Before last week, the best piece of schoolwork I’ve ever handed in was a story I made up for my 8th grade English class about a wizard named Morlock who locks people in his castle and anally violates them. Perhaps it was my masterful use of subtlety in not actually saying but instead implying that Morlock was rump-plowing folks, or perhaps it was my teacher being tired from years of reading stories about kittens, baseball, or baseball playing kittens … but I got an A. Of course this only served to embolden me to expand the Morlock story-arc to two more installments that were each graded progressively worse until the teacher finally told me to “quit it with the Morlock stories”.
For 18 years that ass-raping wizard had been the high-water mark of my academic career. Until last week.
For my Health Conditions class, pairs of students were randomly assigned a condition and tasked with coming up with a creative way to present information about it. My friend Ashley and I partnered up and waiting with baited breath as the professor handed out maladies. Would we get cardiac disease? Diabetes? Lupus? Oh dear god let it be lupus……
We got Addison’s Disease. Possibly the least exciting of all the diseases.
With 1 month to develop and execute a presentation we immediately got to work on coming up with ideas. 1980’s-esque after school special? Nah, I had already thrown out all my Zubas. Muppet presentation? Out of the question due to my abject fear of felt.
Finally we settled on it – pharmaceutical commercial spoof. We wrote the script, filmed it over a few days, and edited it together just in time to present it to the class last week … where it went over amazingly.
The best compliment we got? After class one student mentioned to me that she actually urinated slightly in her pants from laughing. Step aside Morlock…
So without further delay I give you “Getting to Know Addison’s Disease”.
(note: the 30 second Teen Mom intro is intentional … also, there’s a lot of actual information in the middle part, what follows though is worth sitting through the book learnin’ section)
Have you ever wondered what happens when you leave your boyfriend/husband/delinquent child home alone for a few days? Well wonder no more! My ladyfriend, Karen, left me alone in Newport for two days so she could go home and celebrate whatever the devil it is that godless Asians celebrate around the end of December.
Now I know what you ladies are thinking: “Platzie has probably masturbated to my Facebook photos”, and you’re correct, I have. But you probably followed up that astute assumption with “I bet all you did was drink beers and jerk off while Karen was gone.”
Yes
And yes. Also, I ate a stromboli.
But there’s so much more to that. So in descending order of depravity I give to you my top three things done whilst left alone…
#3. Petting zoo related shenaniganery
Stop whatever you’re thinking. I didn’t engage in coitus with this male and/or female sheep. No. But don’t get me wrong, I did seriously consider trying to understand the Greek debt crises further by having sex with it.
You see it’s funny because Greek people are jokingly referred to as having sex with sheep. Also, New Zealanders are interchangeable with Greeks in this regard, but replace “debt crisis” with “earthquakes and hobbits”.
#2. I’ve been nude as shit.
Hellllllo Newport!
#1. It goes without saying that over the past two days I’ve been spanking like a man on mission who’s found pornography depicting things that his girlfriend with a positive self-image and lack of proclivity for assplay won’t do.
Somewhere between the latest BangBus installment and Mika Tan’s December offering I realized that the empty tub of movie theater popcorn I drunkenly polished off last night would make one hell of a sploogle receptacle.
Yes. I’ve spent the last two days masturbating into a spent tub of movie popcorn. And I have no regrets.
One of the finer things someone has said about me was “Drinking with you is like a Choose Your Own Adventure book.”
With that in mind, last year I spent the day after Thanksgiving letting you all choose my adventures for the day.You made suggestions for me to do and I did them, took a picture/video, and posted it here. Some highlights from last year:
Eat a Double-Down/McRib/Laxative sandwich? Done.
Get a hot pink pedicure? Done.
Part with any final shred of decency I had left? Done.
Last year’s Choose Your Own Platzventure was unfortunately such a rousing success that we just have to do it again this year. Here are the rules:
Nothing illegal
Nothing that messes with other people (just me)
Nothing involving 4-loko-type drinks – they nearly killed me last year
It has to take place in Newport or Middletown, RI
Once the inevitable booze-fest this thing degenerates into at night occurs, everything has to be walking distance. I’m in the Broadway area of Newport.
