Don't Drink The Punch

Rum is without a doubt one of my least favorite liquors. Not that I don’t particularly like the taste of it, but the sugary sweetness of it turns me into a raving lunatic when I drink it. I get myself into that garbage about once every few months, not out of desire but usually out of necessity. Rum is also one of the few drinks that I have to use a mixer to be able to stomach it. The sweetness of the rum combined with the good taste of whatever mixer I decide to use, is probably the reason why I get so fucking wasted off of it. I don’t taste the bite of the liquor, so I drink a shit ton of it.

One time, some asshole wasn’t paying attention and left his bottle of rum outside of the liquor store. He went to tie his shoe and when he rose back up, the dumb bastard just simply walked away. Score one for Frank. I ran over as quickly as possible, before one of the other local bums scooped it up, and took off running with it. When I got to a safe drinking spot far from the guy who owned the bottle, I pulled off the brown bag and came to find out that it was a very shitty bottle of rum. Like six dollars a bottle shitty. Well, I thought to myself that I wasn’t going to turn down any free liquor ever, so I cracked the top and poured the whole bottle into a two liter of sprite that I happened to have with me at the time. Believe it or not, I do like to drink things other than scotch.

I was cruising down the sidewalk, taking giant swings from my mixed drink, when I came to the end of the street. Right in front of me were some guys with shaved heads and big, wavy, black robes on. They were yelling some nonsense at people as they passed by, but they all seemed to ignore. I noticed that they were handing out pamphlets, which also no one seemed to want. It then dawned on me that these were a group of street prophets, which are sort of a staple on the streets of downtown Philadelphia.

I love to fuck with these idiots, so I went over and grabbed one of their pamphlets from a small table they had set up. One of the shaved head goons tried to talk to me, but I just waved him off as I walked about twenty feet away to read in peace. I looked at the cover page which read, “Welcome to the World of the Cryontologists”, as I really began to lace into the bottle of rum and sprite. I chuckled a bit but was more intrigued than ever. I had to keep reading, so I opened the pamphlet up.

It read: “Welcome to the wonderful world of Cryontology. Our mission is to deliver the wornderful word of Fagedich, our God from the stars who will one day save us. We hope to gather enough members and earn enough money to be cryogenically frozen, put on rocket ships, and sent into the cosmos, where he will rescue us and take our human bodies to a realm far away. There we will be treated to delights that this world can never deliver. Join now, before the time of reckoning passes you by.”

I fell off the bench laughing hysterically. At this point I was fucked-in-the-ass drunk and only had about a mouthful of drink left. It was decided while I was lying in the grass, that I had to rouse these guys up a bit, so I started to walk over to them. They were delighted to see that I had not only read their garbage, but was actually coming over to talk to them.

I started the conversation by asking, “So who’s this Fag-Dick guy you guys believe in?” The tallest of the three assholes seemed a bit offended by my translation, but answered back.

“It’s actually pronounced ‘Faj-Deesh’, sir. He is our savior upon high who has given us his word to ease the suffering of human kind…”

He kept telling me his little spiel, but I stopped paying attention because things around me were really starting to spin. I did notice that one of the other men poured me a little fruit punch and tried to give it to me. I thought these fuckers were trying to go all Jonestown one me, so I flipped out, did a pseudo karate kick and knocked it out of his hands. The three were shocked by my actions, but didn’t move. Neither did I, until I projectile vomited two liters of cheap rum and sprite all over their literature. The men asked me to go away, but I passed out and crashed through their little table.

Consciousness hit me about five hours later in a pile of pamphlets and my own puke. The cheap ink they had used to print their literature had leaked off and transferred onto my head. I walked around with “Fag Dick” on my forehead for two days before someone finally told me. I haven’t seen those guys around since then, so I’m assuming they were rescued and taken away to another galaxy. Which is good for them, because if I ever see those bastards again, I’m gonna kick them in the balls.

12 Step Dickheads

In the years that I have been on the street, I have been arrested a countless amount of times. The justice system stopped wasting its time on me a long time ago because I was deemed “unsalvageable” in the eyes of the courts. Now, they just release me after a mug shot and some time to sober up, when they actually take the time to arrest me.

