⁴ If you don’t know what “hair of the dog” means, then Google it, ya jerk off.  

While Brad and I hazily reminisce some of our favorite stories of nights out and bad decisions made, the girls finally wake up and join us for the festivities. Fuck, they look more haggard than the strippers muff from last night. Both dragging comforters with them, hair is pointed in all directions, make up has worn off and Tiffany unknowingly has a nipple hanging out. Brad and I giggle and separate as the girls snuggle up in between us.

We share more reckless stories with the ladies as we pass the medicine around. Another hour of drinking and smoking the peace pipe go by. My mind and body can take no more toxins. I’m shutting down. I excuse myself to bed, stealing back my comforter and dragging myself down the hallway.

My head hits the pillow and its lights out. I’m in a drunken coma equivalent to that of brain trauma victim. We’re talking about an anesthesia and morphine kind of sleep. Or, in my case, THC and a half gallon of whatever we could buy for under $10.

Amidst my sweet drunken dreams of hanging out with Charlie Sheen and starting a Sugar Ray cover band, I am slapped back to reality. I shake my head, and rub the fog from my eyes as I try to see through the blinding ray of sun piercing through my window. I am barely conscious.

A familiar buzzing noise fills the air and I look up to find Tiffany straddling me with that dumb shit eating grin on her face, her hair still pointing in every direction. In one hand she is wielding my Wal-Mart brand electric razor, it’s old, it needs oiled, it sounds like a World War Two fighter plane. I’ll never forget that sound. Her other hand is drawn back like Hulk Hogan in a title bout. She slaps me again.

Consciousness, regained.

I quickly consider my options that aren’t illegal and some that are. I opt for verbal abuse as I yell at the poster child for abortion advocates to get the hell off me. She nods in compliance, still smiling and stands up asking, “Are you excited??” I sit up dazed and confused, a light blanket of hair falls from my face to my stomach. I become more confused. 

Until now, I’ve had a pretty decent beard. No, scratch that, an excellent beard. Put it this way, if my penis were as thick as my beard, I’d be in porn. Well guess what? Not any-fucking-more! I brush the right side of my face and to my surprise; my hand is covered in hair. I shove Tiffany out of my way and sprint towards the bathroom.

Son of a bitch.

The left side of my face is as burly as ever, but the right side looks like I just walked in to my first locker room shower in 7^th grade. My face is shaved up all the way up over my damn ear. I’m gonna kill this turd...

                                                         

“What in the fuck did you do to me?!” I snarl through clinched teeth.

She replies as if she has just done me a huge favor, “Umm, you’re welcome! I made you look better without a beard!”

“What are you talking about you crazy bitch?” I yell, grabbing my toilet paper roll from the sink and spiking it to the ground like a real tough guy. It unravels and rolls halfway across my room to Tiffany’s feet. She giggles, this enrages me even more.

“Well look,” she says pointing at me and moving her hand as she makes a checklist, “I also trimmed your legs, your stomach, the back of your neck AND, best off all, I even shaved one of your butt cheeks!!”

Looking down, I thoroughly examine myself. There is no hair from my thighs to my toes . Sure enough, my happy trail is gone. The back of my neck feels tightly groomed… I actually appreciated this because my neck hair grows like Teen Wolf. Lastly, I check the left butt cheek, it’s still fuzzy. I check the right butt cheek, bald. Oh no she didn’t!

I’m disoriented as hell, half of me looks to be 12 years old, and I just got hair raped. Adderall, ecstasy, cheap vodka… you fucks! I am so frustrated that my voice starts cracking. I think that inner 12 year old is trying to come out.

“I’M A MAN! I AM A MAN! Why did you do this to me??” I scream, my eyes nearly welling with tears (like a total pussy.)

Tiffany smiles as if this shit is normal states, “Umm because I didn’t take my A.D.H.D. medicine this morning, duh!!”

“I don’t even know what the fuck that means.” I respond, furiously. “Get out of my house.”

She shrugs her shoulders like it’s no big thing and exits my room. I hear her from down the hallway, “Amy I’m out of here. Brad, your roommate is a fucking dick!”

I stand in front of the mirror sulking for the better part of forever. I’m nearly in tears as I trim down left half of my face making it match the right. There is nothing left of me but pre-pubescent humiliation.  

As I walk back into my room, I hover over my bed examining at the crime scene. My black sheets look like they have a chalk outline of a murder victim… just imagine hair instead of chalk. I can see exactly where my legs were assaulted, and even where she conveniently trimmed my hair all over my pillow. I notice one pile of hair off to the side… must be where she rolled me over and tagged my ass cheek. “Dumb broad.”I mumble as I begin tearing off sheets to take to the wash.

Postnote:

I don’t really know which part of the story is the saddest: Me getting so fucked up that I slept through a full body haircut, or the fact that Tiffany is such a brain dead moron that she spent the majority of an afternoon using my limp body as a mannequin… as if she does this kind of weird shit all the time.

I didn’t hang out with Tiffany again after that and Amy was only around for a couple more months before Brad kicked her to the curb. I’d say Amy apologized for Tiffany, but I feel like any apology accompanied by bellowing laughter is not really sincere.