Crop Dusting

By Daddy © 2006

"Happy New Year, man. Sorry I didn't stick around."

"Bro, no shit. We were all wondering where you went. I'm assuming you had a productive night with whatever her name was, eh?"

"Shit. Worst New Year's ever. Easily."

"Yikes, man. Didn't land any of that ass then, I take it?"

"Nah, I got the ass."

"Well, fuck. What are you bitching about? My wife passed out at midnight, and wouldn't budge."

"Well, her name was Lori, and I think she's from Brookville. I do know she ate Mexican food with her cousin before the party, and that ended up being the demise to my New Year's."

"What did she have?"

"How the fuck am I supposed to know? Probably enchiladas. That's not the point though. All I know is whatever it was it fucked her up pretty good."

"Did she puke everywhere?"

"Not that I know of. She was just fine at the bar when we left you guys. Her cousin lives in town, and she got the keys to her place. She drove us over and as soon as we got there she had a bottle of wine cracked, and put some Usher on the stereo."

"Usher?"

"I think. That's who she said it was anyway. That's not the point though. She was all over me, dude. I had zero doubts that I was gonna rail that ass."

"Is Usher the name of the band, or just the guy?"

"Fuck if I know. I couldn't even hear the shit by the time we made it into her cousin's bedroom. We were practically naked by the time we fell onto the bed. This girl was apeshit crazy too. Kept asking me to call her names and shit. I had her doggied for about fifteen minutes or so, and was pretty close to losing my shit when she told me to roll over so she could ride me."

"That rules, bro."

"Well, she starts to ride me, and it's hot as fuck in this room, so we're both sweating like Patrick Ewing in a sauna, when all of a sudden she just stops. I ask her if she's okay, and she looks at me and says, 'I don't feel so good.'

"Had you blown yet?"

"Fuck no. I was damn close, but that's not the point. She cropdusted me, dude."

"Cropdusted?"

"Yeah, she farted and sprayed a mist all over my balls. As soon as she'd realized what she'd done, she started crying and ran into the bathroom. I could hear her crying, but just barely over the sounds that were coming out of her ass."

"Let me get this straight. She shit on your balls? That's a bad beat, dude."

"Yes. It was basically a wet misty fart, but still not cool, bro. And it stunk too. Real fuckin' bad. So, the way I saw it, I only had one thing left to do."

"Did you whip that bitch's ass?"

"Nah, man. I finished the job she couldn't. I sat on the side of the bed and rubbed that fucker out. I was so pissed off I just let it fly too. Got it all over the curtains. The best part though was wiping off my hog on her cousin's teddy bear. I wiped my shitsoaked bag off on that little bear too."

"Man, it sounds like that fucking bear got the worst of it."

"Yeah, I got the fuck outta there quickly. She was still crying and shitting when I left. I didn't even say good-bye."

"Sweet. Yeah, fuck her anyway. Who does she think she is shitting on your sack?"

"I had to walk five blocks just to catch a cab. When I finally got back to my place I could still smell her enchiladas on my balls."

"That's sick, bro."

"Yeah, I took a long shower. My guess is that I ushered in the New Year scrubbing my grundle with a test tube brush and a gallon of bleach."

"Is Usher considered rap or R&B?"

"Fuck if I know, that's not the point. The point is, this was the worst New Year's ever. I've only told you half the story. As soon as I got out of the shower, I fired up PokerStars. I wanted to sit at a Deep Stacks tourney, but they didn't have any running. After the enchilada ordeal, it's safe to say I was on mega-tilt, so I did what everyone else would've done it that situation."

"Razz?"

"Nah. I took my entire bankroll to a no limit table. I only had about four grand left after I bought Candice the engagement ring, but I wanted action."

"Well, since you've already said it was the worst night ever, I'm assuming you lost your roll?"

"First fucking hand, and I'm dealt 'Jimmy Walker'."

"What's 'Jimmy Walker'?"

"Jack of clubs, Jack of spades. If it holds up you have to type 'DYNOMITE!!' into the chat box."

"Sweet, bro. That's hilarious."

"Anyway, I raise it up 3 big blinds from early position and there's one caller. The flop comes: Jack of hearts, Seven of spades, Three of clubs."