It’s 10am. Karen’s in New York. I’ve got a case full of ‘Gansett tallboys in the fridge and I’m latch-hooking a rug for Toad. Prank monkey reporting for duty…
5:16 pm on November 26, 2010Todd wrote:“This should be a yearly Platzie tradition.You’ve kept me glued to this site all day.
Done.
10:20 am Austen wrote on Facebook: “It’s still morning time, right? You should fry up a half dozen eggs and some bacon and eat it off a plate on the ground on the sidewalk outside!”
I only had two eggs left and no bacon. So I cooked them and substituted a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup – the bacon of candy.
10:27 am Swims wrote: “Grab your surfboard and get out there… In only you birthday suit! You MUST catch a wave to complete this task! Star with a shot of rum to pump you up.”
What just happened …. downright amazing. So it’s a beautiful day here and when I got to the beach it was packed with people. As I’m standing there debating whether to call it off a family of 7 people (mom, dad, two daughters, son, grandparents) walks up and asks me if I”m going surfing. After explaining that I need to do a nude surf and I’m thinking of just coming back later they offer to turn their backs and form a circle around me so I can get nude then run in, and they would hold my camera. So they did, and I nude surfed (or tried to as it was freezing, there were no waves, and I felt bad making this family wait for me). Once again, Rhode Islanders are downright awesome!
…and here’s the family that helped me out with this one!
11:29am Mrs. Yummypants wrote: “Serenade a pet being walked using spoons”
11:30 am Karen wrote: “Host a tea party! However, it will be a ROYAL tea party, so you must don the appropriate attire, serve from the finest china, have the most scrumptious treats, and of course invite the most important guests. Go into the bedroom to find your outfit for the tea party, all serving materials and snacks. You will invite Princes Pooky, Moose and Gary, and Princess Toad. And you will refer to yourself as Princess Mike! Be sure to take many pictures, especially of your outfit and to document the scintillating conversation with your guests. Enjoy!”
Here’s my princess dress:
And here’s our delightful tea party!
11:45 am Jill wrote: “Make a cake, cupcake or other baked good while wearing one of Karen’s dresses. And drinking of course!”
Sorry boys, I’m taken already
Anyone in Newport who wants Brownies later on, stop by. I promise I only touched my balls twice while making them.
11:50 am Chris wrote: “I think you should eat a heaping tablespoon of wasabi”
The only thing worse than this going down … was three minutes later when it came up.
2:52 pm Update: I’m heading downtown to take care of a few suggestions. I’ll be back in a couple hours … at which point I’ll be hopefully waxing myself.
…I may need someone to bail me out of jail when I go through with this one:
At 12:41 pm Dave wrote: “Make you own Penn St Football fan tshirt. Write Sandusky on the back, #69. Go to first beach. Hang out at the swings, offer to push children.”
Sad Sandusky is sad. There were no children to play with
At 12:41 pm Erin wrote: “No Platzventure should be complete without a dance break somewhere.”
Breakin’ 2: Talentless Bugaloo
At 2:17 pm Sue wrote: “Set up a shoe shine stand”
Nobody wanted a shine from my shinebox
At 12:48 pm Dylan wrote: “Please make your way over to the front of the local NAACP office located at 72 West Broadway (Dr. Marcus Wheatland Blvd.) and stand with your fist in the air in front of their offices while singing your best rendition of “We Shall Overcome”.
To be honest I didn’t feel right singing such a powerful song of struggle on a day where my tasks include waxing my asshole, so instead I called an audible and went with a song a little more appropriate.
6:00 pm update – Alright, honestly I’m in a pretty bad spot still from the wasabi – I’m experiencing gushing flow of hate emanating from both ends of my body. I’m going to take a two hour break to see if I can get over this. I’ll resume at 8 with (if my stomach can handle it) Edward 40 Hands, followed by going to the bar with my chicken hat, pretending to be a time traveler to a random passerby, then finishing up the day with waxing my nether-regions (I got a wax-at-home kit). Feel free to continue making suggestions but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get to them all tonight – might have to save them for next year. Note that it can’t involve driving anywhere as Edward 40-Hands will make it so I can only walk places.
…but first:
At 11:47 am Will wrote: “A lot of people are growing moustaches for Movember. As such you should probably draw (or tattoo) yourself a nice moustache for the day.”
