Loompa dating

[US-CT] [H] Lots of pops for sale: the office, pop myths, ECCC crusaderette and over 50 more. [W] PayPal

2020.10.26 00:00 triscary [US-CT] [H] Lots of pops for sale: the office, pop myths, ECCC crusaderette and over 50 more. [W] PayPal

Hi funkoswap! It’s been a while, but I’m back with lots of stuff for sale. Link to everything is below, and prices are all below that. Looking to get these gone ASAP. Prices are reflective of funko app / eBay / whatnot.
Picture: https://imgur.com/a/SFHnmBy.
Prices are shipped: Marvel Zombie box: this hasn’t been out for a month so I can not sell that here but I will entertain trades for the entire box! Scott pilgrim dorbz: $20. Scott pilgrim soda: $16 each Chupacabra: $35 GameStop Stanley: $16 Target Goldenface: SOLD Funko Shop Princess Unicorn Dwight: $30 Darryl: $8 Target Andy: $36 Go Calenders Date Mike: $20 Jim: $8 Dwight: $8 Class Santa Mike: Hot Topic Prison Mike: $28 GameStop Angela: $16 Pam: $8 Kevin: $8 Michael Scott: Post Malone: $8 Mark Hoppus: $8 TRU Terra: $8 Mister Fantastic: $8 Walgreens Sandman: $8 AAA glow Iron Man: $8 NYCC casual(?) Hulk: $15 Walmart Glow Captain Marvel: $8 (she has a broken foot lol) Toxic Morty: $12 Michonne (heavy box damage): $6 Eziekel: $8 1,500 LE ECCC Crusaderette: $35 Twinkie the Kid: $8 Anchorman Brick: $20 Anchorman Ron w/ Baxter: $20 Funko Shop Alien remix Bullseye: $18 Blair Waldorf: $36 Serena Van Der Woodsen x2: $14 each HT nerdette: free just pay shipping Jasmine: $12 Pumbba: $12 Mowgli: $25 Fix it Felix: $34 Hook: $10 Tate Langdon: $80 Walter White (box damage): $40 Willy Wonka: $45 Oompa Loompa: $30 Charlie Bucket: $20 SDCC Violet: $37 NYCC Keith: SOLD Funko Shop Kraken (box damage): John Bender: $130 Andrew Clark: $24 Brian Johnson: $45 Sandy Olsen Carnival: $50 Sandy Olsen: $30
The prices here are all shipped. Please comment before PM’ing. Thank you so much for looking.
submitted by triscary to funkoswap [link] [comments]


2020.09.21 20:04 SloppyEyeScream I Cock-Blocked The Hawk Twice In One Night!

The world is full of microcosms, and the Army is no different. The majority of civilians typically assume everyone in the Army is a Special Operations Forces (SOF) war-monger with a healthy propensity for violence. Truth be told, the number of jobs in the United States Army, rivals the amount of bones in the human body. Each job is vitally important, but Hollywood and the video game industry have an undying thirst for the Combat Operations Cool Kids (COCK). Hollywood loves the COCK.
I have learned the Army is more akin to family though. I sincerely mean that too. There are Leaders whom are raging pricks and served as steadfast fatherly figures. I have countless brothers whom have followed me to hell-and-back, and would find it comical if we replaced the tennis balls on grandma's walker with racquet balls. There is even crazy uncle Jeff, the family pervert who had a crush on the Olson twins, before they were famous.
The setting for this story is post-Iraq. The rookies had just completed their first deployment, and the "old-heads" completed their second deployment. The married Soldiers returned home with a one-penis reservation to park the beef bus in tuna town, while the rest of the Soldiers hunted or paid for it. I have personally never understood the need to pay for sex. My father imparted sage advice after basic, regarding sex, and it is never failed me. "There are only two factors regarding sex. There are standards and statistics, and in order for one to go up, the other must go down."
We sincerely love each others like brothers, but months of living in close proximity with "brothers," can drive you insane. There were numerous times I envisioned drowning Hawk in shallow puddle of my own piss. I am equally certain my own Soldiers would draw and quarter me if given the opportunity. My Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) does not bother me, but the slobs I roomed with needed a reprieve from my "perfection". There was certainly going to be a post-deployment celebration, but we all needed that first week to reestablish our own personal routines.
There was considerable deliberation as to "who" would host the party, but there were no volunteers. Not this time. I was gracious enough to host the previous post-deployment blowout, and I have zero desire to steam vacuum piss out of the carpet, in my walk-in closet. There is not a house on earth that is built to withstand the chaos of forty drunken alpha-males, and the infinite "hold my beer" moments that occurred.
Wife: (Puzzled) Why in the fuck are we missing two ceiling fan blades?
OP: Sword fight!
Wife: (Less puzzled, and more angry) WHAT?
OP: SWORD FIGHT!
Wife: I fucking heard you asshole, but why was their a sword fight?
OP: There was an argument about "who" was a better sword fighter, and we needed swords.
Wife: So you guys used ceiling fan blades, as swords, to fight each other?
OP: Yes.
Wife: (Laughing) Why ceiling fan blades?
OP: We didn't have enough broom sticks, and fan blades are less-lethal. Just be thankful we don't own real swards.
Needless-to-say, I was not hosting. I am now qualified to re-patch drywall, but there was no fucking way I was going to volunteer my house ever again. We eventually decided to not jeopardize anyone's marriage and wreck havoc at a neutral location. One of the Squad Leaders recommended a large dance club in a very large college town; a road trip was in order. Forty, mostly single, alpha-males embarked on an epic journey to open the meat-curtains and diddle the squish mitten in a liberal college town. It was like mixing bleach with ammonia, it was a great idea, and I was certain nothing would go wrong.
Fast-Forward to Fuckery!
We had successfully conquered space and time, and magically all arrived in the parking lot to this large dance club. We had all rallied in the parking lot prior to entering the establishment. It was clearly evident that all of the non-drivers consumed "road sodas" during the trip. Nobody was shit-faced yet, but it was clearly our final destination. We needed to accomplish two very important task before entering the club which were to take accountability, and conduct a brief. Multiple locations were recommended, but John sold this club to the single Soldiers when he guaranteed, "Everyone's dicks will get wet." John frequented the establishment in his college days, and therefore was the most equipped to provide the brief.
John: Remember the rules guys. We are here to have a good time. We are not here to start fights, but we will fucking finish them.
Crowd goes wild!
John: Furthermore, if some asshole in there wants to fight one of us, he will fucking fight all of us and the wives will take care a the bitches!
Male crowd goes wild!
Wives: (Collectively) The fuck we will.
John: Lastly, and this is the most important rule, everyone gets an ORANGE BAND. Remember that at the door. ORANGE BAND ONLY!
The fuckheads were ready to party! Everyone started our short journey to the door where beer and chaos would be our salvation. However, what the fuck was that bracelet brief about? John was very mysterious when discussing this particular club. John side-stepped any and all questions about it, and simply stated, "It's a surprise, but I promise you will like it." My brain may carry water buckets for a living, but I am still fairly intuitive. All the other lemmings were getting ready to jump of the cliff, but I wanted to know why the bracelet color was so fucking important. I was still going to jump off the cliff, but I had questions.
I was one of the first humanoids to arrive at the door. It was clearly obvious this was a college town bar, and not a military town bar. The bouncer looked like a young Danny DeVito. He probably had problems leading turds to the toilet due to his small stature, and there was no way he was capable of tossing any of us out without the assistance of at least twenty more Oompa Loompa cohorts. All six feet and eight inches of John was in front of me, and I found it comical when Danny Devito asked John's cock to see identification. I was next.
Danny: ID.
I give him my military ID and watch him fumble with it in order to find my date of birth.
Danny: Band color?
OP: What are my options?
Danny: Yellow, Pink, and Orange.
OP: Interesting, so what the fuck does it all mean?
Danny: (Laughing). You don't know where you at do you kid?
OP: Nope. I was told to go with Orange, but I have no fucking clue what it means.
Danny: (Still Laughing) You're going to have a blast inside. Anyways, the Orange band is for straight people. The Yellow band is for bisexuals, and Pink means your a flaming homo!
OP: Orange band it is!
Dear Reader, John saw fit to recommend a gay bar, to forty freedom fighters, but didn't see fit to inform any of us. Super! I, personally, treat religion, politics, and sexuality like a penis; don't show it to my children, and never shove it down my throat. I simply don't give a flying fuck. However, I don't know about the rest of my battle companions. I was going to find out after I walked through the doors though.
Dear Reader, this club was fucking awesome. The bar was fucking huge. The dance floor was fucking huge. The stage full of drag queens was fucking huge. I instantly make my way to the bar and find a suitable vantage point on the door. I want to see the everyone's face when they entered the club. Image going to the a titty bar. The entire facade of the building screams bouncing titties. "Diamond Dave's Boom-Boom-Room." The main attraction is Princess Ping Pong, and you win a free shirt if you beat her in beer pong. That allure? She kegel-flings the balls from her baby-cave with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker. Now imagine opening the doors to "Diamond Dave's Boom-Boom-Room" to find a Catholic mass. What the fuck? Yeah, that was the look on everyone's face when they walked in.
Jess: OP NICKNAME. Did you fucking see that?
OP: What?
Jess: That drag queen there?
OP: Yup!
This drag queen was sculpted like a Greek God. It was fucking Hercules, in a beautiful sequin dress, because 30-inch biceps just won't fit in fucking shirts.
Jess: My god. You don't fuck her; she fucks you! (Did we just enter a parallel universe scream) Where the fuck are we? What the fuck is this place?
It now appears everyone is aware, and there are some questions that beg a fucking answer, specifically, "Where the fuck are we?" We are forty physically fit alpha-males whom just returned from knuckle-dragging terrorists, but we were like a school of pussy-ass fucking fish. Everyone was huddled around the bar as if the other patrons were fucking sharks or gay dolphins. We had strength in numbers. It was time for another fucking brief.
John: (On top of bar stool) Yes. I brought you to a gay bar! I promise; you have nothing to worry about so long has you have orange bracelets. Please stop being pussies, and go find some pussies.
The men were staring at John like he was Moses. Moses parted the Red Sea. John didn't part anything. He made us walk the plank into a gay bar, and we were now swimming in the deep end. John didn't part shit. Oddly, nobody was upset they were at a gay bar, they were upset they were unknowingly lured into a gay bag without proper notification. Luckily, and I fucking kid you not, John was saved. We were swarmed by a large school of not-gay women, and the group of pissed off gunslingers suddenly realized this club had more chicks than Tyson Foods. Men were the sexual minority and the hunt was on.
Hawk: (Very serious) OP NICKNAME. So, do you have any tips for picking up women?
OP: Yes. Lift with your legs and not your back.
Hawk: (Not pleased) I was being serious.
OP: I know. I have a technique that has never failed me. Wanna hear it?
Hawk: (Excited) Yes!
OP: I'd find the most gorgeous lady in here and ask, "Does this smell like chloroform?"
Hawk: WHAT?
OP: Or duct tape! It turns, "No, No, NO!" to "Um, Um, Umm."
Hawk: You're a fucking asshole.
OP: Just talk to them Hawk. Be honest, and just talk to people. You will be fine brother.
Hawk: Okay. You're still a fucking asshole though.
The married guys and myself planted ourselves at the bar. We conversed with another, and the very diverse crowd of patrons around us. We found ourselves liking the establishment more and more. It was truly a great bar. "Where the fuck is this going OP?" I understand! We are here to talk more about Hawk, so how about we do that now? Great idea!
The bar is very large and "U" shaped. I spot Hawk on the opposite side of the bar, and he is talking to a beautiful women. Far too beautiful for Hawk, and I doubt they are bonding over their mutual love of finger painting, or Spaghetti O's. Maybe she was just ordering a drink and noticed the bar had lowered their standards and began service alcohol to retards? I turn my attention to the conversation I was having with John and others and again notice Hawk is still talking to this princess. Fuck casual glancing, it was now time to just plain fucking stare at them.
Twenty Minutes Later
The princess grabs Hawks face and plants a giant kiss on his cheek, and that fucking hand is wearing a fucking PINK BRACELET. My fucking god! I get up to make my way around the bar, and then Hawk grabs her face and plants a disgusting kiss that was more appropriate for a hotel room that charges by the hour. Also, Hawk was wearing a fucking YELLOW BRACELET. My happy-go-lucky retard was about to walk his ass into a dick if I didn't save him.
OP: Hawk. Let's go take a piss.
Hawk: I'm good.
OP: Get the fuck up. You have to piss. NOW!
I fucking drag Hawk off his perch, and towards the bathroom.
Hawk: What the fuck OP NICKNAME. I was about to close the deal and give her the dick.
OP: Oh, I am certain there would have been MORE DICK GIVING THAN YOU EXPECTED.
We are now in the bathroom and Hawk is FINALLY picking up on then indicators.
At The Urinal
Hawk: Why are the urinal stalls so tall? They go all the way to the fucking ceiling!
OP: Because it is a gay bar.
Hawk: WHAT?
OP: Gay bar! We are at a fucking gay bar.
Hawk: REALLY? Are you sure!
OP: Oh I am pretty fucking sure. The drag queens that have been doing performances the entire night pretty much clued me in. Oh, and the bouncer told me it was a GAY BAR, SO I AM PRETTY FUCKING SURE THIS IS A GAY BAG.
Hawk: (Full-Retard) At least I found a hot chick right?
OP: With a dick!
Hawk: NO. She is a fucking chick. Did you see her tits?
OP: Yes. I saw HIS TITS. They are nice.
Hand Washing Time (Fuck you COVID)
Hawk: You're an asshole just trying to cock-block me.
OP: I am not cock-blocking you. I AM TRYING TO COCK-BLOCK HIM. WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU WEARING A YELLOW BRACELET?
Hawk: Yellow is my favorite color.
OP: Yellow also means you're bisexual here. Pink means you're gay. Your "Lady-Friend" is wearing a mother fucking PINK BRACELET, MEANING "SHE" IS A "HE" AND VERY GAY.
Hawk just doesn't want to a believe it. He seems to think he is a "combat-killing-pussy-slayer" and not, well, Hawk. He is now in complete and utter denial, and trying to convince me that Santa Clause is real.
Hawk: No. It's a women. Maybe she fucked up the bracelets too!?!
OP Brain: Should I unblock the cock, and let him finger-it-out on his own?
OP: Hawk, do women have Adam's apples?
Hawk: No!?!
OP: Then why is her Adam's apple the size of a coconut?
Return to Bar
Hawk: (No subtle conversation; just pure Hawk) Are you a girl?
Princess: Not yet, but I'd like to be your girl.
Hawk: I am sorry, but I think there has been some miscommunication here. I am straight...
Princess: (Not so fucking happy) Then why in the fuck are you wearing a yellow bracelet?
Hawk: It's my favorite color.
OP Brain: (Hysterical laughter) "It's my favorite color"
Princess: FUCK YOU, and you own me ten bucks for that drink.
Hawk: You bought it for...
Princess: For a bisexual guy (Pause) I was gonna fuck tonight. You ain't that guy.
Hawk pays up! I rescue Hawk from the Princess and return him to the circle of married guys.
John: (Laughing) You kissed a dude!!!
Hawk: Fuck you! He kissed me first.
Hawk went to the bouncer and replaced his "open of all comers" bracelet and got an Orange one. It was the end of Hawk's ham wallet hunt. His new bracelet indicated he was a sad single guy, and thankfully, there were no mentally deficient ladies willing to swim in the shallow end of the gene pool. Hawk went 0 - 1 that night which was a good thing. The news of Hawk's endeavor spread like chlamydia in a whorehouse on payday. He would never live "kissing a guy" down, but it was still a better outcome than letting Princess turn Hawk's "Exit Only" balloon-knot into a "Yield the Right of Way." Dude almost got butt-fucked for real.
I will post another Hawk tale next Monday Fuckery-Folks. I hope you enjoyed this non-military tale of Hawk.
Cheers.
submitted by SloppyEyeScream to FuckeryUniveristy [link] [comments]


2020.09.08 06:49 CallMeSeeka Reddit Keanu Minecraft Destruction 100 big pp

When the school shooter comes for you but then the autistic kid communist Jew says reddit moment 420 69 and everyone says nice and it’s wholesome 100 Keane Reeves bob ross Steve Irwin Stefan Karl stefanson but then the Instagram normies say that tik Tok and fortnite are good and they like kpop so you beat them to death and then play minecraft but then 2020 has cornea virus and world war 3 and bushfires and flood because boomers are bad but then it’s your cake day and everyone needs to give you upvoted but no one gives you upvoted and you have no friends so you ask out your crush with baby yoda because baby yoda is wholesome but she says no but you then you sneak 100 and destruction 100 stonks and your post gets more than 7 upvoted and it gets to hot but someone is using light mode and they don’t sort by new or downvote ads so you kill them but then you realise that they hate cardi b and rap music but they like dubstep and anime music so you press F to pay respect and 69 other fellow redditors upvote you and then joker falls down the at airs and gets hit by a car and the feminists get triggered because you say that joker is now a girl because she has long hair and you hit a girl because equal rights equal fights and you post it in your sjw and triggered feminist freak out and getting rekt compilation v47 tumblr edition and then you post it in YouTube because Disney is bad but you buy Disney plus so you can see baby yoda and then you buy a baby yoda funko pop but then you see that there is life sized baby yoda so you waste your college funds on it but you blame it on the boomers because they made everything hard for you and the world is gonna end in 2030 because of global warming so you joking Greta thunberg and she ok boomers trump but then trump starts ww3 with Iran and you’re gonna get drafted so you John the Area 51 raid to be safe but then the HK protestors need your help you post Fuck China in reddit and the Chinese government stops oppressing them because reddit is epic and we always solve problems by posting about them, just like how we solved global warming and destruction 100d Nestle but then the you eat with a plastic straw and every redditor downvoted you but then they realise that Elon musk will turn 69 on 4/20/69 so they say Nice abdnmakebit national nice day but then a cyber truck crashes into a building because you realised that the date is actually 9/11 so you subscribe to pewdiepie and tell the gamers to rise up but then the mobile gamers rise up so you start to beat them but then they play minecraft so it’s ok but then they also have fornite so you kill all of them because you’re all mad lads and your all mans if sheer fucking will and you donate to team trees to celeberate but it’s ended already but you make happiness noises because they reached 20 million but then you go on a crusade to take back to holy lands and then you get Bf Chungus and Ugandan buckles to join you but then the doctors see apples and they get scared so you get pewdiepies legs and he rates you big pp but then the quiet kid reaches for his bag but he accidentally takes Ahmed’s bag and then they bomb Japan and Pearl harbour and then your dad comes back 15 minutes later with the milk and he signs the divorce paper with your mom and they argue over who gets custody over you because neither of them want you and you’re the reason for their divorce but then Danny Doritos and shrek come rescue you and they take care of you and you get to browse reddit all day and it’s a happy wholesome 100 ending and then you post something on reddit and it gets a silver, gold and platinum but then a normie uses emojis in the comments so you call the emoji police and they get arrested epic style and then keena reaves comes and says wow that was a wholesome 100 moment and he says that you get what you fucking deserve and he calls you breathtaking and you realise he just did a speech 100 destruction 100 because that’s what heroes do but your normie friend double taps on a post and asks what’s so good about it so you say that you wouldn’t get it but then somebody reposts your meme and it gets to hot so you tell the reddit gang and they all downvote the post but then the teacher tells everybody to stay calm because the school is on fire and then the kid named calm does the funny mike wazowski face and you make into a meme on reddit but then the Alabama kid gets his sister pregnant and a kid says that he think Keane reeves isn’t wholesome and that minecraft isn’t good and that fortnite is better so you and your epic reddit hang send him death threats as a punishment for not being wholesome but then there’s baby yoda butbevwyone forgets about baby scooby and baby peanut and baby spongebob and bbaby gary and the Americans measure in football fields per hamburger because America is dumb and the floor is made out of floor and a minute passes in Africa and this is a tree because of the way it is and it’s illegal to be a criminal in Sweden and then pewdipie makes Swedish meatballs for everyone but then the fire alarm goes off and the special ed kids start dancing and then the people in the drug commercials are happy and the Oompa Loompas are dancing because a kid died and a footballer fell down so the cheerleaders are also dancing but then you do something that scares Satan and then somebody says we so it’s now communist 100 and all of the epic redditors are depressed and have no friends but that’s what makes us epic redditors but then you accidentally step on your dogs tail and he won’t forgive you but he’s a good boy and your cat is a floofe and a chonker but then you remember that vegans are bad and mark zucceberg is a lizard and then you teach the parrots at the pets store and little kids to say the n word and the f word and you run away and then the girls locker rooms are stupid and boring but the boys locker rooms are funny and quirky and then guacamole nibba penis and the teacher has HIV and the girl with all A+ starts panicking and then the guy in the maths book buys 42069 watermelons and then there's boomer memes and millenial memes but gen z memes are the wackiest and stonks and helth and myoosic and then everyone liked that and then you shit in the school toilets Wholesome 100
submitted by CallMeSeeka to copypasta [link] [comments]


2020.08.08 22:38 xXn00bslayerXx420 reddit moment (cringe warning)

When the school shooter comes for you but then the autistic kid communist Jew says reddit moment 420 69 and everyone says nice and it’s wholesome 100 Keane Reeves bob ross Steve Irwin Stefan Karl stefanson but then the Instagram normies say that tik Tok and fortnite are good and they like kpop so you beat them to death and then play minecraft but then 2020 has cornea virus and world war 3 and bushfires and flood because boomers are bad but then it’s your cake day and everyone needs to give you upvoted but no one gives you upvoted and you have no friends so you ask out your crush with baby yoda because baby yoda is wholesome but she says no but you then you sneak 100 and destruction 100 stonks and your post gets more than 7 upvoted and it gets to hot but someone is using light mode and they don’t sort by new or downvote ads so you kill them but then you realise that they hate cardi b and rap music but they like dubstep and anime music so you press F to pay respect and 69 other fellow redditors upvote you and then joker falls down the at airs and gets hit by a car and the feminists get triggered because you say that joker is now a girl because she has long hair and you hit a girl because equal rights equal fights and you post it in your sjw and triggered feminist freak out and getting rekt compilation v47 tumblr edition and then you post it in YouTube because Disney is bad but you buy Disney plus so you can see baby yoda and then you buy a baby yoda funko pop but then you see that there is life sized baby yoda so you waste your college funds on it but you blame it on the boomers because they made everything hard for you and the world is gonna end in 2030 because of global warming so you joking Greta thunberg and she ok boomers trump but then trump starts ww3 with Iran and you’re gonna get drafted so you John the Area 51 raid to be safe but then the HK protestors need your help you post Fuck China in reddit and the Chinese government stops oppressing them because reddit is epic and we always solve problems by posting about them, just like how we solved global warming and destruction 100d Nestle but then the you eat with a plastic straw and every redditor downvoted you but then they realise that Elon musk will turn 69 on 4/20/69 so they say Nice abdnmakebit national nice day but then a cyber truck crashes into a building because you realised that the date is actually 9/11 so you subscribe to pewdiepie and tell the gamers to rise up but then the mobile gamers rise up so you start to beat them but then they play minecraft so it’s ok but then they also have fornite so you kill all of them because you’re all mad lads and your all mans if sheer fucking will and you donate to team trees to celeberate but it’s ended already but you make happiness noises because they reached 20 million but then you go on a crusade to take back to holy lands and then you get Bf Chungus and Ugandan buckles to join you but then the doctors see apples and they get scared so you get pewdiepies legs and he rates you big pp but then the quiet kid reaches for his bag but he accidentally takes Ahmed’s bag and then they bomb Japan and Pearl harbour and then your dad comes back 15 minutes later with the milk and he signs the divorce paper with your mom and they argue over who gets custody over you because neither of them want you and you’re the reason for their divorce but then Danny Doritos and shrek come rescue you and they take care of you and you get to browse reddit all day and it’s a happy wholesome 100 ending and then you post something on reddit and it gets a silver, gold and platinum but then a normie uses emojis in the comments so you call the emoji police and they get arrested epic style and then keena reaves comes and says wow that was a wholesome 100 moment and he says that you get what you fucking deserve and he calls you breathtaking and you realise he just did a speech 100 destruction 100 because that’s what heroes do but your normie friend double taps on a post and asks what’s so good about it so you say that you wouldn’t get it but then somebody reposts your meme and it gets to hot so you tell the reddit gang and they all downvote the post but then the teacher tells everybody to stay calm because the school is on fire and then the kid named calm does the funny mike wazowski face and you make into a meme on reddit but then the Alabama kid gets his sister pregnant and a kid says that he think Keane reeves isn’t wholesome and that minecraft isn’t good and that fortnite is better so you and your epic reddit hang send him death threats as a punishment for not being wholesome but then there’s baby yoda butbevwyone forgets about baby scooby and baby peanut and baby spongebob and bbaby gary and the Americans measure in football fields per hamburger because America is dumb and the floor is made out of floor and a minute passes in Africa and this is a tree because of the way it is and it’s illegal to be a criminal in Sweden and then pewdipie makes Swedish meatballs for everyone but then the fire alarm goes off and the special ed kids start dancing and then the people in the drug commercials are happy and the Oompa Loompas are dancing because a kid died and a footballer fell down so the cheerleaders are also dancing but then you do something that scares Satan and then somebody says we so it’s now communist 100 and all of the epic redditors are depressed and have no friends but that’s what makes us epic redditors but then you accidentally step on your dogs tail and he won’t forgive you but he’s a good boy and your cat is a floofe and a chonker but then you remember that vegans are bad and mark zucceberg is a lizard and then you teach the parrots at the pets store and little kids to say the n word and the f word and you run away and then the girls locker rooms are stupid and boring but the boys locker rooms are funny and quirky and then guacamole nibba penis and the teacher has HIV and the girl with all A+ starts panicking and then the guy in the maths book buys 42069 watermelons and then there's boomer memes and millenial memes but gen z memes are the wackiest and stonks and helth and myoosic and then everyone liked that and then you shit in the school toilets
submitted by xXn00bslayerXx420 to copypasta [link] [comments]


2020.08.08 17:51 ChrisBoden Well THAT sucked. - A story of the pain and injury of the worst date you can imagine.