"No way you lost here, man. Did he hit quads?"

"I check, obviously. He bets the pot. I ponder for a bit, and I raised. I ask him 'Did you hit your Jacks?' He types in the chatbox, 'Yes,' and pushes his entire stack which has me covered. I call, obviously, and he shows the Ten of clubs, and the 4 of clubs."

"Fucking sick! Dead to runner runner clubs, and hit?"

"Nah, he turned the eight, and fifth brought the nine. Runner-runner-double-gut down to the felt. I was devastated, bro."

"No shit. Too bad you didn't have a teddy bear."

Daddy is a donkey fucker from Hilljack, Indiana.

The Raise

By Daddy © 2005

I was murdering the $2/$4 No Limit Hold'em game at the Mirage. It was close to 5:00am and I was up almost six buy-ins. I had only brought a thousand dollars with me on this trip, and I now had almost six. My flight was set to leave in 48 hours, and I had visions of a new HDTV, a Fender American P-Bass, and something shiny for the wife.

I also had the itch.

I'd met Vinny around midnight when he took the seat to my left. He was fat and played tight. We had been talking about hitting the diner for at least an hour, and he recommended the patty melt.

I also recommend the patty melt.

I'm not sure why I let him talk me into that cab that morning, but I did. We were off to play in a $25/$50 No Limit game at Binion's. The cap on the buy-in was $10,000, and I planned to limp in with my six. I had the itch. I wanted to make my move. I wanted to put my stamp on this town. I wanted to walk through my front door when I got home and tell the wife that our house was paid for. I wanted to play some poker.

By lunch I had already ran my stack north of the cap, and was sitting with roughly the table average. I felt good. My raises were respected, until once. And then they were respected even more after that. My cards were holding up, and I knew what everyone held. Every time. I felt real good.

Vinny cashed out at 6:00pm. He said he was up two grand, but he needed some sleep. I was still on a rush, and had pushed my stack to almost twenty thousand. Our table had almost turned completely over save for an old guy in the one seat who was there when I arrived twelve hours prior. I held steady in the nine seat, and had maintained a good rapport with all of the players and dealers. At 8:00pm the two seat and three seat both opened up when a couple of the locals decided to call it a night. This is when the fun began.

Dale sat in the three seat, and Jake sat in the two. They were both Harley-Davidson store owners from the Midwest, in town for a classic car convention. I've never been one to judge a book by its cover, but these guys didn't look like card players. I was half right.

By midnight Dale was on his fourth buy-in, and another non-local had ran through two. I had my stack up to almost fifty thousand which was second only to a very old man in a jogging suit who had only been playing for about six hours. He was the beneficiary of a couple extremely loose Harley Dale calls. I had yet to play a hand with Harley Jake, but noticed that he was a very solid player. His stack was just short of mine, and he paid very close attention to every card that was dealt.

It was just after 1:00am when the hand of the night came along. I was on the button and looked down to find both black aces staring at me. My heart didn't skip a beat. I felt nothing. Jake opened under the gun for $200, and it was folded around to me. I thought about smooth calling here, but I felt isolation was a bit more important. Besides, I wasn't going to let a cheap set flop my evening right into the shithouse.

I said, "Reraise," and pushed in another thousand.

The blinds folded, and Jake contemplated for a bit, and then grabbed two stacks of chips.

"Re-reraise. Let's go ahead and make it a cool five. If that's okay with you?" he muttered.

I played dumb. I'm no actor, and I knew he was going to call anything at this point, so I felt no need to beat around the bush.

"How much you got left?" I asked.

He counted down his chips, and I had him covered by almost two thousand. By this time a large crowd had gathered around the table. We were the only two still seated, and he maintained a steady stare directly down at the felt. He had kings, and I knew if I could dodge the other two I'd be able to walk into my house and tell the wife that it was paid for.

"I'll go ahead and re-re-reraise, and put you all in."

The poker room floor erupted. Harley Dale was shaking his head, and kept saying to Jake, "Call him, he ain't got shit!" My heart rate still hadn't fluctuated. My pulse never wavered. I felt good. I felt really good.