But a long, long time ago the assfaces at the courthouse used to sentence me to all sorts of programs and punishments in hopes of getting me sober. Lots of good that obviously did. There were hundreds of hours of community service, weekends in jail, presentations to Middle School kids about the dangers of drinking, and fines out the ass. But the one thing that bothered me the most were court ordered support groups for alcohol dependency.

Drug and alcohol support groups draw a strange collection of people, which makes sense because it is full of crazy fucks that are addicted to drugs and alcohol. These bastards have done all sorts of crazy things to score drugs like stealing from their families, robbing strangers at knife point, and sucking cock. But for some reason, the cult of sobriety always seems to look down upon those who are forced to attend by court. The very people who have had a fat, throbbing dick in their mouths for a nickel bag of heroin have the gall to pass judgment on me.

A few years back, the cops found me passed out, face down in a Philly cheese steak from Pat’s (American Without…If you don’t know that means, go Google it…it’s a Philly thing.) I drank waaaaay too much that night and the cops didn’t appreciate having to take care of my drunk ass. So they forced me to attend my first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting by the order of the city of Philadelphia. I gathered what I thought I would need for the meeting like cigarettes, a notepad, and a fifth of Cutty Sark. I moseyed on down to the church center where they were holding the meeting to find quite a large amount of people in attendance. I figured out that night that I wasn’t the only drunken asshole in the city.

When I walked through the old, painted chipped door there were roughly sixty alcoholics socializing and consuming more coffee than I thought possible by the human body. Since I was a bit naïve back then, I couldn’t understand why no one was drinking. I thought this was a hotspot for alcoholics. I figured I’d wait a bit before I broke out the scotch, so I headed over to the coffee pot and filled up a Styrofoam cup.

Everyone seemed a bit on edge for some reason. I sipped on my coffee and thought about approaching someone to maybe get in the social spirit that everyone else seemed to have. But as I looked around, no one really seemed approachable enough to talk to, so I just grabbed a seat in the back by myself. Everyone took a seat as the leader of the group took center stage and control of the meeting.

“Hello everyone”, the lady up front said followed by a unison greeting from the crowd. “My name is Tammy and I’m and alcoholic.” Tammy was overweight, had tattoos all up her arm, and looked like the type of woman who smelled like old cheese. I couldn’t imagine why they chose her as the group leader.

“I’m the head of the First Presbyterian chapter of Alcoholic Anonymous. I have been sober for five years this up coming fall.” The crowd applauded Tammy for her superior “not getting wasted anymore” skills.

Tammy continued to jammer on about a bunch of shit that I had no interest in. I knew I wasn’t going to make through an hour of this self righteous, happy-to-be-sober propaganda. I didn’t want to be sober, so this was a huge fucking waste of my time. I had about half a cup of coffee left, so I didn’t hesitate to top it off with my booze. This would keep this meeting interesting.

After a few dozen refills, Tammy began to catch on to what I was doing. She stopped in mid sentence while addressing the group and turned her sober fury on me.

“What the fuck are you doing!?” she yelled at me as if I were a twelve year old being disciplined by his mother. “Are you drinking at an AA meeting?!” I had no other choice but to put her in her place.

“What does it look like I’m doing cunt? I’m drinking some scotch. Now go get a cup a sit your fat ass on my lap and lets have a drink.”

Tammy and about five other members ended up having to physically escort me out of the building because they didn’t seem to find my behavior acceptable. It was okay though. A few weeks after this incident, that bitch fell off the wagon and I ended up seeing her at a bar. We did shots together and I ended up railing her that night behind a dumpster. She was a lot cooler drunk then she was sober. And surprisingly, she didn’t smell like cheese.

Big Dump Leads To Big Problems

Yesterday, I had a giant helping of Chinese food from Tsang’s Garden on 51st street. They have a kick ass lunch buffet and the owner likes me because I’m a regular. My personal dish of choice is the General Tso’s chicken with a side of pork fried rice, and two eggrolls. Kim, who works the back kitchen, makes it to my specification. I like it a little too crispy and covered in way too much sauce. It is like an orgasm on a plate, but there is an unfortunate side effect. Whenever I eat there, I end up taking such a massive shit that I need to usually take a nap afterwards just to recover from it.