Yes, I know, I’m a complete fucking idiot. Let’s just get that out of the way from the start. My only defense was that I was a teenager in the 90's at the time, and my dick was doing most of the thinking for me. On the whole, I’m a reasonably intelligent guy. My dick however, is much like one of those morons you meet who is all balls, no brains. Despite the fact that thinking with my dick got me through highschool at the top of my class, it has proven itself repeatedly to have no memory, no conscience, and what I will simply classify as “questionable moral fiber”.
An obscure, late 20th century English philosopher known for his ballistic dentition once said “Dicks have drive and clarity of vision. They’re not clever.” and he was correct. But like most people who are all balls and no brains, that kind of decision making invariably leads to collecting good stories, and occasionally being scarred for life.
This is one of those good stories, and it’s about a scar.
I was sixteen, vacuously stupid, and the world as I knew it revolved entirely around my radiant affections for one hell of an awesome girl. She was short, beautiful, built like a soccer player, and had curves in all the right places. Miraculously, she was also my steady girlfriend. We had a magnificent system that involved a standing weekly date. This almost always consisted of exactly three things: dinner, a movie, and the furious, passionate, awkward sex that only inexperienced young lovers can have in the contorsionistic confines of an automobile.
Good times.
On the right day of the week you could catch a 2nd run movie at the Alpine Twin for just a couple bucks. Urban sprawl hadn’t reached far enough yet to consume all the best spots for privacy, and we knew every one of them. It was a great time to be young and in love.
God is not without a sense of humor, however, and one particular week fate would throw me a curve. A movie had just come out that her father wanted to see. In a tormentative moment of parental schadenfreude, they decided it would be a great idea to join us on our weekly movie night for a wholesome double date.
I was trapped. I couldn’t say no, her dad was a towering giant of brooding scowls who instilled the fear of God in me. He was an incredibly kind and funny man, but he commanded my respect and there was absolutely no doubt he held the fate of my love life at his whim. I was a nerdy, country kid from the wrong side of the tracks and he made it very clear that I was dating his daughter only so long as both her and him deemed that acceptable. She adored me, he tolerated me, and it was my lowly position to be grateful for the opportunity.
I was fine with that. I was spending every Saturday night with her sowing my wild oats, and going to church every Sunday with him praying for crop failure.
So we all met at her house, the whole family piled into their car, and off we went. We didn’t go to our comfortable, low-budget, second-run theatre out on the north end of town with the thin crowds that encouraged sitting towards the back well away from anyone who could see wandering hands and notice the whispers of young lovers. We went out to the fancy first-run theatre, the gigantic cineplex and shining star of the lower west side, Studio 28, where we would be packed side by side with strangers and held to much higher standards of socially acceptable behaviour.
Studio 28 was massive. Thousands of people filled its acres of parking lots and watched the latest movies on twenty different massive screens with reclining seats in air conditioned comfort. One movie cost more than what we would spend for a month's worth of dates at Alpine - including food. But her dad was funding the entire expedition and I was happy to just be with her.
My lovely girlfriend however, was a hormone-driven, devious genius, and happened upon a simple idea that changed my life forever. She noticed that they list not only the start times of the movies, but the duration as well.
It had never for a moment crossed my mind that we didn’t all have to go to the same movie. Studio 28 was so massive that not only did they have a ton of different movies playing, many of them shared the same start times. She found a completely different show to catch, sorted out the details with her dad, and off we went on our own. She had stared into the bleakness and brilliantly wrought forth for us the greatest commodity of young lovers who live with their parents: privacy.
For such a monumental day in my life, I don’t even remember what the movie was. But I do remember spending an hour and a half in the dark getting each other as worked up as we dared. The lines of socially acceptable behaviour were a lot tighter back then, but we were enjoying them to the best of our youthful ability.
Our movie got out, and we made the long walk to the back-forty of the parking lot hand in hand and hopped in the car. We had no concrete idea when her parents' movie would get out, so we were just hanging out, waiting, and of course sharing only the most chaste and pure of good Christian thoughts.
Just her, me, and our collective sexual tension that burned with the power of a supernova. It really was only a matter of time before it all reached criticality.
Because sitting in a glass bubble in the middle of a thousand cars is totally the best possible place to be doing such things. I was a little on edge, but that didn’t stop her. It certainly did, however, limit our options.
The good news was that I at least had a clear line of sight all the way up our row, and would easily see anyone approaching from the theatre. I kept a watchful lookout, and she decided to take action.
In a matter of a few seconds, she was sucking my dick like it was filled with her father’s acceptance. Not a moment later, I saw the crowd of people start pouring out of the theatre doors. It didn’t take me long to spot her parents, hand in hand. Her dad’s bright blue shirt stuck out in the crowd, even though they were still a quarter-mile away.
And then, at that exact moment, is when I fucked up.
That’s when I did one of the dumbest things in my entire life; I made a split-second trivial decision that would leave me scarred forever.
Now, what I could have done is simply reach down, gently pull her head out of my lap, and have a mildly disappointing end to some fun, gone on with my day, and been just fine. Hell, given how far away they were, the hair-trigger of a teenage boy, and her skillful abilities we could have likely finished without pushing our luck.
The problem with wisdom is that you don’t get it until five seconds after you need it.
What I did, in a moment of youthful stupidity, was say “Your dad’s coming!” and sit up straight in my seat.
And that, my dear reader, is the exact moment that shit got real.
Please understand that what I’m about to describe is much like a car crash. It will take me far longer to describe it than it took to actually happen. All of this transpired in just a moment, but that moment is burned into my brain forever. I apologise now, that it shall be burned into yours. When you share this story with your friends, you’ll know they got to this part when you see them adjust themselves in their seat. No man is immune to this effect.
In one smooth powerful movement driven by pure reflex and fear, without a moment’s conscious thought, she snapped her head up, bolted upright in her seat, and while making that transition from laying on me to sitting next to me she stuffed my dick back into my jeans and ran that fuckin zipper all the way home with the power of an angry linebacker.
The problem is I had never unbuttoned my pants, and it was a lot smaller when it came out ten minutes ago than it was when she decided to cram it back in through, what was now, much too short of a hole. She fought it in there in half a second, it just wasn’t situated as well as it needed to be.
Then, with the delicate touch of a bricklayer she had yanked that zipper though several inches of my most delicate sensitivities and made me one with my Levi’s.
It happened in the blink of an eye.
I was absolutely convinced I was going to die.
The pain was far worse than what you imagine right now. It was radiant and consuming. She had caught roughly…very roughly...the entire front of the most sensitive skin I own and interlaced it down nearly the full length of the zipper. I could glimpse a thin line poking out the front, and there was nothing I could do about it but sit there with tears running down my face and her parents approaching.
She immediately knew what had happened, subtlety is not a skill I possess even on my best days. I think it may be when I levitated, shooting to the ceiling, howling in pain that she got her first hint that something was wrong. She was mortified, I was in agony, and the shitshow had just begun. I untucked my shirt to cover the obvious injury, and wiped my tears.
It was hard travel across the great prairies of the parking lot. I heard they lost five good men, and at one point had to start eating the horses to survive. But eventually, months later, her parents finally made it to the car.
The first battle was the parking lot. Several hundred people had all gotten out when we did and had to find their way to the exit. It took half an hour of stop and start agony while we all shuffled into place and trickled out onto 28th street - a bustling busy main thoroughfare of the lower-west side.
And the fun was just beginning.
Florida makes oranges, Idaho makes Potatoes, and Hollywood makes movies. But Michigan, we make potholes. Northbound 131 is a washboard of suspension testing craters that can knock your teeth loose. Because of the complicated interaction of freeze-thaw cycles, capillary action of water retention in asphalt, and the fact that we run snow plows for a third of the year there is a regular pattern of patched sections on the highway spaced at predictable intervals for miles on end.
And I felt every one of those sonsabitches as we launched and bounded from pock to pock, all along my dick.
It took about thirty minutes to get from Studio28 to their house. That was the longest half hour of my life. I felt every bump in the road in between my own heartbeats as I throbbed in agony sitting awkwardly in the back seat. The only saving grace was that her and her mom were making small talk about the movies they had each seen and my opinion didn’t matter. I sat there sniffling and rubbing my swollen, red eyes. When her mom asked me if I was okay I uttered the only word I could manage on the entire ride home.
“Allergies”.
We made it to her parent’s house, said our goodbyes, and she walked me across the street to my car. It took more work to get into my mom’s old boxy beige Pontiac Grand Prix than it did to get out of her parent’s SUV, but I made it, tenderly.
Mission two accomplished, her parents had no idea. So that crisis was averted.
Now, I had to choose. I was on the edge of The City. If I went East, I could fight my way through traffic to the giant gleaming state-of-the-art hospital located right downtown and wait in line in the emergency room. If I went West, I was heading towards home and in my own small country town was a little Med Center staffed with only a handful of people whose main job was helping people with minor bumps and bruises, and keeping the critical patients alive long enough for the ambulance to get there and haul them off to one of the much larger neighboring cities.
I headed towards home. It was farther, but faster. I hopped on I-96 and blasted into the night more scared of hitting a deer than being pulled over for speeding. I figured if any cop pulled me over, all I had to do was show him my situation and there wasn’t a man in the world who would fault me for being in a hurry. I had a much higher chance of getting a police escort to the Med Center than getting a ticket, so off I went as fast as Mom’s old Pontiac would carry me.
I arrived without incident and walked gingerly through the front door. I’d never been to the Med Center before. My parents were on the rescue squad of the local volunteer fire department so anything short of a sucking chest wound in my house was dealt with by someone running for the jump-bag in Dad’s truck. Any sort of injury was handled on only the best of equipment: the kitchen table.
Life’s different in a small town.
That’s why I wasn’t even slightly surprised when I walked in the front door and the triage nurse at the front counter stopped typing, looked me straight in the eye with genuine concern on her face and said “Chris, are you ok?”.
It was my mom’s friend. Not only did this woman know me, she’d known me since I had training wheels on my bike. I knew she was a Nurse. Half the women in my world were Nurses, my mom was a Nurse. She worked at a nursing home filled with other Nurses. How the hell was I supposed to remember that one of her best friends just so happened to work at the Med Center.
I should have gone East.
“No Ma’am” I said, and quickly added, wincing, “please don’t tell my Mom”
“What happened, show me what you did”
Now, I grew up around trauma and emergency medicine. Back then they were dispatched with one-way pagers the size of a brick that looked like walkie-talkies. There was only one channel for the whole county, and every department had its own unique series of musical tones that told us who the message was for. It squawked and whistled all day and night and you never even noticed it.
But when the BEEDEEBEEDEEBEEDEEBEEDEE-DOOOOOOOOO-----DEEEEEEEEEEEE sound that designated our unit came over that radio, it would take you out of a dead sleep before they got to the “COOPERSVILLE UNIT TWO-OH-FIVE” part of the message and Mom, Dad, or sometimes both, were headed out the door on a dead run before it stopped talking.
If this happens while you’re out somewhere with Dad in the truck, you’re along for the ride. It was somewhere around age twelve when “stay in the truck” just didn’t work for me anymore. I’d learned where babies came from by watching a screaming Asian woman have one on the tailgate of a Subaru in the McDonald’s parking lot. I’d seen bodies mangled and I knew first hand why they called the people who ride crotch-rocket motorcycles “Organ Donors”. I’d learned the smartest and most heroic humans alive fly in AeroMed, and I knew that rescue crews have no problem working up to their elbows in your blood and then going out for pizza half an hour later. It’s just meat.
I was also well aware that the strongest, hardest, most stoic, most unimaginably un-fucking-fazed woman you’ll ever meet, is a Triage Nurse.
So I lifted up my shirt.
And, for just a moment, I saw her humanity crack through her professional stoicism.
I pray that you go your entire life and never once hear a Triage Nurse say “Oh Dear” when she looks at whatever injury you have. It’s up there with getting a prostate exam and hearing the Doctor behind you say “Aw, fuck!”. You don’t want any part of this situation.
There was no paperwork, and my ass never touched one of the beige plastic chairs in the tiny waiting room. She stood up and walked me through the door behind the counter and ten seconds later I was sitting on the crinkly butcher paper of an examination table with my legs dangling over the edge.
A Nurse who was only ten minutes older than I was came in just a moment behind me. Thankfully, I didn’t know her at least, but I’d have liked to under different circumstances. She held a BP cuff in one hand and a clipboard in the other and asked me how I was feeling and if I had any allergies. We chatted for perhaps a whole minute before she asked me what was wrong.
I lifted my shirt.
She took it well, just a tiny gasp before she got her shields back in place. But her blush betrayed her. She held tight to her professionalism and assured me that the Doctor would be right in as she stumbled gracefully backwards out of the room. However, I did notice that she never did get my BP, temp, or anything else.
The Doctor was indeed, right in. I had been sitting there less than five minutes when he strolled into the room and said “So, I hear you’ve had an interesting evening.”
He pulled up a little rolling stool, put on a pair of gloves, and scooted up for a front row seat between my knees as I sat sideways off the edge of the table. We discussed how I had gotten myself into this situation, and he surveyed the damage. I found it ironic that the one person who had shared this experience with me and who could truly appreciate what I was going through was the one person who was completely at ease with the situation. Of course…..it wasn’t his dick.
It was also the first time I’d gotten a real look at things myself, and it was worse than I’d imagined. The skin on the bottom of my shaft was peeking out through the golden teeth of the zipper all the way from about a half inch above the bottom of the zipper to the top. There was way more blood than I had noticed at first and it had stained my pants several inches in every direction. The total zipped length was nearly five inches, and it was under tension on the inside because the standard response to pain is for your dick to shrink up like a stack of dimes.
The added effect, because my brain is an asshole, was that the pain just intensified once I got a look at it.
He pulled out a pair of trauma shears and we discussed what he was going to do about half a second before he did it with a running commentary. He planned on cutting my pants off around the zipper. I was fine with this, off is good, let’s get this off - free me from my golden restraints good Doctor!
Deftly, gently, and with surprising ease the shears sliced right through the seams and folds of my jeans. He cut the bottom through several layers of denim and seams straight up to the base of the zipper, and sheared off either side about four inches away, leaving me with two flaps joined only by the teeth of the zipper and the button on top. He spun on his wheels, reached in the third drawer behind him, pulled out a pair of cutters like I would have in my toolbox, and snipped off the bottom half-inch of zipper entirely. It fell to the floor and landed with a wet plop.
He gently unbuttoned what was now a much smaller piece of my pants, and examined it closely for a couple minutes with a flap held in either hand.
Then he said something you never, ever, want to hear any manner of medical professional say to you.
“We’re gonna go on three...”
We’re…..WHAT!? Where? Whatthefuckare...
“One”
There was no motherfucking Two. Three was an outright lie.
The way out was as blindingly fast and traumatic as the way in. The entire process was loud, a wild blur of motion, and terrifying. In what I have absolutely no doubt was a process he had experienced before, he tore apart the two halves of my zipper with the haymaker strength of a farm boy and kicked himself away from the side of my examination table with both feet to send himself rocketing backwards across the tiny room well clear of the wild reflexive punch I swung through the space his head had occupied a split second before. He landed in a heap, half fallen off his rolling stool, with a piece of my jeans in either hand and an accomplished smile from ear to ear.
That all happened in less than a second. It took exactly the amount of time it took me to say “MOTHERFUCK-....eh?”
The good side is, it didn’t actually hurt all that much when he did that. The bad side was, the blood was now rushing to my dick and it was throbbing with every heartbeat. It hurt like all hell.
We both took a moment to compose ourselves and both spoke at the same moment, saying the exact same thing.
“Are you alright?”
I looked at the sad strip of hamburger laying in my lap, surrounded by a terrifying amount of dried blood in matted black hair. It looked like Edward Scissorhands had given me an old fashioned.
“No?”
I had visions of sutures, staples, and all forms of Spanish Inquisition cock torture that I was about to endure and was blissfully thankful that all he needed to do was clean everything off and tape a strip of gause to it. After the most unpleasant experience I’ve ever had involving my dick being cleaned, complete with being hosed down with Betadine, now it I just looked like I’d fucked an Oompa Loompa.
I asked what would happen if I got a hardon, would I bleed to death or something? He assured me that the last thing I was going to get in the immediate future was an erection. After a few days it would be fine all on its own.
I thanked him for saving my manhood, secured my pants with my belt, hid the giant square hole in front under my shirt, and headed home. I tossed my shredded jeans in the trash, took a shower that involved the creative application of a baggie and a rubber band that moments before had been holding the wing on my model airplane.
He was right, I didn’t have any danger of getting a hardon for over a week. The throbbing pain became a dull ache that would hover just on the edge of being actively conscious of it. Sleeping was complicated, but I managed. After a few days it didn’t hurt at all, and a couple weeks later I was back to normal. In the third week a full operational test proved that all repairs had been completed and that all systems were operating within nominal specifications.
But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I let a woman zip me up again. I’ll take care of that on my own, thank you.
The scar is considerable, tapering to half an inch wide at the base and running front and center along the bottom of my shaft up to the tip. It’s been the topic of more conversations and won more stupid bets than I want to think about. But it’s part of me, a part of my life, and I’m just thankful that despite the relentless abuse and poor decisions my dick has endured, that all in all, things are working just as they should thanks to the compassionate care of a young country Doctor and a small team of Nurses.
Thank you to everyone in the medical profession, of any rank and stripe, for enduring all that you do to help us fumbling idiots live to see another sunrise. You are awesome.
With my kindest regards,
Chris Boden
submitted by ChrisBoden to funnystories [link] [comments]


2020.08.04 04:53 angry_ogunsoto Confidence is overrated

Confidence is important because it shows that someone has self-worth and knows their value. But it is overrated and used to justify nearly every man's struggles and failures in the dating field. Basically, confidence is not a problem, because the reason why people have difficulties in dating, lies in the fact that they do not meet the expectations of the partner they are pursuing. Pretty much everyone has confidence, be it due to beauty, achievements, talent, good physique or anything you can think of that makes someone confident in life. Besides, without confidence it is impossible to live a fulfilling life, make friends, climb up the career ladder or acquire new skills which is something that people do to give meaning to their lives. Thus people in general gain confidence from things they do in their everyday lives. That's why it cannot really be the problem hindering people's success in the dating field.
Nearly every time I read a post on this sub about women or men struggling to find their SO, the number one thing people comment is that the OP lacks confidence. Come on guys, this can't be true for every f***ing case. Besides, the way PUA community presents confidence is so vague and esoteric that makes absolutely no sense when they try to show how to present confidence. It is just hilarious watching people (clowns) sign up on seduction courses thinking they will learn how to step by step seduce the opposite sex and they end up learning that they just lack confidence but in fact they lack one of the two brain hemispheres. And this is exactly how PUA manages to make a killing out of these Oompa loompas.
In reality dating in itself is simple since it just requires the consent of both parties to step into a relationship. It is when we fail that we dig deeper to find the root of the problem, when in fact it is just that we are not someone else's type.
submitted by angry_ogunsoto to unpopularopinion [link] [comments]


2020.08.04 04:52 angry_ogunsoto Confidence is overrated

Confidence is important because it shows that someone has self-worth and knows their value. But it is overrated and used to justify nearly every man's struggles and failures in the dating field. Basically, confidence is not a problem, because the reason why people have difficulties in dating, lies in the fact that they do not meet the expectations of the partner they are pursuing. Pretty much everyone has confidence, be it due to beauty, achievements, talent, good physique or anything you can think of that makes someone confident in life. Besides, without confidence it is impossible to live a fulfilling life, make friends, climb up the career ladder or acquire new skills which is something that people do to give meaning to their lives. Thus people in general gain confidence from things they do in their everyday lives. That's why it cannot really be the problem hindering people's success in the dating field.
Nearly every time I read a post on this sub about women or men struggling to find their SO, the number one thing people comment is that the OP lacks confidence. Come on guys, this can't be true for every f***ing case. Besides, the way PUA community presents confidence is so vague and esoteric that makes absolutely no sense when they try to show how to present confidence. It is just hilarious watching people (clowns) sign up on seduction courses thinking they will learn how to step by step seduce the opposite sex and they end up learning that they just lack confidence but in fact they lack one of the two brain hemispheres. And this is exactly how PUA manages to make a killing out of these Oompa loompas.
In reality dating in itself is simple since it just requires the consent of both parties to step into a relationship. It is when we fail that we dig deeper to find the root of the problem, when in fact it is just that we are not someone else's type.
submitted by angry_ogunsoto to seduction [link] [comments]


2020.07.09 23:44 ACCBiggz SDCC 2020 Megathread

SAN DIEGO COMIC-CON: ONLINE EDITION

Please post all information relating to SDCC in this thread ONLY.

This includes information on prints, records, toys, comics, and any other items that may be of interest.

SDCC Unofficial Blog

Information about SDCC exclusive releases, panels/autographs, offsite events, etc...