Jake took yet another glance down at his hole cards, and then looked up at me and said, "Can I raise you more than what I have in front of me?"

I wasn't sure what this meant, and then it occurred to me that maybe he had the deed to his house in his pocket, or car keys, or better yet, keys to his bike. I told him that if the other players at the table didn’t mind then I wouldn't have a problem with it. He asked the other players who were standing around eager with anticipation. Nobody declined.

He said, "I'll re-re-re-reraise you two pink eggs."

"What the fuck is a pink egg?" I asked.

Before the words had even left my lips Jake stood up, and started to unzip his faded blue jeans. With his left hand he dug deep into his boxer shorts, jostled things around a bit, and finally pulled out his old worn out nutsack. Almost simultaneously with his right hand he had dug an old pocketknife out of one of his front pockets.

It happened so quickly that nobody really had any idea what was going on. Jake lifted his bag up over the poker table, and with his right hand opened his pocketknife and began to cut the underside of his scrotum all the way back up to the base of his penis. He then pulled his bag skin up around the shaft of his dick, and there they were. Two pink eggs. Dripping with ball juice, and throbbing with life. His heart never skipped a beat.

I mucked.

Daddy is a donkey fucker from Hilljack, Indiana.

Crushing Omaha

By Daddy © 2005

I have chest pains.

I've been to the hospital twice, and to two separate doctors on two separate occasions. This has all happened in the last two years.

The verdict is always the same.

I'm fine they tell me.

The thing is, I’m not fucking fine. I know this.

Flash forward to a month ago. It's the weekend of my second wedding anniversary, and love is very much in the air. One of my golfing buddies had given me a Viagra pill earlier in the day, and told me to proceed with caution.

"You’ll fuck like you’re sixteen again."

I wrapped it up nicely in my cigarette cellophane, and tucked it away in my pocket. I had tree trouble on twelve and thirteen (saved par and bogey respectively), mostly because I was thinking about the damage I would be dishing out later in the evening. Pain. We used to call it "longdickin'."

When I finally got home around sunset, I noticed a bottle of the local vintner's cabernet sitting on the dining room table. It was officially on. I knew my wife would be sporting her new Victoria’s Secret lingerie, and I had a secret of my own. A little blue secret.

She didn't know it yet, but she had a date with the Vanilla Gorilla.

We lit a few candles, and cracked open the bottle of wine. I knew the action was right around the corner, so during one of my many piss breaks, I dropped the V. I wanted to give Little Elvis a chance to get stretched out a bit before I put him through an evening's worth of boot camp.

Then it happened.

My chest started to swell, and I thought my heart was going to explode. I could feel a tingling sensation in my left arm, and a cold sweat broke over my brow. I started having severe breathing problems, and I thought I was going to drop dead on the spot. The tightness was worse than ever, and I knew I needed immediate medical attention.

On the way to the hospital my wife tried to keep my spirits up as I kept a cold washcloth to my forehead. I didn't think I was going to make it. My breathing was choppy, and I was nauseous.

When we reached the emergency room they took me back immediately. They ran an EKG on me, and while I was awaiting the results they put me into a hospital gown. They also told me that I'd be getting chest X-rays shortly. While I was laying there I noticed that I was rock hard, and that I couldn't contain it in the loose gown I was wearing. I still felt like my heart could explode at any minute, so the erection was really the least of my worries.

I laid in the emergency room bed for almost ten minutes when the nurse finally came in to see me. She was fairly young, and extremely attractive. I started to feel a bit embarrassed when she approached me because I knew my tent was pitched for all to see. She tried to keep solid eye contact, but I could easily see that she was uncomfortable.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but I just ate a Viagra about thirty minutes ago. I'm guessing that’s what spurred my chest pains."

I couldn't keep from laughing when I said this, and I had a feeling she thought that this was all a joke. It most certainly wasn't.

Much to my dismay she left the room, and told me that she was going to get a doctor to check up on me. My nerves started to rattle, and the pain in my chest grew ever more intense. I kept thinking to myself that this was probably the most fitting way for such a wise-ass jokester to die, and the thought of imminent death had me paralyzed.