Well, yesterday was no exception to the normal run of things. I scarfed down more Chinese food than human beings were ever meant to eat. I was completely and totally food fucked. The greasy food had left me completely useless, so I sat down on my cardboard box and unbuckled my belt to give my stomach some room to work. I just needed a few moments to get my head straight and then I planned to drift into a nice, long nap.

That was my plan until my stomach began to rumble. Somehow, the General made his way through my digestive system at an incredible rate. My rectum began to fluctuate, unable to hold back the tsunami of shit that was roaring towards the end of its journey. I had no choice but to stand up as quickly as possible because the shit storm was coming. My belt had never been so hard to remove since my hands were now violently shaking. I fiddled with it for a few seconds until it finally came undone, which was a good thing because I had began to poop myself.

I hunched over, with my pants down around my knees, and the fountain of feces began to flow from my asshole. I colored the alleyway brown as my waste came out in shotgun like blasts. It was an enormous shit, comparable to erection of the pyramids, but made of poo instead of rocks. It smelled something awful but was absolutely necessary. After a fifteen second flow, it was finally over and left me physically exhausted. Right as I finished wiping my ass with my crap rag, Crazy James, a local legend, recognized me from the end of the alley. He began to wave frantically at me and started to jog down the alley towards me. Crazy James is always very difficult to handle, even though he is usually a pretty nice guy. The problem with him is you never know when he might do something insane, even if it is completely unprovoked. His spastic behavior has kept him from ever being able to live a normal life or really have any sort of lasting relationship with other people. Regardless, I always try to be nice to the guy.

“Hey Frank! What’s up man? What are you up to today? Holy Jesus! That’s a huge crap you took there man! How long did that take to squeeze out?” Crazy James continued for about another five minutes before I was able to chime in and add my two cents to the conversation. I tried to answer as many of his thousand questions as possible.

“What’s the good word James? Yeah man, I took this huge shit because I ate way too much Chinese food. Those eggrolls really did a number on my stoma…” Right as I was in mid-sentence, James picked up a huge piece of my crap and smelled it. This move set me back a bit and I choked on my words. Then without warning, James yelled “Poopball fight!”

I watched in slow motion as my own shit came flying at my face. The turd smashed right in the area between my nose and my mouth. Pieces of rice and cabbage went up my nostrils and were stuck in between my teeth. Crazy James clapped and laughed like a retard. He was obviously proud of his on target throw. The smell and taste of feces made me throw up all over myself. I was in bad shape all around, but this just made Crazy James laugh harder. I noticed an old tire iron propped up against the wall. I considered picking it up to smash his skull in, but instead I grabbed a piece of puke covered crap and launched it back at him. My throw hit him right in the eyes, effectively blinding him.

I expected Crazy James to lose control and try and murder me, but he laughed even harder. His insane cackle made me start laughing as well. We both continued to crack up for a few more minutes, so I decided to put my rage aside. We both wiped our faces off and went out for a drink. A lot of people might not like Crazy James, but that fucker knows how to make me have a good time, even when I’m being shit all over.

A Hot Three Way Date

A sad truth about my life is that I have spent about ten percent of it jacking off. I jerk it about five times a day, and that’s a rough estimate. My all time record for jacking off in one day was thirteen times. You think that it’s impossible? Well, it isn’t. It’s incredibly painful and destroyed my ability to obtain an erection for three weeks, but it is possible.

I have a sex drive that is not normal for a forty five year old chronic drinker. Most of my homeless friends have permanently lost the ability to have sex because of how badly they’ve punished their bodies with drugs and alcohol. I’m not even sure how many of them still have genitals at all. I don’t know if I was just born this way, or the street life has brought out the sex fiend in me, but I have to release my goodies at least once a day or my balls get as blue as the berry itself.

When I had some free time the other day, I decided to draw up a pie chart to graph my sexual activities during a one month span. The owner of the pizza shop wasn’t too happy I was drawing on the front of his shop, but fuck him. I charted how many days I jacked it (which I colored blue), how many days I got laid (which I colored green), and how many days I went completely inactive (which I colored red). Once I finished my calculations and drew up the chart, I had a giant fucking blue circle in front of me. At first I was overwhelmed with despair about how lonely my penis was, but I was struck with a moment of insight. It was not my cock that was being neglected, but it was my hands. They give and give and give, but are never shown any romance for all the free pleasure they bring to my life. Without any hesitation, I decided that I needed to take my hands on a date. Maybe dinner and a movie? It was the least that I could do.