MONDO INFO:

Release Artist

OTHER RELEASE INFO:

Date Release Artist Vendor Website
7/6 Presidential Horrors Enamel Pin Set Factory Entertainment Factory Entertainment Website
7/6 Bruce the Shark Plush Factory Entertainment Factory Entertainment Website
7/6 Black Knight Motivational Statue Factory Entertainment Factory Entertainment Website
7/8 Yellow Submarine Chrome Art Statue Factory Entertainment Factory Entertainment Website
7/8 Starfleet Academy Bottle Opener Factory Entertainment Factory Entertainment Website
7/8 Wonder Woman Shield Flying Disc Factory Entertainment Factory Entertainment Website
7/9 Commander Riker Facepalm Mini Bust Paperweight Icon Heroes Icon Heroes Website
7/9 Karate Kid Cobra Kai Logo Enamel Pin Icon Heroes Icon Heroes Website
7/9 Jughead the Hunger Black and White Statue Icon Heroes Icon Heroes Website
7/9 Vampironica Black and White Polystone Statue Icon Heroes Icon Heroes Website
7/9 Robotech VF-1 J STEAL Battloid 1/42 Scale Polystone Statue Icon Heroes Icon Heroes Website
7/9 Ghostbusters No Ghost Logo Enamel Pin (Gold) Icon Heroes Icon Heroes Website
7/10 Superman Metal Miniature Factory Entertainment Factory Entertainment Website
7/10 Back To The Future CHS Keychain And Pin Set Factory Entertainment Factory Entertainment Website
7/22 Street Fighter Alpha Pins UDON UDON Website
7/22 Mega Man Dr. Wiley Pin UDON UDON Website
7/22 Ben Dixon’s VF-1A & Jack Archer’s VF-1J Pins UDON UDON Website
7/22 Macross Lynn Minmay Doll Pin UDON UDON Website
7/22 Monster Hunter World Dragon Emblem Pin UDON UDON Website
7/22 TMNT Exclusive Pizza Box Quantum Mechanix QMx Website
7/23 I Miss SDCC pin Yesterdays Yesterdays Website
7/23 TMNT Musical Mutagen Tour 4-Pack NECA Target
7/23 Predator - City Demon NECA NECA Website/Wal-Mart
7/23 Ultimate Summer Games Gremlin NECA NECA Website/Wal-Mart
7/23 Alien 7″ Scale Action Figure Ultimate Big Chap (GITD) NECA NECA Website/Wal-Mart
7/23 The Baddies Club Patrick Ballesteros Artist's Website
7/23 The Baddies Club Returns Patrick Ballesteros Artist's Website
7/23 Revenge of the Baddies Club Patrick Ballesteros Artist's Website
7/23 Aanger Management Patrick Ballesteros Artist's Website
7/26 Mandeloreans Patrick Ballesteros Artist's Website
7/30 Misfits Fiend T-Shirt Alex Pardee Yesterdays Yesterdays Website
?/? Spider-Man 2 EWAF Jason Edmiston Artist Website
?/? Born to Die Jason Edmiston Artist Website
?/? Oompa Loompa EWAF Jason Edmiston Artist Website
?/? Park House Jason Edmiston Artist Website
?/? Blade Runner 2049 EWAF Jason Edmiston Artist Website
?/? Mad Max: Fury Road Chrome & Black EWAF Jason Edmiston Artist Website
?/? Joker Playing Card Jason Edmiston Artist Website
?/? Ace Frehley Playing Card Jason Edmiston Artist Website
?/? Larry David EWAF Jason Edmiston Artist Website
?/? The Bride EWAF Jason Edmiston Artist Website
?/? One-Eyed Snake EWAF Jason Edmiston Artist Website
?/? The Guardian EWAF Jason Edmiston Artist Website

PB REQUESTS:

PB REQUESTS for SDCC will need to be posted below in the comments and not in a separate thread.

This post will be updated as releases are announced. If there is a release that you are aware of that has not been posted please contribute in the comments below, following the rules that are listed above.

SDCC 2019 Megathread

submitted by ACCBiggz to PosterNews [link] [comments]


2020.06.25 21:44 Percybhowal Each time my daughter wails, there's a death in the family. Recently, she wailed my name, and I'm terrified.

Nothing warms a father’s heart more than listening to the melody of his child’s laughter. I am no exception to the rule. Vanessa’s gullible, sweet-little smile is the most valued possession in my otherwise miserable life. Her happiness is like a drug to my ever-craving soul- she could go on giggling at one of my stupid dad-jokes for hours uninterrupted. She could be laughing like crazy to one of those “pull my finger” jokes she would see on a TV show. She could be secretly smirking at her mother’s funny pronunciation of the word “potahto” while her mother dejectedly sighed, “yes, real funny, Ness. Now be done with your dinner quick!”. She could be smiling endlessly- but I can never have enough of her happiness.
I cannot afford for my daughter to not be happy-never! Not just because I love her more than any father can ever love his child. Because I know the kinds of things she can unwittingly do when she’s sad. I am aware of the terrible things that can happen if my Ness starts crying. I do not look forward to hearing the sound of my daughter bawl- and I especially don’t look forward to hearing her pause midway between her tears, when she’d meet my gaze and coldly deliver the painful blow right to my paper-thin heart.
“I’m sorry, father.”
I certainly did not look forward to her saying that.
Like every other time it had happened in the past, I had no idea what had caused her eyes to well. For all I knew, she should’ve done anything but cried! I had just shown her the Coraline movie she had kept bugging me about for weeks. We had had dinner at her favorite fast-food place- burgers and French fries, if that qualifies for dinner in your book. And at the end of our father-girl night out, I had allowed her two scoops of her favorite honey-berry ice-cream instead of the usual one. “Gee, thanks, Daddy!” she had proudly beamed at me. God, how much did I cherish that strawberry smile of hers?
Everything was all hugs and smiles until I tucked her in bed. She had no reason to cry- we even read a chapter of The Diary of a Wimpy Kid book she so enjoyed! But then right when I shut the door of her room and started to head off towards mine, I heard her crying. Or wailing, if we’re going for the more technical term.
My heart froze. No, no, no- this shouldn’t be happening, I thought to myself. But it did happen, and the least I could do was take some of the grim-reaper responsibility that the situation demanded from me. Sighing, I opened the door.
And there she was- my darling Vanessa in her “wailing-state”, for the lack of a better word. No, wait, there is one- what was it called again? - ah, right. Banshee. My dear Vanessa, her form completely overwhelmed by the terrible curse that surrounded her. The jet-black hat of her short-cropped-hair now replaced by long-reaching, platinum-blonde locks. She had discarded her PJs, and was wearing a dull-white robe now. But the detail that credits the most attention was what my Banshee child was doing.
She was wailing. Sitting at the edge of her bed, her face away from mine, hands cupped over her face as she poured her teary-eyed pain into her cupped palms. The sounds of her wails loud enough to repel any stray animal that lived nearby.
“It’s okay, baby. I’m here. Who is it this time?”
My daughter paused. She turned around her head slowly as her now-bloodshot eyes faced mine.
Who will it be this time, I thought to myself? Paul, the cat Irene had bought her a few months back? Maternal-uncle Sam, who’s down to the final stretch of his year-and-a-half-long battle against leukemia? Her great Gramma Maureen? Full respect to the iron lady- but at 93-years of age, she had to have had it coming sooner rather than later, right?
“I’m sorry, father.”
My heart dropped.
“Father? That’s me, sweety! Are you sure, Vanessa?”
“Sure about what, Daddy?”
And just like that, she was gone. Banshee Ness’ job was done; I could only assume she was back in whatever spirit-realm she had come from. Staring at me now, was my black-haired, blue-eyed, sans-wailing baby-girl, Vanessa, sitting at her bed in her pajamas.
“Why am I awake, Daddy? I thought you had sung me off to sleep.”
“Huh?” Oh, right, the poor child had no recollection whatsoever of everything that had happened. “Ah, it was nothing, sweety. You just had a bad dream.” I intended to keep her unaware.
“Really? Huh. I don’t remember having any dreams. Hmm…hey, maybe I’m lucid dreaming?” she shrugged her shoulders at me.
“Maybe, sweetheart.” I smiled. “If you are having a lucid dream, you don’t want it to end so fast, right?”
“Right. Well, sweet dreams, other Daddy!” She was influenced by every film she watched, and remained in that character’s phase at least until a week. I shouldn’t have shown her that movie.
Then again, I didn’t have much time left to take annoyance to her new-found phase.
“Right, dear. Sweet dreams, honey” I shut the door as I braced myself for the real-life nightmare that awaited me.
***
Morgan Fletcher. 1982-2020. Died aged 42. Ghostwriter. Part-time English Teacher at the Tracington High. Loving Father. Douchebag ex-Husband, I’m sure Irene, my ex-wife would love to add to that description. Rests in Peace here.
Just the very thought of my obituary sent a wave of bile up my throat.
My head went back to the first encounter I had had with her- my daughter’s ‘wailing-form’. One fine weekend, we had been watching Tom and Jerry on our couch when I first heard her let out that ear-piercing cry. “I’m sorry, Gramps,” she had said back then. Of course, at the time, I was more worried about the physical-appearance side of things than trying to decipher the true meaning behind my daughter’s weird apology. And when she had recovered, she had no recollection whatsoever of anything that had happened. I had tried to pry her, but that only seemed to make her more upset, so I gave it a rest.
Irene had called me two days later to inform that Liam, her perfectly-healthy, 77-year-old father, had succumbed to a heart attack on the previous night. I wasn’t sure what to make of the eerie coincidence, but I knew that breaking out Vanessa’s wailing story to her would only complicate matters with my already-complicated ex-wife. I did my own research. That’s how I came across the term- Banshee, a running curse in Irish-origin families, where a certain-condition-satisfying-born first-girl-child is gifted with the divine powers of being a harbinger to a family member’s imminent demise.
So, yeah. Apparently, my darling-girl was just suffering from some grim-reaper-esque family curse. Nothing to be particularly worried about, right? I mean, it’s not like she’s the one causing the deaths herself.
Of course, it’s an entirely different story when you’re on the other side of it. I hadn’t realized that until now.
Prior to this, I had had five encounters with Banshee Vanessa. The spirit had never been hostile or otherworldly-savage towards me- she simply performed the job that her curse obligated to do, and once that was done, I’d have my daughter back. A job that, unfortunately, she was rather good at- up until this point, her strike-rate was a perfect five-on-five. Four of her five wailings had been for people from Irene’s side of the family- there was her father Liam, one of her aunts (diabetes), a distant cousin (ATV-accident), and the most recent and the most tragic instance of a nine-year-old niece (the poor child had drowned in a river). As surprising as it might sound, but this was actually the first time she had wailed for someone from my side of her family. Not too surprising- my folks had both died before Vanessa was born- and they were pretty much the only family I had. Except Ness, obviously.
Another family that I soon was going to lose. At least within the next twenty-four hours, if the past-records meant anything. That’s another observation I’d come up with- each of the people whose name Vanessa wailed in, had met their fate within approximately the time-span of the next day.
Technically, I could be an exception. I was, after all, the first paternal family-member she had wailed for. Maybe, just maybe- things could be different for me. I didn’t get my hopes too high, though. Her fifth successful wailing had been for Chester, our dear old Dalmatian. The greedy, old son of a bitch had poisoned himself in an unfortunate attempt at rummaging through a box full of dark chocolates. I still remember how depressed Vanessa was in his wake.
If only she knew…
Her predictions had worked for an entity even beyond the literal blood-relations. What were my odds?
Stupid as it might sound; but I spent the first half-hour of the rest of my life trying to actually figure out those said odds. Post those mathematical failures (obviously), another hour went wasted as I drank myself off to Lana del Rey’s Born to Die vinyl backgrounds. Midway through the title track’s bridge, I started weeping. My miserable, 42-year-old life flashed right before my eyes. So many plans, so many unfinished businesses I had.
No, I couldn’t just let it end like this. So I compiled a bucket list for the last, 24-ish-hours of my life. I’d end my existence on my own terms. At least as much as I could.
Crossing the first item of the list was, somehow, the easiest, and yet the most difficult task. The next morning, I drove over to Irene’s to drop Vanessa.
I know, Geez, Morgan, what was all that loving father rant in the beginning about if you’re not gonna spend the dying moments of your life with your darling daughter?
Believe me- it really was a tough call to make, but think about it; do any of you really want your child to be around when you know you’re about to die? I’m not talking death from some terminal illness, no- but the kind of death, that, just, strikes you randomly and ends your life even before you have a clue as to what just happened? You want your 10-year-old daughter to go through that kind of trauma?
I sound awfully insensitive. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to come off as this ignorant jerk who’s oblivious to the sufferings of others around him- because I am not that kind of a person. It’s just that, talking about all those painful emotions… I think it unearths a really unfeeling side of my character.
I gave Ness a long-timed hug before letting her go. She cast a confused glance in my direction. “Gee, Daddy, you know that I’ll be here just for this one weekend, right? You look really emotional!”.
My darling girl. She did not deserve to suffer. And I wouldn’t let her suffer, not financially, at least. Back in our house, I had already pinned a copy of my realtered will that granted Ness all of my wealth. Wasn’t all that much, but I wanted to ensure that she had some minimum financial-support to achieve her life goals.
“You know Morgan, it wouldn’t kill you to make a call in advance if you’ve got these unexpected visits planned.” Even in my-near death-state, it was foolish of me to expect any sort of empathy from Irene.
I sighed. No, Morgan. Don’t be a spiteful prick in the final moments of life. I pulled in Irene for an awkward hug- decidedly more awkward for her than it was for me. “Take good care of our Vanessa, Irene. Be the best mother to her.”
“Get off your Ganja smokes, Morgan. Honestly, what have you- yeah, honey? Don’t worry, it’s my ex-husband. I’ll be right back.” She had a guest. A male one, if I had to guess. Why didn’t that surprise me?
“Gotta go.” She slammed the door plumb on my face. I’m way too good at goodbyes, I sang to myself.
Item number one on the list. Check.
Item number two went much more smoothly. A first-ever, roller-coaster ride. Judge me all that you want, but that’s how uninteresting my life had been. Up until this ride, at least; a ride where I pissed off just about every co-passenger with my shrill and reckless screaming. And as a cherry on this already embarrassing sundae- the moment my joyride reached its end, I threw up all-over my crisp, white shirt.
I couldn’t help but grin at the grossed-out looks on my co-passenger’s faces. I don’t care if it’s disgusting, people! I thought to myself. Guess what? I’m dying, it doesn’t bother me if my throw-up makes you retch. I’m just thankful that my hernia didn’t act up on this wacky ride. YOLO!
The whole thing with the throw-up was a godsend, because it just made the third item on my list more fun- getting a makeover! I walked into the mall wearing just a cut-sleeved sweater over my upper body. More gawks and murmurings from the people. Oh, how much I enjoyed every bit of the attention!
I left the store dressed in a tacky, pinstriped, double-breasted, hideous lime-green suit which had set me back by a thousand dollars. My five-year-old beard and mustache were discarded; leaving my chiseled jawline exposed to the cold, November air. I had swapped my glasses, too- gone, were those broad-rimmed matte-black frames that made me look like a dork. These cat-eyed, cherry-red rimmed ones looked so much better.
Daddy? I could hear Ness squeak as she tried to hide her laughter. You look like Willy Wonka, minus the top hat!
Gay Willy Wonka, that is, Irene added. Seek help, Morgan.
I could only smile at their imaginary, innocuous taunts. Morgan Fletcher was already dead to me. This man here, living the final moments of his life- he was Tonto.
“Tonto Gonzales. But my friends call me Bubba.” I introduced myself on the karaoke stage. And then my pathetic, baritone, obviously not-meant-for-singing-voice totally butchered Wham!’s Careless Whisper. It felt kinda bad to make a mess of such an amazing song- I felt somewhat guilty when a gay couple flicked a couple of particularly nasty stares in my direction. I’m sorry, George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley. RIP.
Then again, I’d soon be joining them. It’s only fair that I got the chance to cross the last item off my list.
I’d have liked to breathe my final-breath back in the confines of my cozy home, but I was too hammered to drive. Even if I could, I had just given away my Prius and its keys to some hobo (What can I say? In my drunken stupor, I had totally bought into all those phonies, charity-before-you-meet-Jesus propagandas), so I didn’t have the means to head back there.
Take an Uber, I hear you say? Well… I knew that I was gonna die. It wouldn’t look good on my conscience to wittingly get some innocent, harmless cabby involved with the cops, post-mortem, insurance, yada yada yada. So no, pass.
Instead, like some estranged, inebriated fool, I kept exhausting the final-reserves of my finances on booze. Anytime the barkeep would try to stop, I’d tip him with a big, 100$ bill. The other customers kept shooting pitiful glances in my direction. But I was already past the point of humility. Because I had just added a new point to my list- Die on my own terms.
And so I would do, literally. How?
Simple. I would kill myself off alcohol poisoning.
My vision had already started to blur when he took the seat next to me on the counter. And the moment he did, I knew my end was near. Up until this point, I had tried to pass up his apparent omnipresence as mere co-incidence. Back in Irene’s driveway when I was reversing my Prius. Back in the roller-coaster, sitting right behind me. Back at the hairdresser’s, hidden behind a copy of Entertainment Weekly as his black eyes peered straight into my soul.
And here he was now. His black-leather-gloved hands busily tapping on the wooden-counter. His enticing, jet-black eyes meeting those of the barkeep.
Fate had finally found me.
And his voice was all I heard.
“I think I’ll have a glass of water. H2O,” he added, nonchalantly. He turned in my direction. Lips curled in a handsome smile. “How about you, pal?”
That I’d get what I deserve.
“Umm…ah, what the hell, why not? I’ll have H2O, too.”
The barkeep instantly hit me with a half-filled glass of the transparent fluid. I chugged it down in one gulp.
And then everything went dark.
***
Oh, I believe, in yesterday…
The static-sound of Paul McCartney’s vocals stirred me. I was riding shotgun in a car. He, was driving.
“Just in time, mate. You don’t wanna miss the talk.”
Out of all the fucked-up things that had been happening until now, this was the one that irked me the most- why was Death talking in an Australian dialect?
Not that I’d mention that to him, of course. Not unless I wished to be reincarnated as some insignificant, microorganism-esque being.
“Come now. It’s gonna be one helluva ride if Macca’s the only one that keeps talking. So, any regrets?”
There’s a shadow hanging over me…
“Umm. Yes. I do have a few regrets. I couldn’t finish reading Gone Girl.”
“Hmm. Yeah, that’s a bummer. Lucky for you, we’ve got a whole library full of books lined-up here. You can read all the books that you want to.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes, we’ve got that. While we’re at it, why don’t I also look at getting your old high-school job back? “
Now I long for yesterday…
“You’re screwing with me.”
“The least I can do after you screwed with me. I spent two whole hours waiting at that dingy library, you know. So much for Read. Don’t die a fool. You can’t just cross out items like that, mate.”
Suddenly, I’m not half the man I used to be…
It had happened right after I disembarked off the coaster. Come on, Morgan. Don’t pass on your final moments being some nerd, book-reader, I had convinced myself. Go have some fun!
And fun I had had, at the expense of another item on my list. Read. Don’t die a fool.
“I wimped out. In those dying moments of life, I wanted to shed off my true identity. I was tired of living the nerdy, good, well-read, intellectual man life. I wanted to breathe my last breath as this- “, I gestured to my comical attire. “This whacky, crazy, life-of-the-party kind of guy.”
“Life of the party”, Death scoffed. “Sure, why not, if your party is one infested with Oompa Loompas?”.
I chuckled. It was good to have some closure before I passed on to whatever other realm awaited me.
“It’s all good, though. Long as you had fun. No regrets. Right?”
Ping! I could feel my head buzz as it began loading the images from my day. A scornful-stare from an old, hag of a woman as I got off that roller-coaster in my vomit-covered state. Some ill-mannered brat about my Vanessa’s age; a look of amusement plastered on his face as he gawked at my stupid, lime-green jacket. The gay-couple from the bar, their eyes rolling as I walked off the stage after my careless demolition. The barkeep, a sly grin on her face as I slipped her an umpteenth hundred-dollar bill.
Pity. Disgust. Ridicule. That’s how Morgan/ Tonto would go down.
Now it looks as though they’re here to stay…
“I wish I could say that. But in the process of reinventing myself, I ended up doing something I didn’t want to. I made a complete fool of myself! I’m an idiot. That’s it- all my life, I’ve tried to overcompensate, trying to be this big, ruminative philosopher. In reality, I’m just a big, fat, phony who has no idea about what he should actually be doing!”
That H2O2- thing I’d drank at the bar must have been causing me to loosen up. I had never been this open about my flaws and shortcomings. Until now.
Or maybe that’s just the kind of aura Death has. I didn’t find out.
“Hmm. Well, you hold on to that thought. Anything else you’d like to add?”
Now I need a place to hide away…
“Vanessa. I have been damn irresponsible to my baby. I deprived her of the truth. At a time when I should’ve been the best father to my child, I avoided her.”
“You had your reasons.”
“Maybe. But she deserves the truth. Not from her mother, or some friend she calls for a random sleepover- but from her father, the man who loves her the most. I had a big responsibility, breaking such an important secret out to her. And I just… abandoned her. Dear Lord- what have I done to my baby, Death?”
“Ah well. Fretting won’t do any good now. You’ll just kill yourself that way.”
That one called for a duh stare. I obliged.
“Oh…right. Sorry about that. Well, we’re almost home. Let’s try for one more, shall we?”
“You find this amusing.”
“Depends on how the player’s playing. Don’t flatter yourself, Morgan, you’re doing just average.”
Why she, had to go, I don’t know, she wouldn’t say…
“That’s what she said.”
Death gave me a nasty glance. “What?”
“Irene. The reason we aren’t together anymore. Just left me a voice-mail the morning she left, claiming that she was frustrated with my passiveness. She said she could do better. I always felt like she blamed Vanessa for our…you know, our intimacy issues. I mean, I think that’s unfair- we were having bedtime issues long before she was born. But that’s basically how we had separated- she just told me she wasn’t happy, and we divorced.”
“Hmm. And you don’t feel good about it?”
“I’ll admit that I was a much better single-dad to Vanessa than I was when me and Irene were together. She needs a certain amount of TLC and attention, and I’m not sure if me and Irene could’ve done that if we were married. It’s just that…the thing with Irene, it just happened and I never tried to reconcile, connect, or resolve any of those issues. I don’t know why, but- I can’t help but feel that if I’d had some closure with her, maybe we could’ve dealt with this better, you know. Vanessa, and her…”
“Oh, yeah, I know. But you know what they say, Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve.”
I stayed silent. H2O2 had lost its effect.
“Alright, now. Hold tight. This one’s a particularly lean stretch.” Death slowed down. I could feel his eyes on my face. I turned to face him. He smiled.
I smiled back. And then he cracked into a hysterical cackle.
“What?” I had to ask.
“You’re right, Morgan. You are a fool. A clueless idiot, and a big one at that.”
“Gee. Thanks for the reassurance.”
“Oh, we'll soon see if you’ll be thanking me, trust me. Now giddy up, mate”.
I knew something was amiss here- something really important. But as Death hit the race on his car, the only thing I could process was those final, beautiful verses in Paul McCartney’s reminiscing voice.
Oh, yesterday, came suddenly…
***
I wasn’t sure what to expect when I’d open my eyes. And I wasn’t excited when I saw her. Or rather, heard her.
“Daddy. You’re up.”
My vision started to clear. Heaven, hell- or whatever this god-forsaken realm was called, seemed awfully familiar. As did the face of my child standing right next to me. A cup of straw-ed milkshake in her hands.
“Vanessa? How come you’re here?”
“Mom drove me. She’s here too, but she doesn’t want to meet you while you’re buzzed.”
“Irene’s here? Wait, where am I? This- this is heaven, right?”
Vanessa let out a small giggle. “What’s funny?” I asked.
“You said heaven, like help-when, minus the ‘lp’ sound. But it’s called haven. Like, hay-when. You sound like mom when she says potato.” Another giggle. “Po-taat-to. How does she say that?”
Potato? Heaven? Haven? What was going on?
Even before I could start comprehending any of those things, a searing pain shot up in my head. For a couple of seconds, I thought they were burning the good-memories off my head. But as time went on, and my milkshake-sipping daughter didn’t just disappear right before my eyes, a realization hit me. I knew this pain- wasn’t something I experienced often, but one that I’d had the misfortune of enduring several times in my life.
A pain, that just about every self-loathing mortal my age is somewhat familiar with. The pain, of waking up with a head-splitting hangover.
Vanessa flicked her meek, little eyes in my direction. “Want milk?”
“No, I’m good, sweety. So, this place- we’re home? Like, our home?”
“Yup. Where’s your car, we didn’t see it in the driveway?”
“Hold up, hold up. So, you, and mommy downstairs- you’re real, right?”
“Umm. Yeah. Huh, I think I know why mom didn’t want to- “
“Sweety, what time is it? Like, what date and what time?”
“It’s 7 in the morning, dad. And the date’s- “
My throbbing-head struggled for a solid-minute doing the math. And then it figured.
Exactly two-days since I’d heard Vanessa wail for me.
I had lived. I hadn’t died. Death had spared me.
“Holy fucking mother of God!”
I tried jumping off the bed, only to succumb to the chastising grasp of my headache. I slipped on the floor, just about certainly cracking one of my teeth. Vanessa almost yelped at the sight of my bloodied smile, but I stopped her right in time.
“No, no, Ness, don’t scream! Oh no, you poor bastard- you have any idea how much trouble Daddy has had to go through because of your stupid screams? Come now, help your old-man get off the floor!”
She dragged me against the wall of the bed as I sat with my back arched-straight on the hardwood floor. Once set, I smothered her in a bear-hug.
“Gee Daddy, you seem really happy for a man who doesn’t know where his car is.”
“Shh, shh, Ness, no more talking about the fucking car, or the crap-load of money daddy busted his hump on last night. From now on, you’re just going to listen. Daddy has a lot of things to tell you, honey.
For starters, Daddy wants to say sorry for trying to leave you with that bitch mother of yours. Daddy promises that it’ll never happen again; no matter how bad things look, Daddy’s always gonna be there to solve help you with your problems. And secondly- and listen carefully, this is important- Daddy has a secret to tell you. It’s about a curse you’ve got- don’t worry, baby, I swear to Jesus that it’s not gonna kill you- but it’s time that you know that- “
“Great. Just great parenting, Morgan.” Irene’s condescending voice cut-off our father-daughter moment. “A forty-something drunk dad swearing right into the ears of your 10-year-old daughter. Where exactly do you get off calling me the bad parent?”
Crap. Just when I was about to make things right.
“Go wait downstairs, Ness. I’ll be there soon.” One command from her mother, and she was gone. Irene shut the door.
“Are you out of your fucking mind, Morgan? You have any idea the kind of example you’re setting with your behavior? Drunken stupors, late-night gambling, misplacing your car, cussing right in front of her- do you have any sense at all? And what’s all this I’m hearing about this strange curse and killing? Tell me at once- what the hell’s going on with you, Morgan Gerald Fletcher?”
I sighed. “Give it a rest, Irene, please. It’s nothing- the curse is a father-girl code we have when you visit. And I didn’t gamble last night. Or even misplace my car, for that matter- I gave it away to some homeless guy.”
“You did what?”
“I told you, I- look, let’s not play this the Simon Says way, Irene. My head’s literally exploding. I’ve wasted a ton of money on things that I’m now starting to regret- listen, I’ve had a really tough day, alright? Let’s talk when I’m feeling a bit better.”
My half-foot shorter wife walked right upto my nose, her angry breaths almost leaving a burn on my skin. It’s funny that even after two years of separation, I found her riled-up avatar so adorable. Maybe because it reminds me of my dear Ness. The sky-blue eyes, the jet-black mane of hair, her Lois Griffin-like nose, her cherry-lips- all features that she had inherited from her mother.
Come to think of it- she had just about none of my physical attributes. Her complexion had no iota of color to it, even though I, her father, had a natural tannish complexion. In fact, for a girl her age, Ness was quite short; considering how tall I and Irene (relatively) were.
A burning realization started to pore its way into my heart.
You’re right, Morgan. You are a fool. A clueless idiot, and a big one at that.
No, no- this couldn’t be. Please, don’t be.
Irene stifled back a sob, before she delivered the mind-numbing blow. “You think you’ve had a tough day? YOU THINK YOU HAVE HAD A TOUGH DAY, MORGAN?” she screamed, bringing my heart to a stop. “Then you better listen what happened to me. Toni, my milkman, just dropped dead at my front porch this morning. Just like that, right in front of my eyes!"
The last thing I heard before passing out was that sickening-cackle from Death.
submitted by Percybhowal to DarkTales [link] [comments]


2020.06.25 21:42 Percybhowal Each time my daughter wails, there's a death in the family. Recently, she wailed my name, and I'm terrified.