A few minutes had elapsed when the doctor entered with a clipboard. He asked me how I felt, and I told him I thought I was going to die. He told me that my EKG results showed no problems, and that they were preparing the X-ray room for me.

I also noticed that he kept noticing me.

"Nurse Samuelson mentioned that you just recently consumed a Viagra?"

"Yes, about an hour ago."

"Well, there are a few things we could possibly do that could relieve you. If you know what I mean."

He winked at me.

What the fuck?

"Sir, I, um, I'm flattered, but I'm married. And, I'm straight. And, I feel like my fucking heart is getting ready to explode."

"I just went over your full EKG report, and you're perfectly fine. Besides, I would be more than happy to make it worth your while."

"Huh?"

He approached me, leaned over and whispered into my ear, "I'll give you a thousand dollars."

"Sir, again, I'm married. And, I'm happily straight. Is there any chance I can get another doctor to take care of me?"

"I'll give you two thousand dollars, lock the door, and nobody will ever know about it."

Next thing I know, I’m getting a world class blowjob, and all I can think about is crushing that pot limit Omaha game down on the riverboat.

Daddy is a donkey fucker from Hill Jack, Indiana.

How To Fuck a Donkey

By Daddy © 2005

Before we go any further I think it is important that everyone know the proper way to fuck a donkey. There are several approaches, but none more efficient than this one. I prefer to call this the "Backdoor Cut" approach, but it is also known in parts of Appalachia as "Slapjacking," "Mule Greasing," and "The Old Rough n' Tumble."


What You'll Need

a) 30' rope - polypropylene or vinyl will work, but I prefer some good ole-fashioned Manila. This rope needs to be at least 1/2" in diameter with 2300 lb. + breaking strength. Donkeys have a tendency to get all riled up when you try to fuck them.

b) A standard 2 x 4 at least 2' in length. I've also used a baseball bat when I've been in a pinch, and I've got several friends who prefer to use an iron tire tool. It doesn't matter really, as long as it's 2' in length, and can withstand a pissed off donkey.

c) Pocketknife. I've still got a Swiss Army knife that I got for my 13th birthday. Any pocketknife will do as long as it's good and sharp.



Once you've gathered together all of your equipment and found yourself a healthy young donkey, everything else pretty much falls into place.

Step 1 - The Tie-off
First, approach the donkey and establish a good rapport. You don't exactly have to be best friends, but it helps if there's a little bit of trust. Once you've achieved this, take the length of rope and wrap it around the donkey's waist just below the stomach. After you've wrapped it around the waist completely, tie it off in a standard square knot.

Step 2 - The Exposure
By this time the donkey is certainly a bit curious as to what you plan to do. I usually give him a pat on the back of the neck, and maybe a quick ear-scratch just for reassurance. To complete this step you'll need to insert the 2 x 4 inbetween the rope and the donkey's stomach. Once the board is in place, slowly begin to turn the board in a clockwise fashion so that it tightens up the grip of the rope on the stomach much like a tourniquet. As the board is turned more and more the stomach will start pushing on the lower intestines forcing the inside of the donkey's anus to protrude outside of his body. Once the fleshy anus muscle has been exposed close to six inches you can stop turning the board.

Step 3 - The Lambasting
With the exposed anus muscle in front of you, begin making sweet passionate love. Once you've neared your climax, take the pocketknife out and cut the rope. This pressure release will cause the protruded anus and everything that is inside of it to go rushing back into the donkey. This in turn will almost certainly suck you completely off and finish the job.

Daddy is a twisted fuck from Southern Indiana.

Purdue

Purdue

By Daddy © 2004

I must've been somewhere between celebrating the last second touchdown on a busted flea-flicker, and getting a handjob in the parking lot from the cheerleader with the Marilyn mole when the alarm clock started buzzing. After a few roundhouse swipes at the snooze button, I realized it was my phone that was making all of the noise. The answering machine picked up before I could locate the cordless.

“Dude, are we still on for the game? Call me. I’ll be at my mom’s.”

It was Lester, and apparently he didn’t remember me telling him eleven times the night before that I’d pick him up at his mother’s at noon. Lester didn’t remember much. In fact, the morning of our high-school graduation he forgot to wear his gown. He did, however, remember the fifth of Beam, and before he was finished with it he had made his own gown out of our drama club’s stage curtain.

“Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke,” he’d always say.

Lester Charles McGraw hit the railroad immediately after high school. His entire family was a railroad family. I had decided long before graduation that I belonged in a cubicle paying monthly dues to a coffee mess, and constantly hoping for quarterly bonuses, repaved parking lots, and a new cafeteria menu.

Growing up, our fathers would always sit around the living room together on Saturdays watching the Purdue Boilermakers play football against various Big Ten opponents. Neither family was much on professional football, mostly because we attended church for the better part of the day on Sunday, so all of our weekend energy was exhausted during the Purdue games. My father taught Sunday school when I was a kid, and growing up in a God-fearing household got to be pretty tough. Especially when I’d come home smelling like corn liquor.

“Don’t become one of the rest of ‘em,” my dad would like to tell me after yanking the car keys from my trembling hands.

By “the rest of ‘em” my dad meant Lester’s family.

I received my degree in electrical engineering from Purdue University almost twelve years ago. I’m 34 years-old. I’m single. I have no children that I’m aware of. I work in a cube. I have no life.

I rolled into Lester’s mother’s driveway five minutes shy of noon. I hadn’t called beforehand but that didn’t keep Lester from sitting on the porch swing shaking with anticipation.

“Go Boilers!” I said as I crept to a stop immediately in front of him.

“Fuckin’ Aye’s Right, Go Boilers!” he shouted. “Dude, did you get my message? I called this morning just to make sure...”

“Yeah, I got your message. Don’t you remember me telling you last night that I’d be here at noon?” I said.

“Dude, you know I don’t remember shit when I get all buttered up.”

I knew the answer before I even got the question out of my mouth, but I still had to ask, “Have you started already?”

“Yeah man. It’s fucking Homecoming for fuck’s sake! You think I’m some sort of bitch?”

Maybe its just me getting old, or wise, or whatever, but the thought of thrashing the dog with it’s own hair doesn’t appeal to me much these days.

“How long before we’re tailgating?” Lester inquired.

“Two hours, give or take.”

“Well this oughta get us goin’, I reckon’.” Lester, as usual, had a fifth of Beam tucked into the “secret” pocket of his coveralls. The designer of this particular style of Carhartt garb probably didn’t have whiskey stow away capacity in mind when he constructed the inner pockets, but Lester had made the proper adjustments to accommodate. He simply cut open the bottom of the pocket so that anything that was placed into the pocket would fall into the insulated innards of the coveralls, but stop short of the legs by a cross-seam that ran around the waistline. “I can get two fifths of Beam and a ham sandwich in there on a good day,” he’d say.

The Indianapolis radio station was calling for seasonal lows that day with a brutal wind chill factor rapidly approaching absolute zero. His advice was to stay inside, and make sure to have alternate sources of heat just in case of a power failure. We were on our way to a football game. Go Boilers!

I received a new set of coveralls for Christmas from my mom a few years before, and they had quickly become a staple in my winter wardrobe. They were “Super Insulated” which probably meant that they were stuffed with some ultra-toxic, non-biodegradable, space-aged polymer, but I didn’t mind because they were the warmest piece of clothing I owned. So warm, in fact, that I usually only wore boxer shorts and a T-shirt underneath, otherwise I’d be soaked in sweat, and my multi-layered approach would slow me down considerably. I knew I’d be drinking heavily, which means pissing more often, so a lack of layers is always key when trying to fetch your dick for a “stop n’ go” piss next to the truck, or fence, or concession stand, or jailhouse.

“Want a rip?” Lester asked as he pulled the bottle out of his inner storage compartment.

“Sure. Why not? It’s fuckin’ Homecoming right?”

“Go Boilers!”

The whiskey actually felt pretty damn good going down. My body was much more receptive to the rip than I thought it would be, probably because of the soothing warmth that trickled down my tubes.

Lester suggested that we stop to get another bottle since I was now officially “on board.” We pulled into a small town liquor store about an hour south of Lafayette, and the store clerk was surprised to see anyone out.

“You must be off to the game, no?”

“Go Boilers!” Lester blurted.