Well, I got dressed into my best flannel and gave my hands a nice washing in a park fountain to get off all the dirt and grime. I then escorted my beauties down to the business district. Along the way, I happened to find an old lip stick container mixed in with some gravel on the sidewalk. I picked it up and was pleased to find that there was a little bit left. I liberally applied the remaining vibrant, red lipstick to the portion of my hands between my thumb and pointer finger. This quick makeover turned them from typical hands to sexy mouths. I was in heaven.

My dates and I finally reached our destination, Restaurante di Sicilia, the finest Italian restaurant in all of Philadelphia. Now if one were to think that I had the money to ever be able to afford such a meal, one would be completely insane. Instead, by utilizing some help from my sexy dates, I planned on running in, grabbing as many plates of food off unsuspecting customers as possible, then fleeing the restaurant to a shady part of town to enjoy.

I walked calmly into the restaurant and past the hostess who questioned me as I walked by. I just told her that I was meeting some friends and continued onward. In front of me were some of the city’s wealthiest feasting on some of the finest food I have ever smelled. My calm walk turned into a frenzied run as I grabbed my first plate. The surprised look of the patron was mimicked by many more as I dodged around the restaurant stealing plates of Italian food off people’s tables. My hands were full with six dishes when I made my way towards the exit. No one had the balls to stop me. So just to be an asshole, I bumped my right ass cheek into a woman’s glass of red wine, causing it to spill all over her white dress. I laughed hysterically as I ran out the door. I could hear her sobbing.

I made a clean break but I dropped a dish during my frantic run. It was okay because the point of the exercise was to grab an uneatable amount of food just so I could pig out. When I finally got to sit down, my dates and I enjoyed an incredible meal. The “Filetti di Spatola al Pane” was incredible as was the “Spaghetti alla Marinara San Marzano”. I finished the meal off with a glass of scotch and laid down on my cardboard box to relax a bit.

Needless to say I ended up scoring that night. Hottest threesome I’ve ever had.

Tons of Fun

Do you know the type of people who are really fat? Ya’ know, the kind of people who are so fat, that their figure looks nothing like a traditional human being should? Jiggling arms, ankles so large that they hang over their shoes, and an overall blob-like shape are all symptoms of the morbidly obese. I wouldn’t normally have a problem with someone being very fat. Everyone has their vice in life, mine being scotch, and for other people, it’s food. But what bothers me the most is that “Jolly Fat Men” are all but extinct. A whole new breed of neo-fatties have emerged and are some of the meanest people in existence. They demand everything be brought directly to them and expect everyone to pander to their every want or need. This could explain why the United States has ballooned into a nation of fat, ignorant dickheads. If Santa Claus were real, he would order his elves to brutally rape these bastards for giving good fat people a bad name.

I was in line recently at a local burger joint so I could stuff my face with a quarter pounder with cheese value meal. There was a bit of a line, seeing as it was right around lunch time, but I was hoping that things would pick up. The thought of all two-thousand calories per serving dancing around in greasy harmony was almost enough to bring a tear to my eye. But, I was growing increasingly impatient by the ineptitude of the staff, which was managed by a guy named Gus. They took an unacceptable amount of time to flip the burgers, get people out the door, and get the fucking line moving. Apparently, the challenges of making fast food were too much for the employees to handle. They stood there, laughing and joking with one another, as we all stood and waited. I even saw one of the guys grab a girl’s asshole flirtatiously, put his hand directly into the lettuce, then throw it onto a burger.

Finally, after about twenty more minutes of waiting, I was next in line behind this whale of a woman. I could barely see the cashier standing in front of her because her large frame took up my entire line of site. She smelled like old provolone cheese as well. Before a single word came out of her mouth, she stood staring at the menu for a good thirty seconds. Rather than decide what she wanted during a thirty minute wait, it was now time for “Tons of Fun”, as I nicknamed her, to choose her meal plan.

“Can I order a number one, with extra cheese”, she bellowed when she finally spoke up. “I’ll also have a number three with bacon, two number sixes with extra barbecue sauce, a large order of fries, and an extra large cola.”