I will proudly wear this until it falls off (which most likely will be when I collapse during Edward 4-Hands)
At 11:58 am Corey wrote: “Two words: Edward 40-hands”
Alright, I’ve got two 40′s, duct tape, pajama pants to facilitate easier manipulation for toileting with duct-taped hands, and my fake ‘stash. Will try to take pictures during … may be difficult though due to … you know, 40-oz hands.
For everyone’s sake, I condensed the almost hour worth of video into this. Worst part of this? My paper mustache soaked through with beer. It was a downright delight smelling warm paper mustache beer for an hour.
At 1:00 pm Lindsey wrote: “Put on the most obnoxious hat you can find i.e. the chicken hat from Newport Oktoberfest… Go to Norey’s Wine Bar… ask to put on a game (we know what their response will be)…. Order a buttery nipple shot, actually a glass of buttery nipple. When their heads explode you can just order a Cosmo. Slowly sip on your buttery nipple or Cosmo drink, with your chicken hat on…. until you get kicked out for breaking the no hat policy.”
I’ll tell you what, the folks at Norey’s were downright delightful, even though I had to remove my chicken hat!
At 12:41 pm Todd wrote: “At some point today find some random stranger walking down the road. All in a fluster hurry up to them and ask them what the date is. If they only give you the month and day ask them what year it is. When they tell you 2011 act as surpised and say “it’s 2011?!!?!” and run away.”
Done outside of the bar. Because everyone was lubricated it actually made it seem like a reasonable question.
At 11:19 pm Kevin wrote: “Order a shot a the bar, pound the shot and then punch yourself in the face. (hard)”
How about having someone else punch me…while I wear a chicken hat?
At 2:15 pm Evan wrote: “Get yourself a bikini wax”
Originally a video of me getting my ass waxed was posted. For the sake of decency I’ve taken it down and posted this portion of the evening instead (if you really want to see the other video just email me and I’ll send you the link). Worst part of the below video – I woke up the next morning with no memory of this and didn’t realize until almost 24 hours later that my chest had a huge waxed patch on it.
At 7:33 pm Mr. and Mrs. Swims wrote: “Enough is enough. Final Platz adventure is to go get that awesome girl of yours an engagement ring.”
She has some sort of Asian clairvoyance because she could tell that even at 10am I was still a little buzzed from the night before.
Well kids, I woke up with a foggy mind, a reeling stomach, and a waxed ass. Thank you all so much for yet another fantastic Choose Your Own Platzventure. Let’s lather, rinse, repeat next year!
Many people would think that after vomiting in Karen’s clothes hamper a few months back I couldn’t possibly do anything worse. Those people clearly underestimate me.
I was treading on thin ice after the infamous “clothes hamper emesis incident”. And as someone who fancies himself a professional in the sugar momma retention arts, I knew that my only goal going forward would be to not muck up my good thing. That lasted all of two months.
Now you’re probably thinking, “Let me guess Platize it involved booze and homeless people.”
Well no it didn’t, what kind of irresponsible monster do you take me for? Wait … ahhh damnit it did.
Now there are two things you should never do with homeless people
1. Have sex with them
2. Share drugs with them
Of course one of those things happened to me, and let’s just say it’s not too often where you find yourself thinking “Man, I really wish I blew those homeless dudes”
Take that “not too often” however you please
Like most evenings that I eventually ruin, this one started with Karen and I out on the town for a romantic dinner. Being around the same weight as a large marmot, my ladyfriend doesn’t require much more than a single small glass of booze to do her nicely for the night – so naturally I ordered a jug of sangria for the two of us. I’m fairly certain that Karen approaches drinking with me like one would approach playing hide-and-seek with a 2 year old. Just like you would pretend to not see a child hiding behind a box of Kleenex, she pretends to not see through my ruse to drink to excess. Some would call her an enabler. I would call her the greatest thing ever with two legs and a sideways Asian vagina.
Now maybe it was the jug of sangria. Maybe it was the two beers I had in addition to that. Or maybe it was the fumes from the jar of hot sauce I drunkenly spilled all over myself … but I wasn’t operating with the highest level of clarity on the walk back home. So when we noticed two homeless gentlemen sitting on a park bench the most logical thought I had was keep Karen close to me and walk in a wide berth away from them to avoid confrontation.
Nah, just kidding. I made a bee-line for them and struck up a conversation. Now I can’t fully remember the finer points of that discussion, but I’m fairly sure it started with a conversation regarding Leymah Gbowee’s chances in the Liberian presidential election and ended with them offering me a joint.