Nothing warms a father’s heart more than listening to the melody of his child’s laughter. I am no exception to the rule. Vanessa’s gullible, sweet-little smile is the most valued possession in my otherwise miserable life. Her happiness is like a drug to my ever-craving soul- she could go on giggling at one of my stupid dad-jokes for hours uninterrupted. She could be laughing like crazy to one of those “pull my finger” jokes she would see on a TV show. She could be secretly smirking at her mother’s funny pronunciation of the word “potahto” while her mother dejectedly sighed, “yes, real funny, Ness. Now be done with your dinner quick!”. She could be smiling endlessly- but I can never have enough of her happiness.
I cannot afford for my daughter to not be happy-never! Not just because I love her more than any father can ever love his child. Because I know the kinds of things she can unwittingly do when she’s sad. I am aware of the terrible things that can happen if my Ness starts crying. I do not look forward to hearing the sound of my daughter bawl- and I especially don’t look forward to hearing her pause midway between her tears, when she’d meet my gaze and coldly deliver the painful blow right to my paper-thin heart.
“I’m sorry, father.”
I certainly did not look forward to her saying that.
Like every other time it had happened in the past, I had no idea what had caused her eyes to well. For all I knew, she should’ve done anything but cried! I had just shown her the Coraline movie she had kept bugging me about for weeks. We had had dinner at her favorite fast-food place- burgers and French fries, if that qualifies for dinner in your book. And at the end of our father-girl night out, I had allowed her two scoops of her favorite honey-berry ice-cream instead of the usual one. “Gee, thanks, Daddy!” she had proudly beamed at me. God, how much did I cherish that strawberry smile of hers?
Everything was all hugs and smiles until I tucked her in bed. She had no reason to cry- we even read a chapter of The Diary of a Wimpy Kid book she so enjoyed! But then right when I shut the door of her room and started to head off towards mine, I heard her crying. Or wailing, if we’re going for the more technical term.
My heart froze. No, no, no- this shouldn’t be happening, I thought to myself. But it did happen, and the least I could do was take some of the grim-reaper responsibility that the situation demanded from me. Sighing, I opened the door.
And there she was- my darling Vanessa in her “wailing-state”, for the lack of a better word. No, wait, there is one- what was it called again? - ah, right. Banshee. My dear Vanessa, her form completely overwhelmed by the terrible curse that surrounded her. The jet-black hat of her short-cropped-hair now replaced by long-reaching, platinum-blonde locks. She had discarded her PJs, and was wearing a dull-white robe now. But the detail that credits the most attention was what my Banshee child was doing.
She was wailing. Sitting at the edge of her bed, her face away from mine, hands cupped over her face as she poured her teary-eyed pain into her cupped palms. The sounds of her wails loud enough to repel any stray animal that lived nearby.
“It’s okay, baby. I’m here. Who is it this time?”
My daughter paused. She turned around her head slowly as her now-bloodshot eyes faced mine.
Who will it be this time, I thought to myself? Paul, the cat Irene had bought her a few months back? Maternal-uncle Sam, who’s down to the final stretch of his year-and-a-half-long battle against leukemia? Her great Gramma Maureen? Full respect to the iron lady- but at 93-years of age, she had to have had it coming sooner rather than later, right?
“I’m sorry, father.”
My heart dropped.
“Father? That’s me, sweety! Are you sure, Vanessa?”
“Sure about what, Daddy?”
And just like that, she was gone. Banshee Ness’ job was done; I could only assume she was back in whatever spirit-realm she had come from. Staring at me now, was my black-haired, blue-eyed, sans-wailing baby-girl, Vanessa, sitting at her bed in her pajamas.
“Why am I awake, Daddy? I thought you had sung me off to sleep.”
“Huh?” Oh, right, the poor child had no recollection whatsoever of everything that had happened. “Ah, it was nothing, sweety. You just had a bad dream.” I intended to keep her unaware.
“Really? Huh. I don’t remember having any dreams. Hmm…hey, maybe I’m lucid dreaming?” she shrugged her shoulders at me.
“Maybe, sweetheart.” I smiled. “If you are having a lucid dream, you don’t want it to end so fast, right?”
“Right. Well, sweet dreams, other Daddy!” She was influenced by every film she watched, and remained in that character’s phase at least until a week. I shouldn’t have shown her that movie.
Then again, I didn’t have much time left to take annoyance to her new-found phase.
“Right, dear. Sweet dreams, honey” I shut the door as I braced myself for the real-life nightmare that awaited me.
***
Morgan Fletcher. 1978-2020. Died aged 42. Ghostwriter. Part-time English Teacher at the Tracington High. Loving Father. Douchebag ex-Husband, I’m sure Irene, my ex-wife would love to add to that description. Rests in Peace here.
Just the very thought of my obituary sent a wave of bile up my throat.
My head went back to the first encounter I had had with her- my daughter’s ‘wailing-form’. One fine weekend, we had been watching Tom and Jerry on our couch when I first heard her let out that ear-piercing cry. “I’m sorry, Gramps,” she had said back then. Of course, at the time, I was more worried about the physical-appearance side of things than trying to decipher the true meaning behind my daughter’s weird apology. And when she had recovered, she had no recollection whatsoever of anything that had happened. I had tried to pry her, but that only seemed to make her more upset, so I gave it a rest.
Irene had called me two days later to inform that Liam, her perfectly-healthy, 77-year-old father, had succumbed to a heart attack on the previous night. I wasn’t sure what to make of the eerie coincidence, but I knew that breaking out Vanessa’s wailing story to her would only complicate matters with my already-complicated ex-wife. I did my own research. That’s how I came across the term- Banshee, a running curse in Irish-origin families, where a certain-condition-satisfying-born first-girl-child is gifted with the divine powers of being a harbinger to a family member’s imminent demise.
So, yeah. Apparently, my darling-girl was just suffering from some grim-reaper-esque family curse. Nothing to be particularly worried about, right? I mean, it’s not like she’s the one causing the deaths herself.
Of course, it’s an entirely different story when you’re on the other side of it. I hadn’t realized that until now.
Prior to this, I had had five encounters with Banshee Vanessa. The spirit had never been hostile or otherworldly-savage towards me- she simply performed the job that her curse obligated to do, and once that was done, I’d have my daughter back. A job that, unfortunately, she was rather good at- up until this point, her strike-rate was a perfect five-on-five. Four of her five wailings had been for people from Irene’s side of the family- there was her father Liam, one of her aunts (diabetes), a distant cousin (ATV-accident), and the most recent and the most tragic instance of a nine-year-old niece (the poor child had drowned in a river). As surprising as it might sound, but this was actually the first time she had wailed for someone from my side of her family. Not too surprising- my folks had both died before Vanessa was born- and they were pretty much the only family I had. Except Ness, obviously.
Another family that I soon was going to lose. At least within the next twenty-four hours, if the past-records meant anything. That’s another observation I’d come up with- each of the people whose name Vanessa wailed in, had met their fate within approximately the time-span of the next day.
Technically, I could be an exception. I was, after all, the first paternal family-member she had wailed for. Maybe, just maybe- things could be different for me. I didn’t get my hopes too high, though. Her fifth successful wailing had been for Chester, our dear old Dalmatian. The greedy, old son of a bitch had poisoned himself in an unfortunate attempt at rummaging through a box full of dark chocolates. I still remember how depressed Vanessa was in his wake.
If only she knew…
Her predictions had worked for an entity even beyond the literal blood-relations. What were my odds?
Stupid as it might sound; but I spent the first half-hour of the rest of my life trying to actually figure out those said odds. Post those mathematical failures (obviously), another hour went wasted as I drank myself off to Lana del Rey’s Born to Die vinyl backgrounds. Midway through the title track’s bridge, I started weeping. My miserable, 42-year-old life flashed right before my eyes. So many plans, so many unfinished businesses I had.
No, I couldn’t just let it end like this. So I compiled a bucket list for the last, 24-ish-hours of my life. I’d end my existence on my own terms. At least as much as I could.
Crossing the first item of the list was, somehow, the easiest, and yet the most difficult task. The next morning, I drove over to Irene’s to drop Vanessa.
I know, Geez, Morgan, what was all that loving father rant in the beginning about if you’re not gonna spend the dying moments of your life with your darling daughter?
Believe me- it really was a tough call to make, but think about it; do any of you really want your child to be around when you know you’re about to die? I’m not talking death from some terminal illness, no- but the kind of death, that, just, strikes you randomly and ends your life even before you have a clue as to what just happened? You want your 10-year-old daughter to go through that kind of trauma?
I sound awfully insensitive. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to come off as this ignorant jerk who’s oblivious to the sufferings of others around him- because I am not that kind of a person. It’s just that, talking about all those painful emotions… I think it unearths a really unfeeling side of my character.
I gave Ness a long-timed hug before letting her go. She cast a confused glance in my direction. “Gee, Daddy, you know that I’ll be here just for this one weekend, right? You look really emotional!”.
My darling girl. She did not deserve to suffer. And I wouldn’t let her suffer, not financially, at least. Back in our house, I had already pinned a copy of my realtered will that granted Ness all of my wealth. Wasn’t all that much, but I wanted to ensure that she had some minimum financial-support to achieve her life goals.
“You know Morgan, it wouldn’t kill you to make a call in advance if you’ve got these unexpected visits planned.” Even in my-near death-state, it was foolish of me to expect any sort of empathy from Irene.
I sighed. No, Morgan. Don’t be a spiteful prick in the final moments of life. I pulled in Irene for an awkward hug- decidedly more awkward for her than it was for me. “Take good care of our Vanessa, Irene. Be the best mother to her.”
“Get off your Ganja smokes, Morgan. Honestly, what have you- yeah, honey? Don’t worry, it’s my ex-husband. I’ll be right back.” She had a guest. A male one, if I had to guess. Why didn’t that surprise me?
“Gotta go.” She slammed the door plumb on my face. I’m way too good at goodbyes, I sang to myself.
Item number one on the list. Check.
Item number two went much more smoothly. A first-ever, roller-coaster ride. Judge me all that you want, but that’s how uninteresting my life had been. Up until this ride, at least; a ride where I pissed off just about every co-passenger with my shrill and reckless screaming. And as a cherry on this already embarrassing sundae- the moment my joyride reached its end, I threw up all-over my crisp, white shirt.
I couldn’t help but grin at the grossed-out looks on my co-passenger’s faces. I don’t care if it’s disgusting, people! I thought to myself. Guess what? I’m dying, it doesn’t bother me if my throw-up makes you retch. I’m just thankful that my hernia didn’t act up on this wacky ride. YOLO!
The whole thing with the throw-up was a godsend, because it just made the third item on my list more fun- getting a makeover! I walked into the mall wearing just a cut-sleeved sweater over my upper body. More gawks and murmurings from the people. Oh, how much I enjoyed every bit of the attention!
I left the store dressed in a tacky, pinstriped, double-breasted, hideous lime-green suit which had set me back by a thousand dollars. My five-year-old beard and mustache were discarded; leaving my chiseled jawline exposed to the cold, November air. I had swapped my glasses, too- gone, were those broad-rimmed matte-black frames that made me look like a dork. These cat-eyed, cherry-red rimmed ones looked so much better.
Daddy? I could hear Ness squeak as she tried to hide her laughter. You look like Willy Wonka, minus the top hat!
Gay Willy Wonka, that is, Irene added. Seek help, Morgan.
I could only smile at their imaginary, innocuous taunts. Morgan Fletcher was already dead to me. This man here, living the final moments of his life- he was Tonto.
“Tonto Gonzales. But my friends call me Bubba.” I introduced myself on the karaoke stage. And then my pathetic, baritone, obviously not-meant-for-singing-voice totally butchered Wham!’s Careless Whisper. It felt kinda bad to make a mess of such an amazing song- I felt somewhat guilty when a gay couple flicked a couple of particularly nasty stares in my direction. I’m sorry, George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley. RIP.
Then again, I’d soon be joining them. It’s only fair that I got the chance to cross the last item off my list.
I’d have liked to breathe my final-breath back in the confines of my cozy home, but I was too hammered to drive. Even if I could, I had just given away my Prius and its keys to some hobo (What can I say? In my drunken stupor, I had totally bought into all those phonies, charity-before-you-meet-Jesus propagandas), so I didn’t have the means to head back there.
Take an Uber, I hear you say? Well… I knew that I was gonna die. It wouldn’t look good on my conscience to wittingly get some innocent, harmless cabby involved with the cops, post-mortem, insurance, yada yada yada. So no, pass.
Instead, like some estranged, inebriated fool, I kept exhausting the final-reserves of my finances on booze. Anytime the barkeep would try to stop, I’d tip her with a big, 100$ bill. The other customers kept shooting pitiful glances in my direction. But I was already past the point of humility. Because I had just added a new point to my list- Die on my own terms.
And so I would do, literally. How?
Simple. I would kill myself off alcohol poisoning.
My vision had already started to blur when he took the seat next to me on the counter. And the moment he did, I knew my end was near. Up until this point, I had tried to pass up his apparent omnipresence as mere co-incidence. Back in Irene’s driveway when I was reversing my Prius. Back in the roller-coaster, sitting right behind me. Back at the hairdresser’s, hidden behind a copy of Entertainment Weekly as his black eyes peered straight into my soul.
And here he was now. His black-leather-gloved hands busily tapping on the wooden-counter. His enticing, jet-black eyes meeting those of the barkeep.
Fate had finally found me.
And his voice was all I heard.
“I think I’ll have a glass of water. H2O,” he added, nonchalantly. He turned in my direction. Lips curled in a handsome smile. “How about you, pal?”
That I’d get what I deserve.
“Umm…ah, what the hell, why not? I’ll have H2O, too.”
The barkeep instantly hit me with a half-filled glass of the transparent fluid. I chugged it down in one gulp.
And then everything went dark.
***
Oh, I believe, in yesterday…
The static-sound of Paul McCartney’s vocals stirred me. I was riding shotgun in a car. He, was driving.
“Just in time, mate. You don’t wanna miss the talk.”
Out of all the fucked-up things that had been happening until now, this was the one that irked me the most- why was Death talking in an Australian dialect?
Not that I’d mention that to him, of course. Not unless I wished to be reincarnated as some insignificant, microorganism-esque being.
“Come now. It’s gonna be one helluva ride if Macca’s the only one that keeps talking. So, any regrets?”
There’s a shadow hanging over me…
“Umm. Yes. I do have a few regrets. I couldn’t finish reading Gone Girl.”
“Hmm. Yeah, that’s a bummer. Lucky for you, we’ve got a whole library full of books lined-up here. You can read all the books that you want to.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes, we’ve got that. While we’re at it, why don’t I also look at getting your old high-school job back? “
Now I long for yesterday…
“You’re screwing with me.”
“The least I can do after you screwed with me. I spent two whole hours waiting at that dingy library, you know. So much for Read. Don’t die a fool. You can’t just cross out items like that, mate.”
Suddenly, I’m not half the man I used to be…
It had happened right after I disembarked off the coaster. Come on, Morgan. Don’t pass on your final moments being some nerd, book-reader, I had convinced myself. Go have some fun!
And fun I had had, at the expense of another item on my list. Read. Don’t die a fool.
“I wimped out. In those dying moments of life, I wanted to shed off my true identity. I was tired of living the nerdy, good, well-read, intellectual man life. I wanted to breathe my last breath as this- “, I gestured to my comical attire. “This whacky, crazy, life-of-the-party kind of guy.”
“Life of the party”, Death scoffed. “Sure, why not, if your party is one infested with Oompa Loompas?”.
I chuckled. It was good to have some closure before I passed on to whatever other realm awaited me.
“It’s all good, though. Long as you had fun. No regrets. Right?”
Ping! I could feel my head buzz as it began loading the images from my day. A scornful-stare from an old, hag of a woman as I got off that roller-coaster in my vomit-covered state. Some ill-mannered brat about my Vanessa’s age; a look of amusement plastered on his face as he gawked at my stupid, lime-green jacket. The gay-couple from the bar, their eyes rolling as I walked off the stage after my careless demolition. The barkeep, a sly grin on her face as I slipped her an umpteenth hundred-dollar bill.
Pity. Disgust. Ridicule. That’s how Morgan/ Tonto would go down.
Now it looks as though they’re here to stay…
“I wish I could say that. But in the process of reinventing myself, I ended up doing something I didn’t want to. I made a complete fool of myself! I’m an idiot. That’s it- all my life, I’ve tried to overcompensate, trying to be this big, ruminative philosopher. In reality, I’m just a big, fat, phony who has no idea about what he should actually be doing!”
That H2O2- thing I’d drank at the bar must have been causing me to loosen up. I had never been this open about my flaws and shortcomings. Until now.
Or maybe that’s just the kind of aura Death has. I didn’t find out.
“Hmm. Well, you hold on to that thought. Anything else you’d like to add?”
Now I need a place to hide away…
“Vanessa. I have been damn irresponsible to my baby. I deprived her of the truth. At a time when I should’ve been the best father to my child, I avoided her.”
“You had your reasons.”
“Maybe. But she deserves the truth. Not from her mother, or some friend she calls for a random sleepover- but from her father, the man who loves her the most. I had a big responsibility, breaking such an important secret out to her. And I just… abandoned her. Dear Lord- what have I done to my baby, Death?”
“Ah well. Fretting won’t do any good now. You’ll just kill yourself that way.”
That one called for a duh stare. I obliged.
“Oh…right. Sorry about that. Well, we’re almost home. Let’s try for one more, shall we?”
“You find this amusing.”
“Depends on how the player’s playing. Don’t flatter yourself, Morgan, you’re doing just average.”
Why she, had to go, I don’t know, she wouldn’t say…
“That’s what she said.”
Death gave me a nasty glance. “What?”
“Irene. The reason we aren’t together anymore. Just left me a voice-mail the morning she left, claiming that she was frustrated with my passiveness. She said she could do better. I always felt like she blamed Vanessa for our…you know, our intimacy issues. I mean, I think that’s unfair- we were having bedtime issues long before she was born. But that’s basically how we had separated- she just told me she wasn’t happy, and we divorced.”
“Hmm. And you don’t feel good about it?”
“I’ll admit that I was a much better single-dad to Vanessa than I was when me and Irene were together. She needs a certain amount of TLC and attention, and I’m not sure if me and Irene could’ve done that if we were married. It’s just that…the thing with Irene, it just happened and I never tried to reconcile, connect, or resolve any of those issues. I don’t know why, but- I can’t help but feel that if I’d had some closure with her, maybe we could’ve dealt with this better, you know. Vanessa, and her…”
“Oh, yeah, I know. But you know what they say, Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve.”
I stayed silent. H2O2 had lost its effect.
“Alright, now. Hold tight. This one’s a particularly lean stretch.” Death slowed down. I could feel his eyes on my face. I turned to face him. He smiled.
I smiled back. And then he cracked into a hysterical cackle.
“What?” I had to ask.
“You’re right, Morgan. You are a fool. A clueless idiot, and a big one at that.”
“Gee. Thanks for the reassurance.”
“Oh, we'll soon see if you’ll be thanking me, trust me. Now giddy up, mate”.
I knew something was amiss here- something really important. But as Death hit the race on his car, the only thing I could process was those final, beautiful verses in Paul McCartney’s reminiscing voice.
Oh, yesterday, came suddenly…
***
I wasn’t sure what to expect when I’d open my eyes. And I wasn’t excited when I saw her. Or rather, heard her.
“Daddy. You’re up.”
My vision started to clear. Heaven, hell- or whatever this god-forsaken realm was called, seemed awfully familiar. As did the face of my child standing right next to me. A cup of straw-ed milkshake in her hands.
“Vanessa? How come you’re here?”
“Mom drove me. She’s here too, but she doesn’t want to meet you while you’re buzzed.”
“Irene’s here? Wait, where am I? This- this is heaven, right?”
Vanessa let out a small giggle. “What’s funny?” I asked.
“You said heaven, like help-when, minus the ‘lp’ sound. But it’s called haven. Like, hay-when. You sound like mom when she says potato.” Another giggle. “Po-taat-to. How does she say that?”
Potato? Heaven? Haven? What was going on?
Even before I could start comprehending any of those things, a searing pain shot up in my head. For a couple of seconds, I thought they were burning the good-memories off my head. But as time went on, and my milkshake-sipping daughter didn’t just disappear right before my eyes, a realization hit me. I knew this pain- wasn’t something I experienced often, but one that I’d had the misfortune of enduring several times in my life.
A pain, that just about every self-loathing mortal my age is somewhat familiar with. The pain, of waking up with a head-splitting hangover.
Vanessa flicked her meek, little eyes in my direction. “Want milk?”
“No, I’m good, sweety. So, this place- we’re home? Like, our home?”
“Yup. Where’s your car, we didn’t see it in the driveway?”
“Hold up, hold up. So, you, and mommy downstairs- you’re real, right?”
“Umm. Yeah. Huh, I think I know why mom didn’t want to- “
“Sweety, what time is it? Like, what date and what time?”
“It’s 7 in the morning, dad. And the date’s- “
My throbbing-head struggled for a solid-minute doing the math. And then it figured.
Exactly two-days since I’d heard Vanessa wail for me.
I had lived. I hadn’t died. Death had spared me.
“Holy fucking mother of God!”
I tried jumping off the bed, only to succumb to the chastising grasp of my headache. I slipped on the floor, just about certainly cracking one of my teeth. Vanessa almost yelped at the sight of my bloodied smile, but I stopped her right in time.
“No, no, Ness, don’t scream! Oh no, you poor bastard- you have any idea how much trouble Daddy has had to go through because of your stupid screams? Come now, help your old-man get off the floor!”
She dragged me against the wall of the bed as I sat with my back arched-straight on the hardwood floor. Once set, I smothered her in a bear-hug.
“Gee Daddy, you seem really happy for a man who doesn’t know where his car is.”
“Shh, shh, Ness, no more talking about the fucking car, or the crap-load of money daddy busted his hump on last night. From now on, you’re just going to listen. Daddy has a lot of things to tell you, honey.
For starters, Daddy wants to say sorry for trying to leave you with that bitch mother of yours. Daddy promises that it’ll never happen again; no matter how bad things look, Daddy’s always gonna be there to solve help you with your problems. And secondly- and listen carefully, this is important- Daddy has a secret to tell you. It’s about a curse you’ve got- don’t worry, baby, I swear to Jesus that it’s not gonna kill you- but it’s time that you know that- “
“Great. Just great parenting, Morgan.” Irene’s condescending voice cut-off our father-daughter moment. “A forty-something drunk dad swearing right into the ears of your 10-year-old daughter. Where exactly do you get off calling me the bad parent?”
Crap. Just when I was about to make things right.
“Go wait downstairs, Ness. I’ll be there soon.” One command from her mother, and she was gone. Irene shut the door.
“Are you out of your fucking mind, Morgan? You have any idea the kind of example you’re setting with your behavior? Drunken stupors, late-night gambling, misplacing your car, cussing right in front of her- do you have any sense at all? And what’s all this I’m hearing about this strange curse and killing? Tell me at once- what the hell’s going on with you, Morgan Gerald Fletcher?”
I sighed. “Give it a rest, Irene, please. It’s nothing- the curse is a father-girl code we have when you visit. And I didn’t gamble last night. Or even misplace my car, for that matter- I gave it away to some homeless guy.”
“You did what?”
“I told you, I- look, let’s not play this the Simon Says way, Irene. My head’s literally exploding. I’ve wasted a ton of money on things that I’m now starting to regret- listen, I’ve had a really tough day, alright? Let’s talk when I’m feeling a bit better.”
My half-foot shorter wife walked right upto my nose, her angry breaths almost leaving a burn on my skin. It’s funny that even after two years of separation, I found her riled-up avatar so adorable. Maybe because it reminds me of my dear Ness. The sky-blue eyes, the jet-black mane of hair, her Lois Griffin-like nose, her cherry-lips- all features that she had inherited from her mother.
Come to think of it- she had just about none of my physical attributes. Her complexion had no iota of color to it, even though I, her father, had a natural tannish complexion. In fact, for a girl her age, Ness was quite short; considering how tall I and Irene (relatively) were.
A burning realization started to pore its way into my heart.
You’re right, Morgan. You are a fool. A clueless idiot, and a big one at that.
No, no- this couldn’t be. Please, don’t be.
Irene stifled back a sob, before she delivered the mind-numbing blow. “You think you’ve had a tough day? YOU THINK YOU HAVE HAD A TOUGH DAY, MORGAN?” she screamed, bringing my heart to a stop. “Then you better listen what happened to me. Toni, my milkman, just dropped dead at my front porch this morning. Just like that, right in front of my eyes!"
The last thing I heard before passing out was that sickening-cackle from Death.
submitted by Percybhowal to nosleep [link] [comments]