I looked around to see if maybe she had five or six other people with her, but I started to believe that all this food was for her. What shocked me the most was that she wasn’t done ordering…

“I’ll also have three vanilla milkshakes, two chocolate cookies, and four apple pies with bacon on them.” The kid behind the counter began to chuckle slightly by the apple-bacon pie request, which made the tubby in front of me shoot him an evil scowl. The guy behind the counter went to prepare her massive request, which meant more waiting. During this time, Tons of Fun started to chew on the warts she had on her fingers for entertainment. I started to lose my appetite, which caused to me feel like I was going to lose control. If I didn’t get my food soon, things were going to get bad.

At long last, the clerk brought the whale woman her food, as she was growing equally as impatient as I was. She took one glance at it and realized they forgot the fries from one of her number six combos. This was like taking a bloody carcass away from a pride of starving lions.

“You forgot my fucking fries you morons!” she squealed in her nasal, fat person voice. “Ya’ know, this is the third time this month you dip-shits forgot something in my order! How hard is your job? I swear, I’m going to contact your corporate center and have you all fir…”

Before she could finish, I had reached my boiling point. I grabbed the two squeeze bottles of ketchup and mustard that were sitting on the counter, aimed them towards the mighty beast, and filled her mouth with condiments. As she tried to gather what was going on, I squirted a whole other load into her eyes causing her to scream in agony. Her fat ass fell over, making her drop her bags of food onto the ground. I grabbed every single bag of greasy goodness and took off running out the door.

I spent the rest of the day stuffing my face with the fat woman’s food, all at her expense. The world should know, you never get between a bum and his grub. And for the record, the apple and bacon pie was pretty fucking good.

Acid and Jesus

Regardless of how much money I have in my pocket, I can always go to the local soup kitchen for a guaranteed free meal. It’s no Burger King or scraps from the steakhouse dumpster, but it will do when I need to get my grub on with little hassle. They offer an assortment of stale second day bread products, army issue meats with a thirty year expiration date, and simple no fuss soups. The usual daily special is noodles and broth. Mmmmm…good.

I can’t complain about the place because a free meal is a free meal. Although, the unfortunate side effect of the soup kitchen was that it was filled with missionaries. They would harass you about the word of whatever religion they happened to pushing, until you couldn’t take it anymore and had to leave. I for one had mastered the art of tuning out these charlatans, but there were persistent ones who wouldn’t stop until you had no choice but to lose control.

I can remember a particular occasion when a man in a dark black suit was eyeing me up as I was chowing down on a wicked good bowl of whole bean and bean puree soup. I knew that he was a missionary by the look of desperation in his expression. I knew by his eyes that if he didn’t convert me to his religion, he wouldn’t be able to enter the kingdom of heaven. Beads of sweat were pouring down his face and I could see his lips pantomiming exactly the spiel that he had memorized to use on poor unsuspecting souls, just like me. God damn amateur.

“Hello sir, how do like that delicious meal these wonderful people here have provided for you today?” he questioned as he approached me, with his bible clutched tightly in hand.

“It’s not too bad, buddy.” I tried to keep it short in hopes that he would fuck off and let me eat my food in peace. I put my head down and dug right back in.

“You think this blessing is wonderful, have you ever heard the teachings of Jesus Christ?”

Shit, here it comes.

“Jesus died on the cross for our sins and awoke three days later to ascend into heaven. His divine grace has showered us since that very day and every event, whether it is good or bad is completely at the will of the lord Jesus Christ. The good part is that regardless of whatever sin you have committed in your lifetime, just by accepting him into your heart and praying for forgiveness, you can spend the entire afterlife in heaven. There you can eat soup made of gold!”

This shithead actually believed this nonsense. I am an aging man. The cock smoker sitting in front of me assumed that of all my years on earth, I had never heard any religious story. I was born and raised as a member of the local church. I made the conscious decision at the age of thirteen to excommunicate myself from that church. Simply, because “faith” isn’t enough of an excuse to spend ten percent of my income and endless hours wrapped up in an organization committed to a figure that countless crime, corruption, and murder has been done in the name of. Not saying that maybe somewhere out there, there might be some sort of omnipotent being, because anything is possible. I can’t even say that the thought of a god might be enough to help people along their daily struggles of life. But, this isn’t enough of an excuse to not keep this guy around long enough to have a little fun at his expense.