“Yeah, we figured we’d need some more juice to tackle the cold.” I mentioned.

“You’ll probably need a lot more than this to keep warm. Weatherman says its s’posed to be the coldest day of the year. In fact he said sumptin’ like it ain’t been this cold since 1920. We got hand warmers, three for five bucks if you want ‘em.”

“Hand warmers are for pussies.” Lester informed the seemingly concerned clerk.

The clerk gave us the “ole well” shrug, handed us the bottle, and wished us warmth. We jumped back in the truck, and hit the final leg of the journey hard. We cleared the first fifth before reaching town, and had cracked the seal on the second bottle shortly thereafter. I pulled the truck over behind an Arby’s that was closed due to the weather, and proceeded to empty my bladder. I congratulated myself on my decision to only wear the skibbiesunderneath when I confirmed the simplicity and convenience of the act.

The moment of anticipation had finally come to a head when we arrived at the stadium.

“Dude, I bet there’s hardly anyone here cause its so fuckin’ cold out.” Lester offered. “We ain’t got nuthin’ to worry ‘bout though ‘cause we got the Beam! Wooohooo!! Go Boilers!!”

Halfway through the second half was when I realized that I was in for one helluva ride. The whiskey had set in pretty well by now (we were down to a few swallers in the second bottle), but I had noticed that my brain started to feel a little more buoyant, and my eyes started to see things a bit more vividly.

“Lester, did you put anything in the whiskey?”

“Dude, I was wondering how long it’d take you to notice. I dropped a couple gel tabs in there about an hour or so ago when you were pissing behind the concession stands. I figured it’d help with your headache, besides it’s fuckin’ Homecoming!!”

After the game we had the opportunity to hit up a post-game tailgate with a couple girls Lester ran into on one of his many “solo journeys” throughout the game. I’ve partied with girls Lester has rounded up before several times in the past, and there’s usually a story that comes of it. This time was no exception. They had beer, vodka, and orange juice. We supplied the comedy. Lester had just finished his Rodney Dangerfield routine when one of the girls asked him if he’d walk her to the “pisshouse.” Lester gave me a quick nod. This was usually code for “You get yours, I’ll get mine, meet you at the truck in thirty,” but something went awry on their journey, and they were back in less than five minutes.

“Dude, I think we should probably go.”


“What the hell happened?”

“I thought she wanted me to come into the bathroom with her, but when I did, she started flipping out like some sorta psychotic weirdo. Next thing I know there’s like six crazy bitches all yelling at me to get out of the bathroom. But, I had to piss, dude. So, I went. Probably nearly all of ‘em saw my balls, even a little girl.”

“Christ, Lester. What the fuck?”

“Let’s go hit up a bar for a few then get home before it gets too dark.”

“It’s going to be dark in about an hour, and we’ve got at least two to drive.”

“Let’s go hit up some shots somewhere at least. I’m fucking freezin’!”

My brain was still swimming in the LSD, and my knees were wobbly from the booze. I didn’t feel like driving all the way home just yet, so a quick diversion to a roadside watering hole may just set me straight.

After a few shots of bourbon Lester started to bounce his knee up and down rapidly underneath the table.

“Dude, let’s get home. I’ll drive.”

“Why on earth would I let you drive me home?”

“Dude, I know that you know that you’re way too fucked up to be driving, and I feel fine. Just gimme the keys and I’ll have you home shortly. Hell, take a nap. You deserve it.”

A nap didn’t sound that bad. I handed Lester the keys and we hit the road. I must’ve nodded off shortly after we left the bar, but was soon awaken by a severe pain in my abdomen.

“Stop the sled, Les, I think I have to shit.”

“Dude, we’ll be home in half an hour.”

“Okay, I’ll just shit myself then. No big deal for me really, in fact it’ll probably warm me up a bit, and I’ll be able to pass out again. You’ll have to deal with the smell, so if you’re cool with that, so am I.”

“Nah, fuck that, dude, I’m stoppin’.”