2020.06.25 21:41 Percybhowal Each time my daughter wails, there's a death in the family. Recently, she wailed my name, and I'm terrified.

Nothing warms a father’s heart more than listening to the melody of his child’s laughter. I am no exception to the rule. Vanessa’s gullible, sweet-little smile is the most valued possession in my otherwise miserable life. Her happiness is like a drug to my ever-craving soul- she could go on giggling at one of my stupid dad-jokes for hours uninterrupted. She could be laughing like crazy to one of those “pull my finger” jokes she would see on a TV show. She could be secretly smirking at her mother’s funny pronunciation of the word “potahto” while her mother dejectedly sighed, “yes, real funny, Ness. Now be done with your dinner quick!”. She could be smiling endlessly- but I can never have enough of her happiness.
I cannot afford for my daughter to not be happy-never! Not just because I love her more than any father can ever love his child. Because I know the kinds of things she can unwittingly do when she’s sad. I am aware of the terrible things that can happen if my Ness starts crying. I do not look forward to hearing the sound of my daughter bawl- and I especially don’t look forward to hearing her pause midway between her tears, when she’d meet my gaze and coldly deliver the painful blow right to my paper-thin heart.
“I’m sorry, father.”
I certainly did not look forward to her saying that.
Like every other time it had happened in the past, I had no idea what had caused her eyes to well. For all I knew, she should’ve done anything but cried! I had just shown her the Coraline movie she had kept bugging me about for weeks. We had had dinner at her favorite fast-food place- burgers and French fries, if that qualifies for dinner in your book. And at the end of our father-girl night out, I had allowed her two scoops of her favorite honey-berry ice-cream instead of the usual one. “Gee, thanks, Daddy!” she had proudly beamed at me. God, how much did I cherish that strawberry smile of hers?
Everything was all hugs and smiles until I tucked her in bed. She had no reason to cry- we even read a chapter of The Diary of a Wimpy Kid book she so enjoyed! But then right when I shut the door of her room and started to head off towards mine, I heard her crying. Or wailing, if we’re going for the more technical term.
My heart froze. No, no, no- this shouldn’t be happening, I thought to myself. But it did happen, and the least I could do was take some of the grim-reaper responsibility that the situation demanded from me. Sighing, I opened the door.
And there she was- my darling Vanessa in her “wailing-state”, for the lack of a better word. No, wait, there is one- what was it called again? - ah, right. Banshee. My dear Vanessa, her form completely overwhelmed by the terrible curse that surrounded her. The jet-black hat of her short-cropped-hair now replaced by long-reaching, platinum-blonde locks. She had discarded her PJs, and was wearing a dull-white robe now. But the detail that credits the most attention was what my Banshee child was doing.
She was wailing. Sitting at the edge of her bed, her face away from mine, hands cupped over her face as she poured her teary-eyed pain into her cupped palms. The sounds of her wails loud enough to repel any stray animal that lived nearby.
“It’s okay, baby. I’m here. Who is it this time?”
My daughter paused. She turned around her head slowly as her now-bloodshot eyes faced mine.
Who will it be this time, I thought to myself? Paul, the cat Irene had bought her a few months back? Maternal-uncle Sam, who’s down to the final stretch of his year-and-a-half-long battle against leukemia? Her great Gramma Maureen? Full respect to the iron lady- but at 93-years of age, she had to have had it coming sooner rather than later, right?
“I’m sorry, father.”
My heart dropped.
“Father? That’s me, sweety! Are you sure, Vanessa?”
“Sure about what, Daddy?”
And just like that, she was gone. Banshee Ness’ job was done; I could only assume she was back in whatever spirit-realm she had come from. Staring at me now, was my black-haired, blue-eyed, sans-wailing baby-girl, Vanessa, sitting at her bed in her pajamas.
“Why am I awake, Daddy? I thought you had sung me off to sleep.”
“Huh?” Oh, right, the poor child had no recollection whatsoever of everything that had happened. “Ah, it was nothing, sweety. You just had a bad dream.” I intended to keep her unaware.
“Really? Huh. I don’t remember having any dreams. Hmm…hey, maybe I’m lucid dreaming?” she shrugged her shoulders at me.
“Maybe, sweetheart.” I smiled. “If you are having a lucid dream, you don’t want it to end so fast, right?”
“Right. Well, sweet dreams, other Daddy!” She was influenced by every film she watched, and remained in that character’s phase at least until a week. I shouldn’t have shown her that movie.
Then again, I didn’t have much time left to take annoyance to her new-found phase.
“Right, dear. Sweet dreams, honey” I shut the door as I braced myself for the real-life nightmare that awaited me.
***
Morgan Fletcher. 1982-2020. Died aged 42. Ghostwriter. Part-time English Teacher at the Tracington High. Loving Father. Douchebag ex-Husband, I’m sure Irene, my ex-wife would love to add to that description. Rests in Peace here.
Just the very thought of my obituary sent a wave of bile up my throat.
My head went back to the first encounter I had had with her- my daughter’s ‘wailing-form’. One fine weekend, we had been watching Tom and Jerry on our couch when I first heard her let out that ear-piercing cry. “I’m sorry, Gramps,” she had said back then. Of course, at the time, I was more worried about the physical-appearance side of things than trying to decipher the true meaning behind my daughter’s weird apology. And when she had recovered, she had no recollection whatsoever of anything that had happened. I had tried to pry her, but that only seemed to make her more upset, so I gave it a rest.
Irene had called me two days later to inform that Liam, her perfectly-healthy, 77-year-old father, had succumbed to a heart attack on the previous night. I wasn’t sure what to make of the eerie coincidence, but I knew that breaking out Vanessa’s wailing story to her would only complicate matters with my already-complicated ex-wife. I did my own research. That’s how I came across the term- Banshee, a running curse in Irish-origin families, where a certain-condition-satisfying-born first-girl-child is gifted with the divine powers of being a harbinger to a family member’s imminent demise.
So, yeah. Apparently, my darling-girl was just suffering from some grim-reaper-esque family curse. Nothing to be particularly worried about, right? I mean, it’s not like she’s the one causing the deaths herself.
Of course, it’s an entirely different story when you’re on the other side of it. I hadn’t realized that until now.
Prior to this, I had had five encounters with Banshee Vanessa. The spirit had never been hostile or otherworldly-savage towards me- she simply performed the job that her curse obligated to do, and once that was done, I’d have my daughter back. A job that, unfortunately, she was rather good at- up until this point, her strike-rate was a perfect five-on-five. Four of her five wailings had been for people from Irene’s side of the family- there was her father Liam, one of her aunts (diabetes), a distant cousin (ATV-accident), and the most recent and the most tragic instance of a nine-year-old niece (the poor child had drowned in a river). As surprising as it might sound, but this was actually the first time she had wailed for someone from my side of her family. Not too surprising- my folks had both died before Vanessa was born- and they were pretty much the only family I had. Except Ness, obviously.
Another family that I soon was going to lose. At least within the next twenty-four hours, if the past-records meant anything. That’s another observation I’d come up with- each of the people whose name Vanessa wailed in, had met their fate within approximately the time-span of the next day.
Technically, I could be an exception. I was, after all, the first paternal family-member she had wailed for. Maybe, just maybe- things could be different for me. I didn’t get my hopes too high, though. Her fifth successful wailing had been for Chester, our dear old Dalmatian. The greedy, old son of a bitch had poisoned himself in an unfortunate attempt at rummaging through a box full of dark chocolates. I still remember how depressed Vanessa was in his wake.
If only she knew…
Her predictions had worked for an entity even beyond the literal blood-relations. What were my odds?
Stupid as it might sound; but I spent the first half-hour of the rest of my life trying to actually figure out those said odds. Post those mathematical failures (obviously), another hour went wasted as I drank myself off to Lana del Rey’s Born to Die vinyl backgrounds. Midway through the title track’s bridge, I started weeping. My miserable, 42-year-old life flashed right before my eyes. So many plans, so many unfinished businesses I had.
No, I couldn’t just let it end like this. So I compiled a bucket list for the last, 24-ish-hours of my life. I’d end my existence on my own terms. At least as much as I could.
Crossing the first item of the list was, somehow, the easiest, and yet the most difficult task. The next morning, I drove over to Irene’s to drop Vanessa.
I know, Geez, Morgan, what was all that loving father rant in the beginning about if you’re not gonna spend the dying moments of your life with your darling daughter?
Believe me- it really was a tough call to make, but think about it; do any of you really want your child to be around when you know you’re about to die? I’m not talking death from some terminal illness, no- but the kind of death, that, just, strikes you randomly and ends your life even before you have a clue as to what just happened? You want your 10-year-old daughter to go through that kind of trauma?
I sound awfully insensitive. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to come off as this ignorant jerk who’s oblivious to the sufferings of others around him- because I am not that kind of a person. It’s just that, talking about all those painful emotions… I think it unearths a really unfeeling side of my character.
I gave Ness a long-timed hug before letting her go. She cast a confused glance in my direction. “Gee, Daddy, you know that I’ll be here just for this one weekend, right? You look really emotional!”.
My darling girl. She did not deserve to suffer. And I wouldn’t let her suffer, not financially, at least. Back in our house, I had already pinned a copy of my realtered will that granted Ness all of my wealth. Wasn’t all that much, but I wanted to ensure that she had some minimum financial-support to achieve her life goals.
“You know Morgan, it wouldn’t kill you to make a call in advance if you’ve got these unexpected visits planned.” Even in my-near death-state, it was foolish of me to expect any sort of empathy from Irene.
I sighed. No, Morgan. Don’t be a spiteful prick in the final moments of life. I pulled in Irene for an awkward hug- decidedly more awkward for her than it was for me. “Take good care of our Vanessa, Irene. Be the best mother to her.”
“Get off your Ganja smokes, Morgan. Honestly, what have you- yeah, honey? Don’t worry, it’s my ex-husband. I’ll be right back.” She had a guest. A male one, if I had to guess. Why didn’t that surprise me?
“Gotta go.” She slammed the door plumb on my face. I’m way too good at goodbyes, I sang to myself.
Item number one on the list. Check.
Item number two went much more smoothly. A first-ever, roller-coaster ride. Judge me all that you want, but that’s how uninteresting my life had been. Up until this ride, at least; a ride where I pissed off just about every co-passenger with my shrill and reckless screaming. And as a cherry on this already embarrassing sundae- the moment my joyride reached its end, I threw up all-over my crisp, white shirt.
I couldn’t help but grin at the grossed-out looks on my co-passenger’s faces. I don’t care if it’s disgusting, people! I thought to myself. Guess what? I’m dying, it doesn’t bother me if my throw-up makes you retch. I’m just thankful that my hernia didn’t act up on this wacky ride. YOLO!
The whole thing with the throw-up was a godsend, because it just made the third item on my list more fun- getting a makeover! I walked into the mall wearing just a cut-sleeved sweater over my upper body. More gawks and murmurings from the people. Oh, how much I enjoyed every bit of the attention!
I left the store dressed in a tacky, pinstriped, double-breasted, hideous lime-green suit which had set me back by a thousand dollars. My five-year-old beard and mustache were discarded; leaving my chiseled jawline exposed to the cold, November air. I had swapped my glasses, too- gone, were those broad-rimmed matte-black frames that made me look like a dork. These cat-eyed, cherry-red rimmed ones looked so much better.
Daddy? I could hear Ness squeak as she tried to hide her laughter. You look like Willy Wonka, minus the top hat!
Gay Willy Wonka, that is, Irene added. Seek help, Morgan.
I could only smile at their imaginary, innocuous taunts. Morgan Fletcher was already dead to me. This man here, living the final moments of his life- he was Tonto.
“Tonto Gonzales. But my friends call me Bubba.” I introduced myself on the karaoke stage. And then my pathetic, baritone, obviously not-meant-for-singing-voice totally butchered Wham!’s Careless Whisper. It felt kinda bad to make a mess of such an amazing song- I felt somewhat guilty when a gay couple flicked a couple of particularly nasty stares in my direction. I’m sorry, George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley. RIP.
Then again, I’d soon be joining them. It’s only fair that I got the chance to cross the last item off my list.
I’d have liked to breathe my final-breath back in the confines of my cozy home, but I was too hammered to drive. Even if I could, I had just given away my Prius and its keys to some hobo (What can I say? In my drunken stupor, I had totally bought into all those phonies, charity-before-you-meet-Jesus propagandas), so I didn’t have the means to head back there.
Take an Uber, I hear you say? Well… I knew that I was gonna die. It wouldn’t look good on my conscience to wittingly get some innocent, harmless cabby involved with the cops, post-mortem, insurance, yada yada yada. So no, pass.
Instead, like some estranged, inebriated fool, I kept exhausting the final-reserves of my finances on booze. Anytime the barkeep would try to stop, I’d tip him with a big, 100$ bill. The other customers kept shooting pitiful glances in my direction. But I was already past the point of humility. Because I had just added a new point to my list- Die on my own terms.
And so I would do, literally. How?
Simple. I would kill myself off alcohol poisoning.
My vision had already started to blur when he took the seat next to me on the counter. And the moment he did, I knew my end was near. Up until this point, I had tried to pass up his apparent omnipresence as mere co-incidence. Back in Irene’s driveway when I was reversing my Prius. Back in the roller-coaster, sitting right behind me. Back at the hairdresser’s, hidden behind a copy of Entertainment Weekly as his black eyes peered straight into my soul.
And here he was now. His black-leather-gloved hands busily tapping on the wooden-counter. His enticing, jet-black eyes meeting those of the barkeep.
Fate had finally found me.
And his voice was all I heard.
“I think I’ll have a glass of water. H2O,” he added, nonchalantly. He turned in my direction. Lips curled in a handsome smile. “How about you, pal?”
That I’d get what I deserve.
“Umm…ah, what the hell, why not? I’ll have H2O, too.”
The barkeep instantly hit me with a half-filled glass of the transparent fluid. I chugged it down in one gulp.
And then everything went dark.
***
Oh, I believe, in yesterday…
The static-sound of Paul McCartney’s vocals stirred me. I was riding shotgun in a car. He, was driving.
“Just in time, mate. You don’t wanna miss the talk.”
Out of all the fucked-up things that had been happening until now, this was the one that irked me the most- why was Death talking in an Australian dialect?
Not that I’d mention that to him, of course. Not unless I wished to be reincarnated as some insignificant, microorganism-esque being.
“Come now. It’s gonna be one helluva ride if Macca’s the only one that keeps talking. So, any regrets?”
There’s a shadow hanging over me…
“Umm. Yes. I do have a few regrets. I couldn’t finish reading Gone Girl.”
“Hmm. Yeah, that’s a bummer. Lucky for you, we’ve got a whole library full of books lined-up here. You can read all the books that you want to.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes, we’ve got that. While we’re at it, why don’t I also look at getting your old high-school job back? “
Now I long for yesterday…
“You’re screwing with me.”
“The least I can do after you screwed with me. I spent two whole hours waiting at that dingy library, you know. So much for Read. Don’t die a fool. You can’t just cross out items like that, mate.”
Suddenly, I’m not half the man I used to be…
It had happened right after I disembarked off the coaster. Come on, Morgan. Don’t pass on your final moments being some nerd, book-reader, I had convinced myself. Go have some fun!
And fun I had had, at the expense of another item on my list. Read. Don’t die a fool.
“I wimped out. In those dying moments of life, I wanted to shed off my true identity. I was tired of living the nerdy, good, well-read, intellectual man life. I wanted to breathe my last breath as this- “, I gestured to my comical attire. “This whacky, crazy, life-of-the-party kind of guy.”
“Life of the party”, Death scoffed. “Sure, why not, if your party is one infested with Oompa Loompas?”.
I chuckled. It was good to have some closure before I passed on to whatever other realm awaited me.
“It’s all good, though. Long as you had fun. No regrets. Right?”
Ping! I could feel my head buzz as it began loading the images from my day. A scornful-stare from an old, hag of a woman as I got off that roller-coaster in my vomit-covered state. Some ill-mannered brat about my Vanessa’s age; a look of amusement plastered on his face as he gawked at my stupid, lime-green jacket. The gay-couple from the bar, their eyes rolling as I walked off the stage after my careless demolition. The barkeep, a sly grin on her face as I slipped her an umpteenth hundred-dollar bill.
Pity. Disgust. Ridicule. That’s how Morgan/ Tonto would go down.
Now it looks as though they’re here to stay…
“I wish I could say that. But in the process of reinventing myself, I ended up doing something I didn’t want to. I made a complete fool of myself! I’m an idiot. That’s it- all my life, I’ve tried to overcompensate, trying to be this big, ruminative philosopher. In reality, I’m just a big, fat, phony who has no idea about what he should actually be doing!”
That H2O2- thing I’d drank at the bar must have been causing me to loosen up. I had never been this open about my flaws and shortcomings. Until now.
Or maybe that’s just the kind of aura Death has. I didn’t find out.
“Hmm. Well, you hold on to that thought. Anything else you’d like to add?”
Now I need a place to hide away…
“Vanessa. I have been damn irresponsible to my baby. I deprived her of the truth. At a time when I should’ve been the best father to my child, I avoided her.”
“You had your reasons.”
“Maybe. But she deserves the truth. Not from her mother, or some friend she calls for a random sleepover- but from her father, the man who loves her the most. I had a big responsibility, breaking such an important secret out to her. And I just… abandoned her. Dear Lord- what have I done to my baby, Death?”
“Ah well. Fretting won’t do any good now. You’ll just kill yourself that way.”
That one called for a duh stare. I obliged.
“Oh…right. Sorry about that. Well, we’re almost home. Let’s try for one more, shall we?”
“You find this amusing.”
“Depends on how the player’s playing. Don’t flatter yourself, Morgan, you’re doing just average.”
Why she, had to go, I don’t know, she wouldn’t say…
“That’s what she said.”
Death gave me a nasty glance. “What?”
“Irene. The reason we aren’t together anymore. Just left me a voice-mail the morning she left, claiming that she was frustrated with my passiveness. She said she could do better. I always felt like she blamed Vanessa for our…you know, our intimacy issues. I mean, I think that’s unfair- we were having bedtime issues long before she was born. But that’s basically how we had separated- she just told me she wasn’t happy, and we divorced.”
“Hmm. And you don’t feel good about it?”
“I’ll admit that I was a much better single-dad to Vanessa than I was when me and Irene were together. She needs a certain amount of TLC and attention, and I’m not sure if me and Irene could’ve done that if we were married. It’s just that…the thing with Irene, it just happened and I never tried to reconcile, connect, or resolve any of those issues. I don’t know why, but- I can’t help but feel that if I’d had some closure with her, maybe we could’ve dealt with this better, you know. Vanessa, and her…”
“Oh, yeah, I know. But you know what they say, Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve.”
I stayed silent. H2O2 had lost its effect.
“Alright, now. Hold tight. This one’s a particularly lean stretch.” Death slowed down. I could feel his eyes on my face. I turned to face him. He smiled.
I smiled back. And then he cracked into a hysterical cackle.
“What?” I had to ask.
“You’re right, Morgan. You are a fool. A clueless idiot, and a big one at that.”
“Gee. Thanks for the reassurance.”
“Oh, we'll soon see if you’ll be thanking me, trust me. Now giddy up, mate”.
I knew something was amiss here- something really important. But as Death hit the race on his car, the only thing I could process was those final, beautiful verses in Paul McCartney’s reminiscing voice.
Oh, yesterday, came suddenly…
***
I wasn’t sure what to expect when I’d open my eyes. And I wasn’t excited when I saw her. Or rather, heard her.
“Daddy. You’re up.”
My vision started to clear. Heaven, hell- or whatever this god-forsaken realm was called, seemed awfully familiar. As did the face of my child standing right next to me. A cup of straw-ed milkshake in her hands.
“Vanessa? How come you’re here?”
“Mom drove me. She’s here too, but she doesn’t want to meet you while you’re buzzed.”
“Irene’s here? Wait, where am I? This- this is heaven, right?”
Vanessa let out a small giggle. “What’s funny?” I asked.
“You said heaven, like help-when, minus the ‘lp’ sound. But it’s called haven. Like, hay-when. You sound like mom when she says potato.” Another giggle. “Po-taat-to. How does she say that?”
Potato? Heaven? Haven? What was going on?
Even before I could start comprehending any of those things, a searing pain shot up in my head. For a couple of seconds, I thought they were burning the good-memories off my head. But as time went on, and my milkshake-sipping daughter didn’t just disappear right before my eyes, a realization hit me. I knew this pain- wasn’t something I experienced often, but one that I’d had the misfortune of enduring several times in my life.
A pain, that just about every self-loathing mortal my age is somewhat familiar with. The pain, of waking up with a head-splitting hangover.
Vanessa flicked her meek, little eyes in my direction. “Want milk?”
“No, I’m good, sweety. So, this place- we’re home? Like, our home?”
“Yup. Where’s your car, we didn’t see it in the driveway?”
“Hold up, hold up. So, you, and mommy downstairs- you’re real, right?”
“Umm. Yeah. Huh, I think I know why mom didn’t want to- “
“Sweety, what time is it? Like, what date and what time?”
“It’s 7 in the morning, dad. And the date’s- “
My throbbing-head struggled for a solid-minute doing the math. And then it figured.
Exactly two-days since I’d heard Vanessa wail for me.
I had lived. I hadn’t died. Death had spared me.
“Holy fucking mother of God!”
I tried jumping off the bed, only to succumb to the chastising grasp of my headache. I slipped on the floor, just about certainly cracking one of my teeth. Vanessa almost yelped at the sight of my bloodied smile, but I stopped her right in time.
“No, no, Ness, don’t scream! Oh no, you poor bastard- you have any idea how much trouble Daddy has had to go through because of your stupid screams? Come now, help your old-man get off the floor!”
She dragged me against the wall of the bed as I sat with my back arched-straight on the hardwood floor. Once set, I smothered her in a bear-hug.
“Gee Daddy, you seem really happy for a man who doesn’t know where his car is.”
“Shh, shh, Ness, no more talking about the fucking car, or the crap-load of money daddy busted his hump on last night. From now on, you’re just going to listen. Daddy has a lot of things to tell you, honey.
For starters, Daddy wants to say sorry for trying to leave you with that bitch mother of yours. Daddy promises that it’ll never happen again; no matter how bad things look, Daddy’s always gonna be there to solve help you with your problems. And secondly- and listen carefully, this is important- Daddy has a secret to tell you. It’s about a curse you’ve got- don’t worry, baby, I swear to Jesus that it’s not gonna kill you- but it’s time that you know that- “
“Great. Just great parenting, Morgan.” Irene’s condescending voice cut-off our father-daughter moment. “A forty-something drunk dad swearing right into the ears of your 10-year-old daughter. Where exactly do you get off calling me the bad parent?”
Crap. Just when I was about to make things right.
“Go wait downstairs, Ness. I’ll be there soon.” One command from her mother, and she was gone. Irene shut the door.
“Are you out of your fucking mind, Morgan? You have any idea the kind of example you’re setting with your behavior? Drunken stupors, late-night gambling, misplacing your car, cussing right in front of her- do you have any sense at all? And what’s all this I’m hearing about this strange curse and killing? Tell me at once- what the hell’s going on with you, Morgan Gerald Fletcher?”
I sighed. “Give it a rest, Irene, please. It’s nothing- the curse is a father-girl code we have when you visit. And I didn’t gamble last night. Or even misplace my car, for that matter- I gave it away to some homeless guy.”
“You did what?”
“I told you, I- look, let’s not play this the Simon Says way, Irene. My head’s literally exploding. I’ve wasted a ton of money on things that I’m now starting to regret- listen, I’ve had a really tough day, alright? Let’s talk when I’m feeling a bit better.”
My half-foot shorter wife walked right upto my nose, her angry breaths almost leaving a burn on my skin. It’s funny that even after two years of separation, I found her riled-up avatar so adorable. Maybe because it reminds me of my dear Ness. The sky-blue eyes, the jet-black mane of hair, her Lois Griffin-like nose, her cherry-lips- all features that she had inherited from her mother.
Come to think of it- she had just about none of my physical attributes. Her complexion had no iota of color to it, even though I, her father, had a natural tannish complexion. In fact, for a girl her age, Ness was quite short; considering how tall I and Irene (relatively) were.
A burning realization started to pore its way into my heart.
You’re right, Morgan. You are a fool. A clueless idiot, and a big one at that.
No, no- this couldn’t be. Please, don’t be.
Irene stifled back a sob, before she delivered the mind-numbing blow. “You think you’ve had a tough day? YOU THINK YOU HAVE HAD A TOUGH DAY, MORGAN?” she screamed, bringing my heart to a stop. “Then you better listen what happened to me. Toni, my milkman, just dropped dead at my front porch this morning. Just like that, right in front of my eyes!"
The last thing I heard before passing out was that sickening-cackle from Death.
submitted by Percybhowal to Odd_directions [link] [comments]