Fast forward to the next morning Karen: Dude, I’m getting pretty tired of the stupid things you do while drunk.
Platzie: Whaaaaaa?
Karen: You got high with a pair of homeless guys last night!
Platzie: You realize I probably saved us from getting robbed right? By sharing their joint I befriended them and thus prevented them from mugging us and, let’s face it, most likely raping you. Is that what you want Karen? To get raped? I thought you were more responsible than that…
Karen: You got high with them and left me standing there alone you dick!
Platzie: Now wait a minute. I distinctly remember turning to you, holding the joint out, and asking, “you wanna hit this?” I think that’s including you in the loop.
Karen: Gahhhhhhhhhhh!!!
It’s sad that I find this image oddly familiar … and comforting
Apparently some bacteria, virus, or homeless juju was slathered all over that joint because a couple days later I was deathly ill from what I can only assume was a bad case of homeless AIDS. And since I’m a firm believer in couples doing things together, I promptly infected Karen and made her sick for the next two weeks.
So now I’m literally on my last chance. One more screw-up and this gravy train I’ve been riding may derail. That’s why I’ve implemented some measures to make sure Karen is happy. For example, she’s always saying that I drink to excess. And looking in our recycling I can’t help but agree that there’s an excessive amount of space taken up by my tallboy cans. As the below picture illustrates, I’ve started crushing my cans to make more room – problem solved!
Also, Karen was getting tired of me making a drunken ass of myself in public. Now I make a drunken ass in the confines of our home. For example: last weekend I ran into the living room, explained to Karen that I was in the midst of a drunken-picture contest with some friends, and asked her to take a picture of me nude, wearing a moose hat, holding a plunger, drinking a ‘Gansett tallboy, and fornicating with our ceramic frog “Toad” whilst it ate from a movie popcorn bucket.
You know, some guys hate it when their girlfriends change them. But I’m ok with it – that kind of makes me the best boyfriend ever.
If there’s one thing I hated when I was growing up, it was pooping. I mean seriously, it’s kind of gross with all the smearing and the smells and the log of bilirubin-tinted bacteria and unabsorbed food shoving its way out of your butthole. To this day, still not one of my favorite activities. So that’s why growing up I was quite irregular when it came to cranking out sprockets at the ol’ poo factory.
You know what else is is going to be irregular? Platzie.com posts. For at least the rest of the school semester I’m cutting back the updates from every Friday to every whenever I have something to post about.
Yeah sorry, this post isn’t about poo. That was just a ruse to lull you into a false sense of security, and nothing is more secure on this site than some story involving my GI tract.
Frankly my 14 hour days during the week consisting of commuting 3 hours back and forth, full-time school, full-time work, and volunteering with the kiddies is kicking my ass a bit and I don’t have enough energy/time to juggle all of those and do poorly written dick jokes. Case in point, last week’s post. I was up until about 3am writing and rewriting that thing until I realized I had to leave for school in 3 hours, so I pretty much just half-assed the ending. You all deserve better, poorly written dick jokes.
So going forward I’ll most likely still do a few updates a month, but just not consistently on Fridays. To be notified when those updates happen you can sign up to receive an email (link at the upper right corner of the page), or you can Like the Platzie.com fan page on Facebook via the image of the right side of the page or through this link: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Platziecom/110990945639530
Now I know what you’re probably thinking “Platzie, what am I going to do every Friday?”. Here are some suggestions:
Actual work
Read some other poorly-written pile of crap. I suggest the Family Circus comic strip
Drink heavily! It’s what I do, and as a 30-year-old college student who lives in his parent’s basement half the week I think it’s safe to assume that my life tips are sound investments for your future
So there you have it. Thanks for reading everyone, I look forward to your outrage!
~Platzie
P.S. …don’t worry, Choose Your Own Platzventure 2011 is still on for the day after Thanksgiving.
“Dear god no … please no. If this man’s juices fall onto me I’m going to jump up out of this chair and run out the door screaming.”
Fun fact #1: The red and white bands on a barber pole are meant to signify blood and bandages – a nod to medieval barbers who would perform bloodletting services.
Fun fact #2: I would have preferred bloodletting to what happened to me last week.