Lester pulled over to the side of the road, and I tried to map out a strategy as to how I was going to shit without falling down into the snow. I had to declothe, and I had to do it rather quickly as I could hear the rumblings in my intestines grow louder with each passing second. The only bad thing with coveralls is negotiating a shit. I took off the Carhartts and tossed them into the bed of the truck. I jumped back into my boots quickly, but not before soaking the bottoms of each sock with muddy road slush. I decided to take off my glasses as well because the wind was blowing so hard I was afraid they’d blow completely off of my face. When I went to set them on the dash, I noticed that Lester had passed out on the steering wheel.

“Lester. Wake up! Lester!! Okay, I’m gonna shit real quick, then I’ll be right back.”

Still, no answer.

So there I was, tromping through the snow covered cornfield about fifty yards from a brush patch with a couple trees lurching out, wearing nothing but my skivvies, an old Boilermaker T-shirt, and my trusty boots. I probably didn’t need to find a tree, or any cover of sort since there wasn’t anyone on the roads, but I wanted to be sure. One of us had already been exposed that day, and I was going to avoid it if at all possible.

I finally got to the tree cover, and decided the best approach would be to take off my skivvies and use them for toilet paper, and then just ride commando the rest of the way home. No sooner than I get my Hanes down around my ankles and taken off do I hear the truck start up, and slowly take off down the highway.

“WAIT !! Lester, you stupid motherfucker!! Get back here.!!!”

He was gone. Unbeknownst to him, I wasn’t with him anymore. The friend who drove him up to the game, and spent the entire day with him wasn’t with him anymore, yet he wasn’t concerned.

I had other issues at hand. I would need my skivvies for warmth, and I still had to shit. I decided that I could tear off the bottom half of my t-shirt and use it for toilet paper, therefore allowing me to not be bottomless. I took care of business and planned to find warmth somewhere. There was a small town with a 24-hour gas station a few miles down the road, and if I kept up a brisk pace, I may keep warm enough to survive the night.

I soon realized that I had even larger issues than keeping warm when a state police officer slowed down by my side as I was jogging down the highway. He flipped on the cherries & blueberries, and pulled in front of me in sort of a “mini road block” fashion, and then jumped out of his car with his pistol drawn.

“Stop right there!” he demanded. “What in the hell is going on here?!”

The lights were bright enough to give me a brief sense of sobriety, but I still couldn’t fend off the whiskey and acid well enough to convince him that everything was alright. Not to mention the fact that I was almost naked, it was seven below outside, and I was jogging down the highway.

“Officer, I’m so glad to see you. You see, we went to Homecoming. Go Boilers! And Lester woke up and drove off because I had to shit, and I was wearing the Chahartts, and you can’t shit in them. I’m so fucking cold right now, can I sit in your car?”

I’m not sure if he felt pity, wanted to show off this unbelievably hilarious find to his officer buddies, or what, but he put me in the back of the car. I was cuffed, but I was warm.

It took the entire ride to the police station for me to convince him that I wasn’t an escaped loon, or someone on a butane huffing binge desperately seeking attention. He seemed content with the fact that I was just very drunk, and had a bad run of unfortunate events happen.

When we got to the station the police officer said that I wouldn’t be charged with anything, but if I wanted to keep warm I’d have to wear an orange jumpsuit. He also called my parents, and told me that my father was on his way to pick me up. My father who would be teaching Sunday school in less than six hours.

I tried to ignore the chatter, but I couldn’t help but hearing some of the policemen talking about my underwear and the fact that I had what they were calling a mile long “Hershey squirt” running down the back of them. I wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

My dad arrived about an hour later. The look on his face was without description. I assured him that I was only wearing the jumpsuit because when I had gotten there I was almost naked, but I really don’t think that helped soothe his concerns much. We didn’t speak the entire trip home until we pulled up to my house and I started to get out.

“Son, maybe we need to talk, ya think?”

“Maybe.” I muttered. “Thanks for the ride. Tell mom I’m okay, and that I’ll see you guys soon.”

When I finally got back into my house, which I had left some sixteen hours earlier, I noticed the little red light on the answering machine flashing like a state trooper’s rooftop.

“Dude, where are you at, man? I got your truck, and your glasses are on the dash. I’m starting to worry about you.”

I’m 34 years-old. I have no life. Go Boilers.

Daddy is a gambler from Indiana.