2020.05.19 05:41 throwawayAngryVermin my (502M) girlfriend (44F) makes fun of friends as short as me, and I feel insecure

I'm short. I'm about 5'6 and while I tried to not let it bother me, I've always been self conscious of being smaller than the average man. I grew up with 2 step (older) brotehrs who were taller than me and they could be... brutal.
Despite this I live a good life, was married , had a kid... then found myself single at 49 and thrown into the world of dating because my wife cheated on me.
And this is where it happens- my new girlfriend. She's gorgeous , a good and smart person, and she loves me. She's also 3 inches taller than me.
This doesn't bother me, I like tall girls. It doesn't bother her either. She makes me happy and I think I do the same for her.
But recently I noticed her get into an internet argument with a friend of mine- who's about as short as I am. It got very tense and, long story short, he insulted her and she retaliated in kind.
Brutally. She called him an oompa loompa, a midget and a variety of assorted insults that made my friend recoil. I know she has a sharp tongue and a reputation for it, but it made me wonder whether she thinks of me like that, since I'm as short as he is.
She never gave me any signs she thought of me like that. She went to great lengths to reassure me she didn't mind my height when we first started dating ( we met online and I never told her about my real height. When we met in person she was surprised, but assured me she didnt care.
I have no reason to not believe her, but seeing her just obliterate my friend made me feel very insecure. Does she think like this about me?
TLDR: My girlfriend is taller than me and her recent argument with one of my friends made me feel insecure
submitted by throwawayAngryVermin to relationships [link] [comments]


2020.04.22 04:58 ThisUserAboveMeisgay Reddit moment

When the school shooter comes for you but then the autistic kid communist Jew says reddit moment 420 69 and everyone says nice and it’s wholesome 100 Keane Reeves bob ross Steve Irwin Stefan Karl stefanson but then the Instagram normies say that tik Tok and fortnite are good and they like kpop so you beat them to death and then play minecraft but then 2020 has cornea virus and world war 3 and bushfires and flood because boomers are bad but then it’s your cake day and everyone needs to give you upvoted but no one gives you upvoted and you have no friends so you ask out your crush with baby yoda because baby yoda is wholesome but she says no but you then you sneak 100 and destruction 100 stonks and your post gets more than 7 upvoted and it gets to hot but someone is using light mode and they don’t sort by new or downvote ads so you kill them but then you realise that they hate cardi b and rap music but they like dubstep and anime music so you press F to pay respect and 69 other fellow redditors upvote you and then joker falls down the at airs and gets hit by a car and the feminists get triggered because you say that joker is now a girl because she has long hair and you hit a girl because equal rights equal fights and you post it in your sjw and triggered feminist freak out and getting rekt compilation v47 tumblr edition and then you post it in YouTube because Disney is bad but you buy Disney plus so you can see baby yoda and then you buy a baby yoda funko pop but then you see that there is life sized baby yoda so you waste your college funds on it but you blame it on the boomers because they made everything hard for you and the world is gonna end in 2030 because of global warming so you joking Greta thunberg and she ok boomers trump but then trump starts ww3 with Iran and you’re gonna get drafted so you John the Area 51 raid to be safe but then the HK protestors need your help you post Fuck China in reddit and the Chinese government stops oppressing them because reddit is epic and we always solve problems by posting about them, just like how we solved global warming and destruction 100d Nestle but then the you eat with a plastic straw and every redditor downvoted you but then they realise that Elon musk will turn 69 on 4/20/69 so they say Nice abdnmakebit national nice day but then a cyber truck crashes into a building because you realised that the date is actually 9/11 so you subscribe to pewdiepie and tell the gamers to rise up but then the mobile gamers rise up so you start to beat them but then they play minecraft so it’s ok but then they also have fornite so you kill all of them because you’re all mad lads and your all mans if sheer fucking will and you donate to team trees to celeberate but it’s ended already but you make happiness noises because they reached 20 million but then you go on a crusade to take back to holy lands and then you get Bf Chungus and Ugandan buckles to join you but then the doctors see apples and they get scared so you get pewdiepies legs and he rates you big pp but then the quiet kid reaches for his bag but he accidentally takes Ahmed’s bag and then they bomb Japan and Pearl harbour and then your dad comes back 15 minutes later with the milk and he signs the divorce paper with your mom and they argue over who gets custody over you because neither of them want you and you’re the reason for their divorce but then Danny Doritos and shrek come rescue you and they take care of you and you get to browse reddit all day and it’s a happy wholesome 100 ending and then you post something on reddit and it gets a silver, gold and platinum but then a normie uses emojis in the comments so you call the emoji police and they get arrested epic style and then keena reaves comes and says wow that was a wholesome 100 moment and he says that you get what you fucking deserve and he calls you breathtaking and you realise he just did a speech 100 destruction 100 because that’s what heroes do but your normie friend double taps on a post and asks what’s so good about it so you say that you wouldn’t get it but then somebody reposts your meme and it gets to hot so you tell the reddit gang and they all downvote the post but then the teacher tells everybody to stay calm because the school is on fire and then the kid named calm does the funny mike wazowski face and you make into a meme on reddit but then the Alabama kid gets his sister pregnant and a kid says that he think Keane reeves isn’t wholesome and that minecraft isn’t good and that fortnite is better so you and your epic reddit hang send him death threats as a punishment for not being wholesome but then there’s baby yoda butbevwyone forgets about baby scooby and baby peanut and baby spongebob and bbaby gary and the Americans measure in football fields per hamburger because America is dumb and the floor is made out of floor and a minute passes in Africa and this is a tree because of the way it is and it’s illegal to be a criminal in Sweden and then pewdipie makes Swedish meatballs for everyone but then the fire alarm goes off and the special ed kids start dancing and then the people in the drug commercials are happy and the Oompa Loompas are dancing because a kid died and a footballer fell down so the cheerleaders are also dancing but then you do something that scares Satan and then somebody says we so it’s now communist 100 and all of the epic redditors are depressed and have no friends but that’s what makes us epic redditors but then you accidentally step on your dogs tail and he won’t forgive you but he’s a good boy and your cat is a floofe and a chonker but then you remember that vegans are bad and mark zucceberg is a lizard and then you teach the parrots at the pets store and little kids to say the n word and the f word and you run away and then the girls locker rooms are stupid and boring but the boys locker rooms are funny and quirky and then guacamole nibba penis and the teacher has HIV and the girl with all A+ starts panicking and then the guy in the maths book buys 42069 watermelons and then there's boomer memes and millenial memes but gen z memes are the wackiest and stonks and helth and myoosic and then everyone liked that and then you shit in the school toilets
submitted by ThisUserAboveMeisgay to fuckinstagram [link] [comments]


2020.04.22 04:50 ThisUserAboveMeisgay When the school shooter comes for you but then the autistic kid communist Jew says reddit moment 420 69 and everyone says nice and it’s wholesome 100 Keane Reeves bob ross Steve Irwin Stefan Karl stefanson but then the Instagram normies say that tik Tok and fortnite are good and they like kpop

When the school shooter comes for you but then the autistic kid communist Jew says reddit moment 420 69 and everyone says nice and it’s wholesome 100 Keane Reeves bob ross Steve Irwin Stefan Karl stefanson but then the Instagram normies say that tik Tok and fortnite are good and they like kpop so you beat them to death and then play minecraft but then 2020 has cornea virus and world war 3 and bushfires and flood because boomers are bad but then it’s your cake day and everyone needs to give you upvoted but no one gives you upvoted and you have no friends so you ask out your crush with baby yoda because baby yoda is wholesome but she says no but you then you sneak 100 and destruction 100 stonks and your post gets more than 7 upvoted and it gets to hot but someone is using light mode and they don’t sort by new or downvote ads so you kill them but then you realise that they hate cardi b and rap music but they like dubstep and anime music so you press F to pay respect and 69 other fellow redditors upvote you and then joker falls down the at airs and gets hit by a car and the feminists get triggered because you say that joker is now a girl because she has long hair and you hit a girl because equal rights equal fights and you post it in your sjw and triggered feminist freak out and getting rekt compilation v47 tumblr edition and then you post it in YouTube because Disney is bad but you buy Disney plus so you can see baby yoda and then you buy a baby yoda funko pop but then you see that there is life sized baby yoda so you waste your college funds on it but you blame it on the boomers because they made everything hard for you and the world is gonna end in 2030 because of global warming so you joking Greta thunberg and she ok boomers trump but then trump starts ww3 with Iran and you’re gonna get drafted so you John the Area 51 raid to be safe but then the HK protestors need your help you post Fuck China in reddit and the Chinese government stops oppressing them because reddit is epic and we always solve problems by posting about them, just like how we solved global warming and destruction 100d Nestle but then the you eat with a plastic straw and every redditor downvoted you but then they realise that Elon musk will turn 69 on 4/20/69 so they say Nice abdnmakebit national nice day but then a cyber truck crashes into a building because you realised that the date is actually 9/11 so you subscribe to pewdiepie and tell the gamers to rise up but then the mobile gamers rise up so you start to beat them but then they play minecraft so it’s ok but then they also have fornite so you kill all of them because you’re all mad lads and your all mans if sheer fucking will and you donate to team trees to celeberate but it’s ended already but you make happiness noises because they reached 20 million but then you go on a crusade to take back to holy lands and then you get Bf Chungus and Ugandan buckles to join you but then the doctors see apples and they get scared so you get pewdiepies legs and he rates you big pp but then the quiet kid reaches for his bag but he accidentally takes Ahmed’s bag and then they bomb Japan and Pearl harbour and then your dad comes back 15 minutes later with the milk and he signs the divorce paper with your mom and they argue over who gets custody over you because neither of them want you and you’re the reason for their divorce but then Danny Doritos and shrek come rescue you and they take care of you and you get to browse reddit all day and it’s a happy wholesome 100 ending and then you post something on reddit and it gets a silver, gold and platinum but then a normie uses emojis in the comments so you call the emoji police and they get arrested epic style and then keena reaves comes and says wow that was a wholesome 100 moment and he says that you get what you fucking deserve and he calls you breathtaking and you realise he just did a speech 100 destruction 100 because that’s what heroes do but your normie friend double taps on a post and asks what’s so good about it so you say that you wouldn’t get it but then somebody reposts your meme and it gets to hot so you tell the reddit gang and they all downvote the post but then the teacher tells everybody to stay calm because the school is on fire and then the kid named calm does the funny mike wazowski face and you make into a meme on reddit but then the Alabama kid gets his sister pregnant and a kid says that he think Keane reeves isn’t wholesome and that minecraft isn’t good and that fortnite is better so you and your epic reddit hang send him death threats as a punishment for not being wholesome but then there’s baby yoda butbevwyone forgets about baby scooby and baby peanut and baby spongebob and bbaby gary and the Americans measure in football fields per hamburger because America is dumb and the floor is made out of floor and a minute passes in Africa and this is a tree because of the way it is and it’s illegal to be a criminal in Sweden and then pewdipie makes Swedish meatballs for everyone but then the fire alarm goes off and the special ed kids start dancing and then the people in the drug commercials are happy and the Oompa Loompas are dancing because a kid died and a footballer fell down so the cheerleaders are also dancing but then you do something that scares Satan and then somebody says we so it’s now communist 100 and all of the epic redditors are depressed and have no friends but that’s what makes us epic redditors but then you accidentally step on your dogs tail and he won’t forgive you but he’s a good boy and your cat is a floofe and a chonker but then you remember that vegans are bad and mark zucceberg is a lizard and then you teach the parrots at the pets store and little kids to say the n word and the f word and you run away and then the girls locker rooms are stupid and boring but the boys locker rooms are funny and quirky and then guacamole nibba penis and the teacher has HIV and the girl with all A+ starts panicking and then the guy in the maths book buys 42069 watermelons and then there's boomer memes and millenial memes but gen z memes are the wackiest and stonks and helth and myoosic and then everyone liked that and then you shit in the school toilets
submitted by ThisUserAboveMeisgay to fuckfortnite [link] [comments]


2020.04.14 09:09 joaobolado1231 Reddit moment

When the school shooter comes for you but then the autistic kid communist Jew says reddit moment 420 69 and everyone says nice and it’s wholesome 100 Keane Reeves bob ross Steve Irwin Stefan Karl stefanson but then the Instagram normies say that tik Tok and fortnite are good and they like kpop so you beat them to death and then play minecraft but then 2020 has cornea virus and world war 3 and bushfires and flood because boomers are bad but then it’s your cake day and everyone needs to give you upvoted but no one gives you upvoted and you have no friends so you ask out your crush with baby yoda because baby yoda is wholesome but she says no but you then you sneak 100 and destruction 100 stonks and your post gets more than 7 upvoted and it gets to hot but someone is using light mode and they don’t sort by new or downvote ads so you kill them but then you realise that they hate cardi b and rap music but they like dubstep and anime music so you press F to pay respect and 69 other fellow redditors upvote you and then joker falls down the at airs and gets hit by a car and the feminists get triggered because you say that joker is now a girl because she has long hair and you hit a girl because equal rights equal fights and you post it in your sjw and triggered feminist freak out and getting rekt compilation v47 tumblr edition and then you post it in YouTube because Disney is bad but you buy Disney plus so you can see baby yoda and then you buy a baby yoda funko pop but then you see that there is life sized baby yoda so you waste your college funds on it but you blame it on the boomers because they made everything hard for you and the world is gonna end in 2030 because of global warming so you joking Greta thunberg and she ok boomers trump but then trump starts ww3 with Iran and you’re gonna get drafted so you John the Area 51 raid to be safe but then the HK protestors need your help you post Fuck China in reddit and the Chinese government stops oppressing them because reddit is epic and we always solve problems by posting about them, just like how we solved global warming and destruction 100d Nestle but then the you eat with a plastic straw and every redditor downvoted you but then they realise that Elon musk will turn 69 on 4/20/69 so they say Nice abdnmakebit national nice day but then a cyber truck crashes into a building because you realised that the date is actually 9/11 so you subscribe to pewdiepie and tell the gamers to rise up but then the mobile gamers rise up so you start to beat them but then they play minecraft so it’s ok but then they also have fornite so you kill all of them because you’re all mad lads and your all mans if sheer fucking will and you donate to team trees to celeberate but it’s ended already but you make happiness noises because they reached 20 million but then you go on a crusade to take back to holy lands and then you get Bf Chungus and Ugandan buckles to join you but then the doctors see apples and they get scared so you get pewdiepies legs and he rates you big pp but then the quiet kid reaches for his bag but he accidentally takes Ahmed’s bag and then they bomb Japan and Pearl harbour and then your dad comes back 15 minutes later with the milk and he signs the divorce paper with your mom and they argue over who gets custody over you because neither of them want you and you’re the reason for their divorce but then Danny Doritos and shrek come rescue you and they take care of you and you get to browse reddit all day and it’s a happy wholesome 100 ending and then you post something on reddit and it gets a silver, gold and platinum but then a normie uses emojis in the comments so you call the emoji police and they get arrested epic style and then keena reaves comes and says wow that was a wholesome 100 moment and he says that you get what you fucking deserve and he calls you breathtaking and you realise he just did a speech 100 destruction 100 because that’s what heroes do but your normie friend double taps on a post and asks what’s so good about it so you say that you wouldn’t get it but then somebody reposts your meme and it gets to hot so you tell the reddit gang and they all downvote the post but then the teacher tells everybody to stay calm because the school is on fire and then the kid named calm does the funny mike wazowski face and you make into a meme on reddit but then the Alabama kid gets his sister pregnant and a kid says that he think Keane reeves isn’t wholesome and that minecraft isn’t good and that fortnite is better so you and your epic reddit hang send him death threats as a punishment for not being wholesome but then there’s baby yoda butbevwyone forgets about baby scooby and baby peanut and baby spongebob and bbaby gary and the Americans measure in football fields per hamburger because America is dumb and the floor is made out of floor and a minute passes in Africa and this is a tree because of the way it is and it’s illegal to be a criminal in Sweden and then pewdipie makes Swedish meatballs for everyone but then the fire alarm goes off and the special ed kids start dancing and then the people in the drug commercials are happy and the Oompa Loompas are dancing because a kid died and a footballer fell down so the cheerleaders are also dancing but then you do something that scares Satan and then somebody says we so it’s now communist 100 and all of the epic redditors are depressed and have no friends but that’s what makes us epic redditors but then you accidentally step on your dogs tail and he won’t forgive you but he’s a good boy and your cat is a floofe and a chonker but then you remember that vegans are bad and mark zucceberg is a lizard and then you teach the parrots at the pets store and little kids to say the n word and the f word and you run away and then the girls locker rooms are stupid and boring but the boys locker rooms are funny and quirky and then guacamole nibba penis and the teacher has HIV and the girl with all A+ starts panicking and then the guy in the maths book buys 42069 watermelons and then there's boomer memes and millenial memes but gen z memes are the wackiest and stonks and helth and myoosic and then everyone liked that and then you shit in the school toilets
submitted by joaobolado1231 to copypasta [link] [comments]


2020.03.31 17:15 ChrisBoden TIFU by getting half my dick caught in my zipper on a double-date with her parents and meeting my mom's friend at the doctor's office.