“Let me tell you something pal”, I said to him, “You go get me another bowl of this delicious soup and I’ll sign up for your little church thingy here.” His eyes were brighter than a Christmas tree and he ran off with my empty bowl to get me a refill. When he did, I grabbed a few sheets of blotter acid I had in my jacket coat and dipped the sheets in the glass of water that he left behind.

He sat back down, took a few big gulps of his tainted drink, and tried to explain the miracle of his church between slurred words and giggles. Within a few minutes he was really beginning to trip balls. He started talking about robots and how god was really a piece of cheddar cheese. Out of nowhere, he stripped completely down to his skivvies and ran through the streets screaming illegible gibberish. He introduced me to his life of religion and I introduced him to the life of a bum. After what he made me sit through, I considered it an even trade.

The Night I Stabbed Someone

I would be a liar if I stood here and told you that I never messed around with heavy drugs in my youth. Hell, I’d be a liar if I stood here and told you that I never snorted so much cocaine in one night that I was arrested running naked down South Street, urinating on myself as I ran away from the cops. My younger years were so crazy that I never had a dull, relaxing night. I was always on the move, always looking for some fun, and always getting myself into trouble. The one bad habit that I could never shake from my younger years of debauchery was pussy.

What’s a night of fun with out burying my trouser snake in a fresh fish taco by the end of it? I would drink, smoke a little crank, and carry on all night until the end, when it was time to head on down to the whore district and get my dick wet. There were all sorts of whore houses you could buy yourself into for a night like Asians, blacks, blondes, and skanky white chicks. I stood in front of the normal selection of brothels that I usually visit, but the speed that was running though my veins had me looking in all sorts of directions. In the distance, there was an old dilapidated brick building that had a yellow light glowing next to the front door, which meant that it was open for business. It was the first time I had seen it function in years, so I had no idea which kind of chicks were for sale inside, so I decided to take a look.

I knocked on the door and a large bouncer answered and gave me the typical scowl that all bouncers give new customers. “What the fuck do you want?” he asked me in bouncer speak.

“I lookin’ to fuuuuuuuuuuuuucccckkkk”, I responded with the utmost class and dignity.

He could tell by my bugged out eyes and the alcohol on my breath that I wasn’t a cop, so he let me in without much hassle. I went to the front desk and told the crusty old woman behind the desk that I was looking for the full package, if you know what I mean. She took the fifty dollar per hour fee and rang a small desk bell. Before my eyes, a line of beautiful, multi-cultural prostitutes walked out and presented themselves in front of me. I was highly skilled in the art of the whorehouse, so I knew this was my opportunity to pick out the girl that I thought was most worth my money. There were skinny chicks, fat chicks, dark chicks, light chicks, and pretty much every type of girl you could ever imagine.

All the way to the right, there was this awesome, skinny dark skinned girl that caught my eye. Her lips were a radiant shade of red and her long brown hair was as intoxicating as the booze I drank earlier that night. I knew right then and there that this was my lady for the night. She smiled at me when I pointed at her and we headed up to room 305. I was gonna destroy this ho’s baby maker.

I nearly kicked the door down in a drug fueled frenzy and threw her on the bed. She turned the lamp off on the rotting night stand and we really started to get hot and heavy. I’ve never been much for foreplay, so I got right to the point by pulling her bedazzled skirt up so I could get right to business. But alas, something happened that would forever change me. In the pitch black I gripped up what felt like a pickle wrapped in silk. Oh, fuck me…

I crawled over to the light and switched it on as quickly as I could. The rays of 60 watt truth helped reveal what appeared to be…well you know. “What the fuck!?” I yelled in complete fury.

“Well, this is a tranny whore house…what did you expect sweetie buns?” the thing said to me in a deep, yet sultry voice. My face turned cold and pale in disbelief. I didn’t know whether to run or resort to violence. So I did what any real man would do, I grabbed a rusty fork that just happened to sitting on the night stand and stabbed her right in the balls. He shrieked out in a pitch that would be expected out of woman. I reached into its pocket and took my money back, plus an extra hundred dollars.

I took off running as fast as I could, kicking every single tranny that I passed right in the balls as I ran out the door. I used the money I stole from that man cunt and bought as much alcohol as I could to drink away the memory. That night, I swore that I would never tell anyone what happened that terrible evening of misguided terror…oh shit.