For most guys, the relationship they have with their barber is sacred. In fact if you rated a man’s relationships by degree of meaning they hold for him, it would look something like this:
Dog
Masturbation hand
Barber
Wife/Girlfriend/Real Doll
Why does a barber hold a loftier position than one’s wife or girlfriend? Simple. A male barber can hold a pair a scissors inches away from my head while I complain about my ladyfriend and I don’t fear for my life.
Also, they lack that whole sloughing out uterine tissue thing.
Now like most guys I’ve been going to the same barber since I was a kid. So this past summer when I moved to Rhode Island from Connecticut I was faced with the task of finding a new place to get my hair cut. I went online and narrowed down my choices to the following:
A place that offered $7 haircuts
A barbershop owned by a cute Asian girl
Yeah, pretty sure you can guess which one I chose. That’s right, the $7 haircut. What can I say, I know myself and if I went to the Asian chick I would respond to “How would you like your hair cut?” with “Oh just a bit off the please sit on my face.”
So all summer I went to the $7 place, and it actually wasn’t that bad. That is, until two weeks ago.
Apparently the regular barber/owner of the shop had gone to prison so there was a substitute taking his place. Although I’d never gotten my hair cut by him, he seemed nice enough older guy and really what’s the worst that could happen – he’d gave me a haircut that looked like I spent $7 on it?
Now I don’t know much about hair clippers aside from what I learned in that “Hair Clipper Mechanics and Theory 101” elective I took during my undergrad … but I’m fairly certain that if for the customer it feels like he’s scraping your hair off with half a clam shell, there might be a slight mechanical issue.
-scrape scrape scrape-
Platzie (internally): Sweet mother of god, this is horrible. This can’t get any worse.
Of course, it did. Because just then the door opened and a half-drunk looking 50-something year old guy walked in, sat down, and proceeded to loudly tell me and the barber about his problems.
Drunk guy: My girlfriend just left me.
-scrape scrape scrape-
Drunk guy: she was 30 years younger than me, hot piece of ass. Had a drug problem though. I don’t think she ever loved me, just wanted my money.
-scrape scrape scrape-
Platzie (internally): For fuck’s sake. NOW there is no way that this could get any worse.
That’s when I looked in the mirror and saw a small sliver of spit forming in the corner of the barber’s mouth. Then it grew larger, and larger.
Drunk guy: You know what though? She gave great head
-scrape scrape scrape –
The barber’s spit was now hanging out of his mouth, and he was completely oblivious.
-scrape scrape scrape-
The spit started stretching out, and it was hovering over my shoulder.
Platzie (internally): Dear god no … please no. If this man’s juices fall onto me I’m going to jump up out of this chair and run out the door screaming.
-scrape scrape scrape-
Drunk guy: And you know what? She had a big ol’ bush. But I like that, because I’m part French!
Plop …. the spit landed square on my shoulder and started to soak through the smock.
That was two weeks ago, and at this point I’m downright afraid to get my hair cut again. As a result I’m fully anticipating that within a few weeks my hair will be wild and unkempt … much like the bush of a 20-something year old with substance abuse problems.
Let’s see what we’ve got in there. Looks like I’ve got some nice shorts with an inner liner that keep the ol’ jubblies in check. A pad of paper to note my embarrassingly low circuit training weight sizes. And…wait a second, what’s that pink thing…
Oh that’s right, it’s the giant vibrator I’ve been carrying around for the past 3 weeks.
How’d I end up with a sex toy in my gym bag? Well like most things, it was Karen’s fault. You see a few months ago I determined (without her consultation of course) that she had a depressing lack of self-pleasure devices. So I approached her about buying one and she agreed it was a fantastic idea. In fact I remember the conversation going something like this:
Platzie: Hey Karen, I’m going to get you a vibrator.
So after countless minutes of comparison shopping I had found what I assumed to be the crème-de-la-crème of vag-spelunking devicery. The Rabbit. It had all the features a guy shopping for a device he’d never personally use would want:
Dual-action vaginal and clitoral stimulation
Multiple shaft rotation speeds and movements
The ability to finally act on the Bunnicula fetish you’ve had since the 80’s
Bunnicula is described as “A Rabbit Tale of Mystery” on its cover. Coincidentally that description also applies to this post.