This fuckup didn't happen today, it was back in 1992. But there’s a lot of stories about medical professionals and their quiet acts of often invisible heroism in the news right now. I thought that this week, I would share one of my own stories about them. Because while they are absolutely heroes in our midst, some of those life-saving stories and incredible acts come with a laugh or two along the way.
These laughs, as they often do, come at my expense. It’s a price I gladly pay to give you a much needed moment to breathe in all of the hell we are enduring together throughout the world right now.
Enjoy, Chris
Yes, I know, I’m a complete fucking idiot. Let’s just get that out of the way from the start. My only defense was that I was a teenager in the 90's at the time, and my dick was doing most of the thinking for me. On the whole, I’m a reasonably intelligent guy. My dick however, is much like one of those morons you meet who is all balls, no brains. Despite the fact that thinking with my dick got me through highschool at the top of my class, it has proven itself repeatedly to have no memory, no conscience, and what I will simply classify as “questionable moral fiber”.
An obscure, late 20th century English philosopher known for his ballistic dentition once said “Dicks have drive and clarity of vision. They’re not clever.” and he was correct. But like most people who are all balls and no brains, that kind of decision making invariably leads to collecting good stories, and occasionally being scarred for life.
This is one of those good stories, and it’s about a scar.
I was sixteen, vacuously stupid, and the world as I knew it revolved entirely around my radiant affections for one hell of an awesome girl. She was short, beautiful, built like a soccer player, and had curves in all the right places. Miraculously, she was also my steady girlfriend. We had a magnificent system that involved a standing weekly date. This almost always consisted of exactly three things: dinner, a movie, and the furious, passionate, awkward sex that only inexperienced young lovers can have in the contorsionistic confines of an automobile.
Good times.
On the right day of the week you could catch a 2nd run movie at the Alpine Twin for just a couple bucks. Urban sprawl hadn’t reached far enough yet to consume all the best spots for privacy, and we knew every one of them. It was a great time to be young and in love.
God is not without a sense of humor, however, and one particular week fate would throw me a curve. A movie had just come out that her father wanted to see. In a tormentative moment of parental schadenfreude, they decided it would be a great idea to join us on our weekly movie night for a wholesome double date.
I was trapped. I couldn’t say no, her dad was a towering giant of brooding scowls who instilled the fear of God in me. He was an incredibly kind and funny man, but he commanded my respect and there was absolutely no doubt he held the fate of my love life at his whim. I was a nerdy, country kid from the wrong side of the tracks and he made it very clear that I was dating his daughter only so long as both her and him deemed that acceptable. She adored me, he tolerated me, and it was my lowly position to be grateful for the opportunity.
I was fine with that. I was spending every Saturday night with her sowing my wild oats, and going to church every Sunday with him praying for crop failure.
So we all met at her house, the whole family piled into their car, and off we went. We didn’t go to our comfortable, low-budget, second-run theatre out on the north end of town with the thin crowds that encouraged sitting towards the back well away from anyone who could see wandering hands and notice the whispers of young lovers. We went out to the fancy first-run theatre, the gigantic cineplex and shining star of the lower west side, Studio 28, where we would be packed side by side with strangers and held to much higher standards of socially acceptable behaviour.
Studio 28 was massive. Thousands of people filled its acres of parking lots and watched the latest movies on twenty different massive screens with reclining seats in air conditioned comfort. One movie cost more than what we would spend for a month's worth of dates at Alpine - including food. But her dad was funding the entire expedition and I was happy to just be with her.
My lovely girlfriend however, was a hormone-driven, devious genius, and happened upon a simple idea that changed my life forever. She noticed that they list not only the start times of the movies, but the duration as well.
It had never for a moment crossed my mind that we didn’t all have to go to the same movie. Studio 28 was so massive that not only did they have a ton of different movies playing, many of them shared the same start times. She found a completely different show to catch, sorted out the details with her dad, and off we went on our own. She had stared into the bleakness and brilliantly wrought forth for us the greatest commodity of young lovers who live with their parents: privacy.
For such a monumental day in my life, I don’t even remember what the movie was. But I do remember spending an hour and a half in the dark getting each other as worked up as we dared. The lines of socially acceptable behaviour were a lot tighter back then, but we were enjoying them to the best of our youthful ability.
Our movie got out, and we made the long walk to the back-forty of the parking lot hand in hand and hopped in the car. We had no concrete idea when her parents' movie would get out, so we were just hanging out, waiting, and of course sharing only the most chaste and pure of good Christian thoughts.
Just her, me, and our collective sexual tension that burned with the power of a supernova. It really was only a matter of time before it all reached criticality.
Because sitting in a glass bubble in the middle of a thousand cars is totally the best possible place to be doing such things. I was a little on edge, but that didn’t stop her. It certainly did, however, limit our options.
The good news was that I at least had a clear line of sight all the way up our row, and would easily see anyone approaching from the theatre. I kept a watchful lookout, and she decided to take action.
In a matter of a few seconds, she was sucking my dick like it was filled with her father’s acceptance. Not a moment later, I saw the crowd of people start pouring out of the theatre doors. It didn’t take me long to spot her parents, hand in hand. Her dad’s bright blue shirt stuck out in the crowd, even though they were still a quarter-mile away.
And then, at that exact moment, is when I fucked up.
That’s when I did one of the dumbest things in my entire life; I made a split-second trivial decision that would leave me scarred forever.
Now, what I could have done is simply reach down, gently pull her head out of my lap, and have a mildly disappointing end to some fun, gone on with my day, and been just fine. Hell, given how far away they were, the hair-trigger of a teenage boy, and her skillful abilities we could have likely finished without pushing our luck.
The problem with wisdom is that you don’t get it until five seconds after you need it.
What I did, in a moment of youthful stupidity, was say “Your dad’s coming!” and sit up straight in my seat.
And that, my dear reader, is the exact moment that shit got real.
Please understand that what I’m about to describe is much like a car crash. It will take me far longer to describe it than it took to actually happen. All of this transpired in just a moment, but that moment is burned into my brain forever. I apologise now, that it shall be burned into yours. When you share this story with your friends, you’ll know they got to this part when you see them adjust themselves in their seat. No man is immune to this effect.
In one smooth powerful movement driven by pure reflex and fear, without a moment’s conscious thought, she snapped her head up, bolted upright in her seat, and while making that transition from laying on me to sitting next to me she stuffed my dick back into my jeans and ran that fuckin zipper all the way home with the power of an angry linebacker.
The problem is I had never unbuttoned my pants, and it was a lot smaller when it came out ten minutes ago than it was when she decided to cram it back in through, what was now, much too short of a hole. She fought it in there in half a second, it just wasn’t situated as well as it needed to be.
Then, with the delicate touch of a bricklayer she had yanked that zipper though several inches of my most delicate sensitivities and made me one with my Levi’s.
It happened in the blink of an eye.
I was absolutely convinced I was going to die.
The pain was far worse than what you imagine right now. It was radiant and consuming. She had caught roughly…very roughly...the entire front of the most sensitive skin I own and interlaced it down nearly the full length of the zipper. I could glimpse a thin line poking out the front, and there was nothing I could do about it but sit there with tears running down my face and her parents approaching.
She immediately knew what had happened, subtlety is not a skill I possess even on my best days. I think it may be when I levitated, shooting to the ceiling, howling in pain that she got her first hint that something was wrong. She was mortified, I was in agony, and the shitshow had just begun. I untucked my shirt to cover the obvious injury, and wiped my tears.
It was hard travel across the great prairies of the parking lot. I heard they lost five good men, and at one point had to start eating the horses to survive. But eventually, months later, her parents finally made it to the car.
The first battle was the parking lot. Several hundred people had all gotten out when we did and had to find their way to the exit. It took half an hour of stop and start agony while we all shuffled into place and trickled out onto 28th street - a bustling busy main thoroughfare of the lower-west side.
And the fun was just beginning.
Florida makes oranges, Idaho makes Potatoes, and Hollywood makes movies. But Michigan, we make potholes. Northbound 131 is a washboard of suspension testing craters that can knock your teeth loose. Because of the complicated interaction of freeze-thaw cycles, capillary action of water retention in asphalt, and the fact that we run snow plows for a third of the year there is a regular pattern of patched sections on the highway spaced at predictable intervals for miles on end.
And I felt every one of those sonsabitches as we launched and bounded from pock to pock, all along my dick.
It took about thirty minutes to get from Studio28 to their house. That was the longest half hour of my life. I felt every bump in the road in between my own heartbeats as I throbbed in agony sitting awkwardly in the back seat. The only saving grace was that her and her mom were making small talk about the movies they had each seen and my opinion didn’t matter. I sat there sniffling and rubbing my swollen, red eyes. When her mom asked me if I was okay I uttered the only word I could manage on the entire ride home.
“Allergies”.
We made it to her parent’s house, said our goodbyes, and she walked me across the street to my car. It took more work to get into my mom’s old boxy beige Pontiac Grand Prix than it did to get out of her parent’s SUV, but I made it, tenderly.
Mission two accomplished, her parents had no idea. So that crisis was averted.
Now, I had to choose. I was on the edge of The City. If I went East, I could fight my way through traffic to the giant gleaming state-of-the-art hospital located right downtown and wait in line in the emergency room. If I went West, I was heading towards home and in my own small country town was a little Med Center staffed with only a handful of people whose main job was helping people with minor bumps and bruises, and keeping the critical patients alive long enough for the ambulance to get there and haul them off to one of the much larger neighboring cities.
I headed towards home. It was farther, but faster. I hopped on I-96 and blasted into the night more scared of hitting a deer than being pulled over for speeding. I figured if any cop pulled me over, all I had to do was show him my situation and there wasn’t a man in the world who would fault me for being in a hurry. I had a much higher chance of getting a police escort to the Med Center than getting a ticket, so off I went as fast as Mom’s old Pontiac would carry me.
I arrived without incident and walked gingerly through the front door. I’d never been to the Med Center before. My parents were on the rescue squad of the local volunteer fire department so anything short of a sucking chest wound in my house was dealt with by someone running for the jump-bag in Dad’s truck. Any sort of injury was handled on only the best of equipment: the kitchen table.
Life’s different in a small town.
That’s why I wasn’t even slightly surprised when I walked in the front door and the triage nurse at the front counter stopped typing, looked me straight in the eye with genuine concern on her face and said “Chris, are you ok?”.
It was my mom’s friend. Not only did this woman know me, she’d known me since I had training wheels on my bike. I knew she was a Nurse. Half the women in my world were Nurses, my mom was a Nurse. She worked at a nursing home filled with other Nurses. How the hell was I supposed to remember that one of her best friends just so happened to work at the Med Center.
I should have gone East.
“No Ma’am” I said, and quickly added, wincing, “please don’t tell my Mom”
“What happened, show me what you did”
Now, I grew up around trauma and emergency medicine. Back then they were dispatched with one-way pagers the size of a brick that looked like walkie-talkies. There was only one channel for the whole county, and every department had its own unique series of musical tones that told us who the message was for. It squawked and whistled all day and night and you never even noticed it.
But when the BEEDEEBEEDEEBEEDEEBEEDEE-DOOOOOOOOO-----DEEEEEEEEEEEE sound that designated our unit came over that radio, it would take you out of a dead sleep before they got to the “COOPERSVILLE UNIT TWO-OH-FIVE” part of the message and Mom, Dad, or sometimes both, were headed out the door on a dead run before it stopped talking.
If this happens while you’re out somewhere with Dad in the truck, you’re along for the ride. It was somewhere around age twelve when “stay in the truck” just didn’t work for me anymore. I’d learned where babies came from by watching a screaming Asian woman have one on the tailgate of a Subaru in the McDonald’s parking lot. I’d seen bodies mangled and I knew first hand why they called the people who ride crotch-rocket motorcycles “Organ Donors”. I’d learned the smartest and most heroic humans alive fly in AeroMed, and I knew that rescue crews have no problem working up to their elbows in your blood and then going out for pizza half an hour later. It’s just meat.
I was also well aware that the strongest, hardest, most stoic, most unimaginably un-fucking-fazed woman you’ll ever meet, is a Triage Nurse.
So I lifted up my shirt.
And, for just a moment, I saw her humanity crack through her professional stoicism.
I pray that you go your entire life and never once hear a Triage Nurse say “Oh Dear” when she looks at whatever injury you have. It’s up there with getting a prostate exam and hearing the Doctor behind you say “Aw, fuck!”. You don’t want any part of this situation.
There was no paperwork, and my ass never touched one of the beige plastic chairs in the tiny waiting room. She stood up and walked me through the door behind the counter and ten seconds later I was sitting on the crinkly butcher paper of an examination table with my legs dangling over the edge.
A Nurse who was only ten minutes older than I was came in just a moment behind me. Thankfully, I didn’t know her at least, but I’d have liked to under different circumstances. She held a BP cuff in one hand and a clipboard in the other and asked me how I was feeling and if I had any allergies. We chatted for perhaps a whole minute before she asked me what was wrong.
I lifted my shirt.
She took it well, just a tiny gasp before she got her shields back in place. But her blush betrayed her. She held tight to her professionalism and assured me that the Doctor would be right in as she stumbled gracefully backwards out of the room. However, I did notice that she never did get my BP, temp, or anything else.
The Doctor was indeed, right in. I had been sitting there less than five minutes when he strolled into the room and said “So, I hear you’ve had an interesting evening.”
He pulled up a little rolling stool, put on a pair of gloves, and scooted up for a front row seat between my knees as I sat sideways off the edge of the table. We discussed how I had gotten myself into this situation, and he surveyed the damage. I found it ironic that the one person who had shared this experience with me and who could truly appreciate what I was going through was the one person who was completely at ease with the situation. Of course…..it wasn’t his dick.
It was also the first time I’d gotten a real look at things myself, and it was worse than I’d imagined. The skin on the bottom of my shaft was peeking out through the golden teeth of the zipper all the way from about a half inch above the bottom of the zipper to the top. There was way more blood than I had noticed at first and it had stained my pants several inches in every direction. The total zipped length was nearly five inches, and it was under tension on the inside because the standard response to pain is for your dick to shrink up like a stack of dimes.
The added effect, because my brain is an asshole, was that the pain just intensified once I got a look at it.
He pulled out a pair of trauma shears and we discussed what he was going to do about half a second before he did it with a running commentary. He planned on cutting my pants off around the zipper. I was fine with this, off is good, let’s get this off - free me from my golden restraints good Doctor!
Deftly, gently, and with surprising ease the shears sliced right through the seams and folds of my jeans. He cut the bottom through several layers of denim and seams straight up to the base of the zipper, and sheared off either side about four inches away, leaving me with two flaps joined only by the teeth of the zipper and the button on top. He spun on his wheels, reached in the third drawer behind him, pulled out a pair of cutters like I would have in my toolbox, and snipped off the bottom half-inch of zipper entirely. It fell to the floor and landed with a wet plop.
He gently unbuttoned what was now a much smaller piece of my pants, and examined it closely for a couple minutes with a flap held in either hand.
Then he said something you never, ever, want to hear any manner of medical professional say to you.
“We’re gonna go on three...”
We’re…..WHAT!? Where? Whatthefuckare...
“One”
There was no motherfucking Two. Three was an outright lie.
The way out was as blindingly fast and traumatic as the way in. The entire process was loud, a wild blur of motion, and terrifying. In what I have absolutely no doubt was a process he had experienced before, he tore apart the two halves of my zipper with the haymaker strength of a farm boy and kicked himself away from the side of my examination table with both feet to send himself rocketing backwards across the tiny room well clear of the wild reflexive punch I swung through the space his head had occupied a split second before. He landed in a heap, half fallen off his rolling stool, with a piece of my jeans in either hand and an accomplished smile from ear to ear.
That all happened in less than a second. It took exactly the amount of time it took me to say “MOTHERFUCK-....eh?”
The good side is, it didn’t actually hurt all that much when he did that. The bad side was, the blood was now rushing to my dick and it was throbbing with every heartbeat. It hurt like all hell.
We both took a moment to compose ourselves and both spoke at the same moment, saying the exact same thing.
“Are you alright?”
I looked at the sad strip of hamburger laying in my lap, surrounded by a terrifying amount of dried blood in matted black hair. It looked like Edward Scissorhands had given me an old fashioned.
“No?”
I had visions of sutures, staples, and all forms of Spanish Inquisition cock torture that I was about to endure and was blissfully thankful that all he needed to do was clean everything off and tape a strip of gause to it. After the most unpleasant experience I’ve ever had involving my dick being cleaned, complete with being hosed down with Betadine, now it I just looked like I’d fucked an Oompa Loompa.
I asked what would happen if I got a hardon, would I bleed to death or something? He assured me that the last thing I was going to get in the immediate future was an erection. After a few days it would be fine all on its own.
I thanked him for saving my manhood, secured my pants with my belt, hid the giant square hole in front under my shirt, and headed home. I tossed my shredded jeans in the trash, took a shower that involved the creative application of a baggie and a rubber band that moments before had been holding the wing on my model airplane.
He was right, I didn’t have any danger of getting a hardon for over a week. The throbbing pain became a dull ache that would hover just on the edge of being actively conscious of it. Sleeping was complicated, but I managed. After a few days it didn’t hurt at all, and a couple weeks later I was back to normal. In the third week a full operational test proved that all repairs had been completed and that all systems were operating within nominal specifications.
But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I let a woman zip me up again. I’ll take care of that on my own, thank you.
The scar is considerable, tapering to half an inch wide at the base and running front and center along the bottom of my shaft up to the tip. It’s been the topic of more conversations and won more stupid bets than I want to think about. But it’s part of me, a part of my life, and I’m just thankful that despite the relentless abuse and poor decisions my dick has endured, that all in all, things are working just as they should thanks to the compassionate care of a young country Doctor and a small team of Nurses.
Thank you to everyone in the medical profession, of any rank and stripe, for enduring all that you do to help us fumbling idiots live to see another sunrise. You are awesome.
With my kindest regards, cb
---------Addendum Edit, Because holy shit my inbox.
In the end, like all good stories, things actually worked out alright. Her and I resumed our weekly Pontiac wrestling match and eventually as we gained wisdom, experience and the seasons turned warmer, found several much more comfortable places to explore each other’s bodies. All in all we dated for a little over a year in total. Our relationship ran the natural course of typical highschool lovers, and ended just as it should have. We both ended up dating each other’s friends, such is life in a small town, and went on with our lives.
Her Dad never really did like me all that much, and that’s ok. I was a shitty teenager and certainly didn’t have the best of intentions for his daughter. That’s ok, she wasn’t nearly the good little girl he thought she was. But we were, on the whole, decent kids and we came out alright. He was a good and righteous man and was worth my respect; though I wouldn’t learn the true depths of that until I gained a lot more maturity. He died years ago, far too young, from a heart that wasn’t worthy of the love he carried for so many people.
She’s married now, with a couple kids and what I hope is a good and happy life. I haven’t talked to her in decades, but I sincerely wish her well.
I healed up just fine. This all happened back in 1992. Over the years the scar has faded to being something that’s still there, but hardly noticeable. It looks more like a shadow now, or a slight discoloration. You can still spot it, if you look, but it’s something that doesn’t get mentioned by anyone unless we’ve been together for several months and they’re really exploring my cock. I have to think it’s fine now, as I’ve been complimented many times on it’s appearance.
I’d like to thank the many people who have read this and commented on my writing. I’m just starting out on the path to being an author, and I’ve been posting my stories here on Reddit to see if anyone liked them. It turns out, you really do, far more than I imagined. With all of my heart, thank you. Your support and enjoyment of my dopey stories means far more to me than I can adequately express. I’m still learning how to find my voice, but you’ve certainly helped me along on the path.
If you enjoy my writing, there’s much more of it out there, and even more coming. Check my profile and you’ll find half a dozen other stories scattered about the Reddit universe. You're welcome to follow me or friend me on here if you wish. I would be sincerely honoured and I'm working to earn an audience, and even someday a paycheck. You’ll also find my YouTube channel (I make science and technology educational videos as my day job), and my Patreon if you’d like to support my work. I’m a full time YouTuber now, and for the past year. Though after your responses to my stories lately, I think I’ll add Author to that as well.
And for the ridiculous number of people who have begged for a goddamned pic, fine. Go to Imgur, it's /a/WbCHtEw it's VERY NSFW
Yes, that’s really me. Yes, it’s real. No, I’m straight, but thank you.
TL:DR - A bit of adventuresex at a movie theatre resulted in a blowjob and I get zipped up epicly. Had to go to the Dr and learned my mom's best friend worked there. I was scarred for life. It's a long story but worth your time, read it, you'll like it.
submitted by ChrisBoden to tifu [link] [comments]


2020.03.31 01:00 ChrisBoden A Heartfelt Pinch - The Story Of The Tragic Blowjob That Scarred Me For Life