Sure The Rabbit wasn’t the most inexpensive of vibrators, but I figured it’d pay for itself in years of kinky doings and dropped loads, so I ordered it online and had it shipped to Karen’s place. The day that it arrived I immediately opened it, chucked some batteries in, and went to give it to Karen (both figuratively and literally).
Platzie: Hey, I got you a present!
Karen: Oooo what’d you get me?!
Platzie: The Rabbit!
Karen: …
Platzie: Look, it’s got dual vibration and movement modes!
Rabbit:Brrrrrrrrr Whomp Whomp Whomp
Karen: I’m not putting that thing in me.
Platzie: What?! Why not?!
Karen: I weigh less than 100 pounds and I’m Asian! That thing is huge! It’s not fitting in my box and I’m not even going to try.
Platzie: But….I fit in your box.
Karen: Exactly
In one fell swoop I had lost both $40 and my last shreds of masculinity. What the hell was I going to do with this orphaned vibrator?
So how’d this vibrator end up in my bag? Am I keeping it to use as a bludgeoning device for any old dudes who try to harass me in the locker room? I wish but no, that would only serve to embolden their feely hands. No, the real reason is much more tame and involves way less nude dildo fighting at the YMCA.
I swear if this picture is legit and there’s an officially sanctioned Dildo Fighting League (The DLF), I’m joining. “Congratulations Platzie, you just won the Dildo Bowl! What are you going to do next?!” “Well Skip, I’m going to … take a hot shower for the next three hours while curled up in a ball crying.”
A few weeks ago while in Connecticut hanging out with a female friend I mentioned what happened with The Rabbit. She graciously agreed to give it a good home since it was in fact unused. Perfect, I thought, everything has a purpose in life and that device’s purpose is to pound some vag – I just gave that inanimate phallus-shaped object some closure.
I agreed to deliver it the next week when I saw her, so I threw it in the gym bag that I carry with me each day to school. But because of conflicting schedules, the next week we didn’t meet up. Nor the week after. Nor the week after that.
So now I’ve been walking around with a gigantic penis in my gym bag for the past three weeks. Normally I wouldn’t be a big deal, but every couple of days I forget it’s there and when digging around for my soap caddy while at the Y, the Rabbit squirms its way to daylight. It’s only a matter of time before someone sees and I get kicked out or propositioned.
You may be asking why i don’t just put the Rabbit in a different compartment of the bag. One that’s empty so I won’t have to open it in the locker room. Well the answer is because all the other compartments are too small! What do you expect me to do, shove this giant dildo into an area that clearly can’t handle the length and girl, stretching the hell out of it? What kind of monster do you take me for?!
Like most of my areas of performance, the highly-touted Platzie Saving-For-Spring-Tuition-Program has prematurely ended. Mind you I’ll still be shacking up with moms and pops during the week and my plan to whore myself out in the Penny Saver hasn’t gone anywhere, but at 11:30am on Tuesday all those measures became moot points.
What happened on Tuesday at 11:30am which deep-sixed my finances?
Cheeseburgers
This, is a Ted’s steamed cheeseburger:
As I unfortunately found out this week, a Ted’s Steamed cheeseburger is a like a Thai ladyboy. Sure it appears delicious and harmless, but between those innocent looking buns lies pure evil.
How evil? Well like a greasy, delicious siren, those damned cheeseburgers called me to shipwreck.
You see recently I’ve been trying real hard to drive slower and safer. I go at or below the speed limit to save on gas. I give myself extra time so I’m not rushing to get places. And I stopped watching porno on my iphone during my commute. All this was done so my car (which is getting on in years) will last me at least two more years until I graduate.
So Tuesday afternoon I found myself about a mile away from school driving behind a large truck on a main road. I decided not to pass him because I had plenty of time to get to school and I didn’t want to speed. I even got a Facebook message notification on my phone but decided not to read it because I wanted to be safe. Then I saw it…
They’re building a new Ted’s Steamed Cheeseburger right down the road from my school.
I was mesmerized at the giant cheeseburger signs they had in the windows. Still driving I tried to stare into the building and catch a glimpse of the steam-o-later. Slightly daydreaming I thought of all the delicious steamed burgers I’d soon be shoving in my pie-hole.
Then I turned my head back to the road…
That delightfully-smooshed Elantra is what’s left of my car because someone was too busy staring at steamed cheeseburgers to notice the giant truck in front of him braking and turning into a side street.
The truck was fine, everyone in it and myself were uninjured, but my car was totaled and my spring semester tuition fund will soon be lubed up and gently penetrated by auto loan payments.
So what have we learned today readers? Slow and cautious driving will only lead to accidents, so best to drive fast and recklessly. Oh, and make sure to watch lots of porn while driving, because I sure as hell never rear-ended anyone while watching someone get rear-ended.
Know what they both have in common? They both cost around $35,000.
Know what the difference is? Unlike my school, Nissan doesn’t charge me $35,000 for each year that I want to drive the 370Z. Also, the 370Z doesn’t require me to do any assignments other than “pickin’ up tail”.
Even with grants, scholarships, and federal loans, the amount I owe out-of-pocket each year is pretty substantial. This has been on my mind lately because as Karen and I talk about the future I’m cognizant that my soul-crushing debt will become her soul-crushing debt … and let’s face it, just spending the rest of her life with me is soul-crushing enough as it is.
So with that in mind I started implementing some austerity measures to save money and pay off more of my tuition out-of-pocket instead of depending on loans. These measures include:
Making Karen pay for all meals
Cutting back my beer consumption on weekends from 18 ‘Gansett tallboys to only 12.
Advertising my gigolo services in the Penny Saver
But while looking at my bills, I realized there was a huge cost I was incurring each month that I could do without: rent. I spend half my week in Rhode Island as it is, and let’s face it, the majority of time in my apartment was spent spankin’ it so paying a bunch of money each month for a Yank-Cave didn’t really make much sense.
So I did what all people in their 30’s dream of someday doing: I called up my parents and said I’m moving in with them during the school week. My parents, being absolute saints despite having the most devilish of progeny, welcomed me with open arms.
Now I know some people are wondering: what’s it like to be 30 and living part-time with your parents? To that I’d say that I’m at school right now and my mom totally made me a rockin’ lunch of a ham sandwich and a fruit cup … so no too shabby. But it wasn’t all peaches and herb at first. In fact, I went through three distinct stages the first week I moved back with them: Denial, Anger, and finally, Acceptance.
DENIAL
Now I wasn’t denying that I was living with my parents – that was quite obviously happening. No, what I found myself denying was that I would need to change my daily routines from those I engaged in while living with Karen. This became awkwardly noticeable during breakfast the first morning…
NOTE: THE VIDEO BELOW IS NOT SAFE FOR WORK….OR LIFE FOR THAT MATTER
ANGER
As the week went on I started noticing that I was lashing out at my perceived lack of independence. And I found myself “running away” more and more frequently to my dad’s utility shed to find solace:
ACCEPTANCE
Finally by the end of the week I realized that hey, it’s not too bad. I’ve only got to do this for two more years and when I’m done I’ll have saved myself from quite a lot of debt. And you know what, sometimes it’s nice having mom and dad around during those particular moments when you just need a little comfort…
Thanks to the electricity still being out because of the hurricane this past weekend, there won’t be any post this week as I wasn’t able to write one last night and I’m at school all day today.
In its absence please enjoy the following picture of an adorable Asian baby munching on a puppy. I’ll try to make it up next week with a post chock full of nudity. Unfortunately though the nudity will not involve Karen’s awesome rockin’ bewbs … it will involve my bare ass.
Yes
And yes. Also, I ate a stromboli. 
Hellllllo Newport!
Sorry boys, I’m taken already
Anyone in Newport who wants Brownies later on, stop by. I promise I only touched my balls twice while making them.
Sad Sandusky is sad. There were no children to play with 
Nobody wanted a shine from my shinebox 
I will proudly wear this until it falls off (which most likely will be when I collapse during Edward 4-Hands)
She has some sort of Asian clairvoyance because she could tell that even at 10am I was still a little buzzed from the night before.
Take that “not too often” however you please
It’s sad that I find this image oddly familiar … and comforting
Bunnicula is described as “A Rabbit Tale of Mystery” on its cover. Coincidentally that description also applies to this post. 
I swear if this picture is legit and there’s an officially sanctioned Dildo Fighting League (The DLF), I’m joining. “Congratulations Platzie, you just won the Dildo Bowl! What are you going to do next?!” “Well Skip, I’m going to … take a hot shower for the next three hours while curled up in a ball crying.” 