There’s a lot of stories about medical professionals and their quiet acts of often invisible heroism in the news right now. I thought that this week, I would share one of my own stories about them. Because while they are absolutely heroes in our midst, some of those life-saving stories and incredible acts come with a laugh or two along the way.
These laughs, as they often do, come at my expense. It’s a price I gladly pay to give you a much needed moment to breathe in all of the hell we are enduring together throughout the world right now.
Enjoy, Chris
Yes, I know, I’m a complete fucking idiot. Let’s just get that out of the way from the start. My only defense was that I was a teenager in the 90's at the time, and my dick was doing most of the thinking for me. On the whole, I’m a reasonably intelligent guy. My dick however, is much like one of those morons you meet who is all balls, no brains. Despite the fact that thinking with my dick got me through highschool at the top of my class, it has proven itself repeatedly to have no memory, no conscience, and what I will simply classify as “questionable moral fiber”.
An obscure, late 20th century English philosopher known for his ballistic dentition once said “Dicks have drive and clarity of vision. They’re not clever.” and he was correct. But like most people who are all balls and no brains, that kind of decision making invariably leads to collecting good stories, and occasionally being scarred for life.
This is one of those good stories, and it’s about a scar.
I was sixteen, vacuously stupid, and the world as I knew it revolved entirely around my radiant affections for one hell of an awesome girl. She was short, beautiful, built like a soccer player, and had curves in all the right places. Miraculously, she was also my steady girlfriend. We had a magnificent system that involved a standing weekly date. This almost always consisted of exactly three things: dinner, a movie, and the furious, passionate, awkward sex that only inexperienced young lovers can have in the contorsionistic confines of an automobile.
Good times.
On the right day of the week you could catch a 2nd run movie at the Alpine Twin for just a couple bucks. Urban sprawl hadn’t reached far enough yet to consume all the best spots for privacy, and we knew every one of them. It was a great time to be young and in love.
God is not without a sense of humor, however, and one particular week fate would throw me a curve. A movie had just come out that her father wanted to see. In a tormentative moment of parental schadenfreude, they decided it would be a great idea to join us on our weekly movie night for a wholesome double date.
I was trapped. I couldn’t say no, her dad was a towering giant of brooding scowls who instilled the fear of God in me. He was an incredibly kind and funny man, but he commanded my respect and there was absolutely no doubt he held the fate of my love life at his whim. I was a nerdy, country kid from the wrong side of the tracks and he made it very clear that I was dating his daughter only so long as both her and him deemed that acceptable. She adored me, he tolerated me, and it was my lowly position to be grateful for the opportunity.
I was fine with that. I was spending every Saturday night with her sowing my wild oats, and going to church every Sunday with him praying for crop failure.
So we all met at her house, the whole family piled into their car, and off we went. We didn’t go to our comfortable, low-budget, second-run theatre out on the north end of town with the thin crowds that encouraged sitting towards the back well away from anyone who could see wandering hands and notice the whispers of young lovers. We went out to the fancy first-run theatre, the gigantic cineplex and shining star of the lower west side, Studio 28, where we would be packed side by side with strangers and held to much higher standards of socially acceptable behaviour.
Studio 28 was massive. Thousands of people filled its acres of parking lots and watched the latest movies on twenty different massive screens with reclining seats in air conditioned comfort. One movie cost more than what we would spend for a month's worth of dates at Alpine - including food. But her dad was funding the entire expedition and I was happy to just be with her.
My lovely girlfriend however, was a hormone-driven, devious genius, and happened upon a simple idea that changed my life forever. She noticed that they list not only the start times of the movies, but the duration as well.
It had never for a moment crossed my mind that we didn’t all have to go to the same movie. Studio 28 was so massive that not only did they have a ton of different movies playing, many of them shared the same start times. She found a completely different show to catch, sorted out the details with her dad, and off we went on our own. She had stared into the bleakness and brilliantly wrought forth for us the greatest commodity of young lovers who live with their parents: privacy.
For such a monumental day in my life, I don’t even remember what the movie was. But I do remember spending an hour and a half in the dark getting each other as worked up as we dared. The lines of socially acceptable behaviour were a lot tighter back then, but we were enjoying them to the best of our youthful ability.
Our movie got out, and we made the long walk to the back-forty of the parking lot hand in hand and hopped in the car. We had no concrete idea when her parents' movie would get out, so we were just hanging out, waiting, and of course sharing only the most chaste and pure of good Christian thoughts.
Just her, me, and our collective sexual tension that burned with the power of a supernova. It really was only a matter of time before it all reached criticality.
Because sitting in a glass bubble in the middle of a thousand cars is totally the best possible place to be doing such things. I was a little on edge, but that didn’t stop her. It certainly did, however, limit our options.
The good news was that I at least had a clear line of sight all the way up our row, and would easily see anyone approaching from the theatre. I kept a watchful lookout, and she decided to take action.
In a matter of a few seconds, she was sucking my dick like it was filled with her father’s acceptance. Not a moment later, I saw the crowd of people start pouring out of the theatre doors. It didn’t take me long to spot her parents, hand in hand. Her dad’s bright blue shirt stuck out in the crowd, even though they were still a quarter-mile away.
And then, at that exact moment, is when I fucked up.
That’s when I did one of the dumbest things in my entire life; I made a split-second trivial decision that would leave me scarred forever.
Now, what I could have done is simply reach down, gently pull her head out of my lap, and have a mildly disappointing end to some fun, gone on with my day, and been just fine. Hell, given how far away they were, the hair-trigger of a teenage boy, and her skillful abilities we could have likely finished without pushing our luck.
The problem with wisdom is that you don’t get it until five seconds after you need it.
What I did, in a moment of youthful stupidity, was say “Your dad’s coming!” and sit up straight in my seat.
And that, my dear reader, is the exact moment that shit got real.
Please understand that what I’m about to describe is much like a car crash. It will take me far longer to describe it than it took to actually happen. All of this transpired in just a moment, but that moment is burned into my brain forever. I apologise now, that it shall be burned into yours. When you share this story with your friends, you’ll know they got to this part when you see them adjust themselves in their seat. No man is immune to this effect.
In one smooth powerful movement driven by pure reflex and fear, without a moment’s conscious thought, she snapped her head up, bolted upright in her seat, and while making that transition from laying on me to sitting next to me she stuffed my dick back into my jeans and ran that fuckin zipper all the way home with the power of an angry linebacker.
The problem is I had never unbuttoned my pants, and it was a lot smaller when it came out ten minutes ago than it was when she decided to cram it back in through, what was now, much too short of a hole. She fought it in there in half a second, it just wasn’t situated as well as it needed to be.
Then, with the delicate touch of a bricklayer she had yanked that zipper though several inches of my most delicate sensitivities and made me one with my Levi’s.
It happened in the blink of an eye.
I was absolutely convinced I was going to die.
The pain was far worse than what you imagine right now. It was radiant and consuming. She had caught roughly…very roughly...the entire front of the most sensitive skin I own and interlaced it down nearly the full length of the zipper. I could glimpse a thin line poking out the front, and there was nothing I could do about it but sit there with tears running down my face and her parents approaching.
She immediately knew what had happened, subtlety is not a skill I possess even on my best days. I think it may be when I levitated, shooting to the ceiling, howling in pain that she got her first hint that something was wrong. She was mortified, I was in agony, and the shitshow had just begun. I untucked my shirt to cover the obvious injury, and wiped my tears.
It was hard travel across the great prairies of the parking lot. I heard they lost five good men, and at one point had to start eating the horses to survive. But eventually, months later, her parents finally made it to the car.
The first battle was the parking lot. Several hundred people had all gotten out when we did and had to find their way to the exit. It took half an hour of stop and start agony while we all shuffled into place and trickled out onto 28th street - a bustling busy main thoroughfare of the lower-west side.
And the fun was just beginning.
Florida makes oranges, Idaho makes Potatoes, and Hollywood makes movies. But Michigan, we make potholes. Northbound 131 is a washboard of suspension testing craters that can knock your teeth loose. Because of the complicated interaction of freeze-thaw cycles, capillary action of water retention in asphalt, and the fact that we run snow plows for a third of the year there is a regular pattern of patched sections on the highway spaced at predictable intervals for miles on end.
And I felt every one of those sonsabitches as we launched and bounded from pock to pock, all along my dick.
It took about thirty minutes to get from Studio28 to their house. That was the longest half hour of my life. I felt every bump in the road in between my own heartbeats as I throbbed in agony sitting awkwardly in the back seat. The only saving grace was that her and her mom were making small talk about the movies they had each seen and my opinion didn’t matter. I sat there sniffling and rubbing my swollen, red eyes. When her mom asked me if I was okay I uttered the only word I could manage on the entire ride home.
“Allergies”.
We made it to her parent’s house, said our goodbyes, and she walked me across the street to my car. It took more work to get into my mom’s old boxy beige Pontiac Grand Prix than it did to get out of her parent’s SUV, but I made it, tenderly.
Mission two accomplished, her parents had no idea. So that crisis was averted.
Now, I had to choose. I was on the edge of The City. If I went East, I could fight my way through traffic to the giant gleaming state-of-the-art hospital located right downtown and wait in line in the emergency room. If I went West, I was heading towards home and in my own small country town was a little Med Center staffed with only a handful of people whose main job was helping people with minor bumps and bruises, and keeping the critical patients alive long enough for the ambulance to get there and haul them off to one of the much larger neighboring cities.
I headed towards home. It was farther, but faster. I hopped on I-96 and blasted into the night more scared of hitting a deer than being pulled over for speeding. I figured if any cop pulled me over, all I had to do was show him my situation and there wasn’t a man in the world who would fault me for being in a hurry. I had a much higher chance of getting a police escort to the Med Center than getting a ticket, so off I went as fast as Mom’s old Pontiac would carry me.
I arrived without incident and walked gingerly through the front door. I’d never been to the Med Center before. My parents were on the rescue squad of the local volunteer fire department so anything short of a sucking chest wound in my house was dealt with by someone running for the jump-bag in Dad’s truck. Any sort of injury was handled on only the best of equipment: the kitchen table.
Life’s different in a small town.
That’s why I wasn’t even slightly surprised when I walked in the front door and the triage nurse at the front counter stopped typing, looked me straight in the eye with genuine concern on her face and said “Chris, are you ok?”.
It was my mom’s friend. Not only did this woman know me, she’d known me since I had training wheels on my bike. I knew she was a Nurse. Half the women in my world were Nurses, my mom was a Nurse. She worked at a nursing home filled with other Nurses. How the hell was I supposed to remember that one of her best friends just so happened to work at the Med Center.
I should have gone East.
“No Ma’am” I said, and quickly added, wincing, “please don’t tell my Mom”
“What happened, show me what you did”
Now, I grew up around trauma and emergency medicine. Back then they were dispatched with one-way pagers the size of a brick that looked like walkie-talkies. There was only one channel for the whole county, and every department had its own unique series of musical tones that told us who the message was for. It squawked and whistled all day and night and you never even noticed it.
But when the BEEDEEBEEDEEBEEDEEBEEDEE-DOOOOOOOOO-----DEEEEEEEEEEEE sound that designated our unit came over that radio, it would take you out of a dead sleep before they got to the “COOPERSVILLE UNIT TWO-OH-FIVE” part of the message and Mom, Dad, or sometimes both, were headed out the door on a dead run before it stopped talking.
If this happens while you’re out somewhere with Dad in the truck, you’re along for the ride. It was somewhere around age twelve when “stay in the truck” just didn’t work for me anymore. I’d learned where babies came from by watching a screaming Asian woman have one on the tailgate of a Subaru in the McDonald’s parking lot. I’d seen bodies mangled and I knew first hand why they called the people who ride crotch-rocket motorcycles “Organ Donors”. I’d learned the smartest and most heroic humans alive fly in AeroMed, and I knew that rescue crews have no problem working up to their elbows in your blood and then going out for pizza half an hour later. It’s just meat.
I was also well aware that the strongest, hardest, most stoic, most unimaginably un-fucking-fazed woman you’ll ever meet, is a Triage Nurse.
So I lifted up my shirt.
And, for just a moment, I saw her humanity crack through her professional stoicism.
I pray that you go your entire life and never once hear a Triage Nurse say “Oh Dear” when she looks at whatever injury you have. It’s up there with getting a prostate exam and hearing the Doctor behind you say “Aw, fuck!”. You don’t want any part of this situation.
There was no paperwork, and my ass never touched one of the beige plastic chairs in the tiny waiting room. She stood up and walked me through the door behind the counter and ten seconds later I was sitting on the crinkly butcher paper of an examination table with my legs dangling over the edge.
A Nurse who was only ten minutes older than I was came in just a moment behind me. Thankfully, I didn’t know her at least, but I’d have liked to under different circumstances. She held a BP cuff in one hand and a clipboard in the other and asked me how I was feeling and if I had any allergies. We chatted for perhaps a whole minute before she asked me what was wrong.
I lifted my shirt.
She took it well, just a tiny gasp before she got her shields back in place. But her blush betrayed her. She held tight to her professionalism and assured me that the Doctor would be right in as she stumbled gracefully backwards out of the room. However, I did notice that she never did get my BP, temp, or anything else.
The Doctor was indeed, right in. I had been sitting there less than five minutes when he strolled into the room and said “So, I hear you’ve had an interesting evening.”
He pulled up a little rolling stool, put on a pair of gloves, and scooted up for a front row seat between my knees as I sat sideways off the edge of the table. We discussed how I had gotten myself into this situation, and he surveyed the damage. I found it ironic that the one person who had shared this experience with me and who could truly appreciate what I was going through was the one person who was completely at ease with the situation. Of course…..it wasn’t his dick.
It was also the first time I’d gotten a real look at things myself, and it was worse than I’d imagined. The skin on the bottom of my shaft was peeking out through the golden teeth of the zipper all the way from about a half inch above the bottom of the zipper to the top. There was way more blood than I had noticed at first and it had stained my pants several inches in every direction. The total zipped length was nearly five inches, and it was under tension on the inside because the standard response to pain is for your dick to shrink up like a stack of dimes.
The added effect, because my brain is an asshole, was that the pain just intensified once I got a look at it.
He pulled out a pair of trauma shears and we discussed what he was going to do about half a second before he did it with a running commentary. He planned on cutting my pants off around the zipper. I was fine with this, off is good, let’s get this off - free me from my golden restraints good Doctor!
Deftly, gently, and with surprising ease the shears sliced right through the seams and folds of my jeans. He cut the bottom through several layers of denim and seams straight up to the base of the zipper, and sheared off either side about four inches away, leaving me with two flaps joined only by the teeth of the zipper and the button on top. He spun on his wheels, reached in the third drawer behind him, pulled out a pair of cutters like I would have in my toolbox, and snipped off the bottom half-inch of zipper entirely. It fell to the floor and landed with a wet plop.
He gently unbuttoned what was now a much smaller piece of my pants, and examined it closely for a couple minutes with a flap held in either hand.
Then he said something you never, ever, want to hear any manner of medical professional say to you.
“We’re gonna go on three...”
We’re…..WHAT!? Where? Whatthefuckare...
“One”
There was no motherfucking Two. Three was an outright lie.
The way out was as blindingly fast and traumatic as the way in. The entire process was loud, a wild blur of motion, and terrifying. In what I have absolutely no doubt was a process he had experienced before, he tore apart the two halves of my zipper with the haymaker strength of a farm boy and kicked himself away from the side of my examination table with both feet to send himself rocketing backwards across the tiny room well clear of the wild reflexive punch I swung through the space his head had occupied a split second before. He landed in a heap, half fallen off his rolling stool, with a piece of my jeans in either hand and an accomplished smile from ear to ear.
That all happened in less than a second. It took exactly the amount of time it took me to say “MOTHERFUCK-....eh?”
The good side is, it didn’t actually hurt all that much when he did that. The bad side was, the blood was now rushing to my dick and it was throbbing with every heartbeat. It hurt like all hell.
We both took a moment to compose ourselves and both spoke at the same moment, saying the exact same thing.
“Are you alright?”
I looked at the sad strip of hamburger laying in my lap, surrounded by a terrifying amount of dried blood in matted black hair. It looked like Edward Scissorhands had given me an old fashioned.
“No?”
I had visions of sutures, staples, and all forms of Spanish Inquisition cock torture that I was about to endure and was blissfully thankful that all he needed to do was clean everything off and tape a strip of gause to it. After the most unpleasant experience I’ve ever had involving my dick being cleaned, complete with being hosed down with Betadine, now it I just looked like I’d fucked an Oompa Loompa.
I asked what would happen if I got a hardon, would I bleed to death or something? He assured me that the last thing I was going to get in the immediate future was an erection. After a few days it would be fine all on its own.
I thanked him for saving my manhood, secured my pants with my belt, hid the giant square hole in front under my shirt, and headed home. I tossed my shredded jeans in the trash, took a shower that involved the creative application of a baggie and a rubber band that moments before had been holding the wing on my model airplane.
He was right, I didn’t have any danger of getting a hardon for over a week. The throbbing pain became a dull ache that would hover just on the edge of being actively conscious of it. Sleeping was complicated, but I managed. After a few days it didn’t hurt at all, and a couple weeks later I was back to normal. In the third week a full operational test proved that all repairs had been completed and that all systems were operating within nominal specifications.
But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I let a woman zip me up again. I’ll take care of that on my own, thank you.
The scar is considerable, tapering to half an inch wide at the base and running front and center along the bottom of my shaft up to the tip. It’s been the topic of more conversations and won more stupid bets than I want to think about. But it’s part of me, a part of my life, and I’m just thankful that despite the relentless abuse and poor decisions my dick has endured, that all in all, things are working just as they should thanks to the compassionate care of a young country Doctor and a small team of Nurses.
Thank you to everyone in the medical profession, of any rank and stripe, for enduring all that you do to help us fumbling idiots live to see another sunrise. You are awesome.
With my kindest regards, cb
submitted by ChrisBoden to sexstories [link] [comments]


2020.03.30 23:32 ChrisBoden A Hearty Pinch - The Blowjob That Scarred Me For Life

There’s a lot of stories about medical professionals and their quiet acts of often invisible heroism in the news right now. I thought that this week, I would share one of my own stories about them. Because while they are absolutely heroes in our midst, some of those life-saving stories and incredible acts come with a laugh or two along the way.
These laughs, as they often do, come at my expense. It’s a price I gladly pay to give you a much needed moment to breathe in all of the hell we are enduring together throughout the world right now.
Enjoy, Chris
Yes, I know, I’m a complete fucking idiot. Let’s just get that out of the way from the start. My only defense was that I was a teenager in the 90's at the time, and my dick was doing most of the thinking for me. On the whole, I’m a reasonably intelligent guy. My dick however, is much like one of those morons you meet who is all balls, no brains. Despite the fact that thinking with my dick got me through highschool at the top of my class, it has proven itself repeatedly to have no memory, no conscience, and what I will simply classify as “questionable moral fiber”.
An obscure, late 20th century English philosopher known for his ballistic dentition once said “Dicks have drive and clarity of vision. They’re not clever.” and he was correct. But like most people who are all balls and no brains, that kind of decision making invariably leads to collecting good stories, and occasionally being scarred for life.
This is one of those good stories, and it’s about a scar.
I was sixteen, vacuously stupid, and the world as I knew it revolved entirely around my radiant affections for one hell of an awesome girl. She was short, beautiful, built like a soccer player, and had curves in all the right places. Miraculously, she was also my steady girlfriend. We had a magnificent system that involved a standing weekly date. This almost always consisted of exactly three things: dinner, a movie, and the furious, passionate, awkward sex that only inexperienced young lovers can have in the contorsionistic confines of an automobile.
Good times.
On the right day of the week you could catch a 2nd run movie at the Alpine Twin for just a couple bucks. Urban sprawl hadn’t reached far enough yet to consume all the best spots for privacy, and we knew every one of them. It was a great time to be young and in love.
God is not without a sense of humor, however, and one particular week fate would throw me a curve. A movie had just come out that her father wanted to see. In a tormentative moment of parental schadenfreude, they decided it would be a great idea to join us on our weekly movie night for a wholesome double date.
I was trapped. I couldn’t say no, her dad was a towering giant of brooding scowls who instilled the fear of God in me. He was an incredibly kind and funny man, but he commanded my respect and there was absolutely no doubt he held the fate of my love life at his whim. I was a nerdy, country kid from the wrong side of the tracks and he made it very clear that I was dating his daughter only so long as both her and him deemed that acceptable. She adored me, he tolerated me, and it was my lowly position to be grateful for the opportunity.
I was fine with that. I was spending every Saturday night with her sowing my wild oats, and going to church every Sunday with him praying for crop failure.
So we all met at her house, the whole family piled into their car, and off we went. We didn’t go to our comfortable, low-budget, second-run theatre out on the north end of town with the thin crowds that encouraged sitting towards the back well away from anyone who could see wandering hands and notice the whispers of young lovers. We went out to the fancy first-run theatre, the gigantic cineplex and shining star of the lower west side, Studio 28, where we would be packed side by side with strangers and held to much higher standards of socially acceptable behaviour.
Studio 28 was massive. Thousands of people filled its acres of parking lots and watched the latest movies on twenty different massive screens with reclining seats in air conditioned comfort. One movie cost more than what we would spend for a month's worth of dates at Alpine - including food. But her dad was funding the entire expedition and I was happy to just be with her.
My lovely girlfriend however, was a hormone-driven, devious genius, and happened upon a simple idea that changed my life forever. She noticed that they list not only the start times of the movies, but the duration as well.
It had never for a moment crossed my mind that we didn’t all have to go to the same movie. Studio 28 was so massive that not only did they have a ton of different movies playing, many of them shared the same start times. She found a completely different show to catch, sorted out the details with her dad, and off we went on our own. She had stared into the bleakness and brilliantly wrought forth for us the greatest commodity of young lovers who live with their parents: privacy.
For such a monumental day in my life, I don’t even remember what the movie was. But I do remember spending an hour and a half in the dark getting each other as worked up as we dared. The lines of socially acceptable behaviour were a lot tighter back then, but we were enjoying them to the best of our youthful ability.
Our movie got out, and we made the long walk to the back-forty of the parking lot hand in hand and hopped in the car. We had no concrete idea when her parents' movie would get out, so we were just hanging out, waiting, and of course sharing only the most chaste and pure of good Christian thoughts.
Just her, me, and our collective sexual tension that burned with the power of a supernova. It really was only a matter of time before it all reached criticality.
Because sitting in a glass bubble in the middle of a thousand cars is totally the best possible place to be doing such things. I was a little on edge, but that didn’t stop her. It certainly did, however, limit our options.
The good news was that I at least had a clear line of sight all the way up our row, and would easily see anyone approaching from the theatre. I kept a watchful lookout, and she decided to take action.
In a matter of a few seconds, she was sucking my dick like it was filled with her father’s acceptance. Not a moment later, I saw the crowd of people start pouring out of the theatre doors. It didn’t take me long to spot her parents, hand in hand. Her dad’s bright blue shirt stuck out in the crowd, even though they were still a quarter-mile away.
And then, at that exact moment, is when I fucked up.
That’s when I did one of the dumbest things in my entire life; I made a split-second trivial decision that would leave me scarred forever.
Now, what I could have done is simply reach down, gently pull her head out of my lap, and have a mildly disappointing end to some fun, gone on with my day, and been just fine. Hell, given how far away they were, the hair-trigger of a teenage boy, and her skillful abilities we could have likely finished without pushing our luck.
The problem with wisdom is that you don’t get it until five seconds after you need it.
What I did, in a moment of youthful stupidity, was say “Your dad’s coming!” and sit up straight in my seat.
And that, my dear reader, is the exact moment that shit got real.
Please understand that what I’m about to describe is much like a car crash. It will take me far longer to describe it than it took to actually happen. All of this transpired in just a moment, but that moment is burned into my brain forever. I apologise now, that it shall be burned into yours. When you share this story with your friends, you’ll know they got to this part when you see them adjust themselves in their seat. No man is immune to this effect.
In one smooth powerful movement driven by pure reflex and fear, without a moment’s conscious thought, she snapped her head up, bolted upright in her seat, and while making that transition from laying on me to sitting next to me she stuffed my dick back into my jeans and ran that fuckin zipper all the way home with the power of an angry linebacker.
The problem is I had never unbuttoned my pants, and it was a lot smaller when it came out ten minutes ago than it was when she decided to cram it back in through, what was now, much too short of a hole. She fought it in there in half a second, it just wasn’t situated as well as it needed to be.
Then, with the delicate touch of a bricklayer she had yanked that zipper though several inches of my most delicate sensitivities and made me one with my Levi’s.
It happened in the blink of an eye.
I was absolutely convinced I was going to die.
The pain was far worse than what you imagine right now. It was radiant and consuming. She had caught roughly…very roughly...the entire front of the most sensitive skin I own and interlaced it down nearly the full length of the zipper. I could glimpse a thin line poking out the front, and there was nothing I could do about it but sit there with tears running down my face and her parents approaching.
She immediately knew what had happened, subtlety is not a skill I possess even on my best days. I think it may be when I levitated, shooting to the ceiling, howling in pain that she got her first hint that something was wrong. She was mortified, I was in agony, and the shitshow had just begun. I untucked my shirt to cover the obvious injury, and wiped my tears.
It was hard travel across the great prairies of the parking lot. I heard they lost five good men, and at one point had to start eating the horses to survive. But eventually, months later, her parents finally made it to the car.
The first battle was the parking lot. Several hundred people had all gotten out when we did and had to find their way to the exit. It took half an hour of stop and start agony while we all shuffled into place and trickled out onto 28th street - a bustling busy main thoroughfare of the lower-west side.
And the fun was just beginning.
Florida makes oranges, Idaho makes Potatoes, and Hollywood makes movies. But Michigan, we make potholes. Northbound 131 is a washboard of suspension testing craters that can knock your teeth loose. Because of the complicated interaction of freeze-thaw cycles, capillary action of water retention in asphalt, and the fact that we run snow plows for a third of the year there is a regular pattern of patched sections on the highway spaced at predictable intervals for miles on end.
And I felt every one of those sonsabitches as we launched and bounded from pock to pock, all along my dick.
It took about thirty minutes to get from Studio28 to their house. That was the longest half hour of my life. I felt every bump in the road in between my own heartbeats as I throbbed in agony sitting awkwardly in the back seat. The only saving grace was that her and her mom were making small talk about the movies they had each seen and my opinion didn’t matter. I sat there sniffling and rubbing my swollen, red eyes. When her mom asked me if I was okay I uttered the only word I could manage on the entire ride home.
“Allergies”.
We made it to her parent’s house, said our goodbyes, and she walked me across the street to my car. It took more work to get into my mom’s old boxy beige Pontiac Grand Prix than it did to get out of her parent’s SUV, but I made it, tenderly.
Mission two accomplished, her parents had no idea. So that crisis was averted.
Now, I had to choose. I was on the edge of The City. If I went East, I could fight my way through traffic to the giant gleaming state-of-the-art hospital located right downtown and wait in line in the emergency room. If I went West, I was heading towards home and in my own small country town was a little Med Center staffed with only a handful of people whose main job was helping people with minor bumps and bruises, and keeping the critical patients alive long enough for the ambulance to get there and haul them off to one of the much larger neighboring cities.
I headed towards home. It was farther, but faster. I hopped on I-96 and blasted into the night more scared of hitting a deer than being pulled over for speeding. I figured if any cop pulled me over, all I had to do was show him my situation and there wasn’t a man in the world who would fault me for being in a hurry. I had a much higher chance of getting a police escort to the Med Center than getting a ticket, so off I went as fast as Mom’s old Pontiac would carry me.
I arrived without incident and walked gingerly through the front door. I’d never been to the Med Center before. My parents were on the rescue squad of the local volunteer fire department so anything short of a sucking chest wound in my house was dealt with by someone running for the jump-bag in Dad’s truck. Any sort of injury was handled on only the best of equipment: the kitchen table.
Life’s different in a small town.
That’s why I wasn’t even slightly surprised when I walked in the front door and the triage nurse at the front counter stopped typing, looked me straight in the eye with genuine concern on her face and said “Chris, are you ok?”.
It was my mom’s friend. Not only did this woman know me, she’d known me since I had training wheels on my bike. I knew she was a Nurse. Half the women in my world were Nurses, my mom was a Nurse. She worked at a nursing home filled with other Nurses. How the hell was I supposed to remember that one of her best friends just so happened to work at the Med Center.
I should have gone East.
“No Ma’am” I said, and quickly added, wincing, “please don’t tell my Mom”
“What happened, show me what you did”
Now, I grew up around trauma and emergency medicine. Back then they were dispatched with one-way pagers the size of a brick that looked like walkie-talkies. There was only one channel for the whole county, and every department had its own unique series of musical tones that told us who the message was for. It squawked and whistled all day and night and you never even noticed it.
But when the BEEDEEBEEDEEBEEDEEBEEDEE-DOOOOOOOOO-----DEEEEEEEEEEEE sound that designated our unit came over that radio, it would take you out of a dead sleep before they got to the “COOPERSVILLE UNIT TWO-OH-FIVE” part of the message and Mom, Dad, or sometimes both, were headed out the door on a dead run before it stopped talking.
If this happens while you’re out somewhere with Dad in the truck, you’re along for the ride. It was somewhere around age twelve when “stay in the truck” just didn’t work for me anymore. I’d learned where babies came from by watching a screaming Asian woman have one on the tailgate of a Subaru in the McDonald’s parking lot. I’d seen bodies mangled and I knew first hand why they called the people who ride crotch-rocket motorcycles “Organ Donors”. I’d learned the smartest and most heroic humans alive fly in AeroMed, and I knew that rescue crews have no problem working up to their elbows in your blood and then going out for pizza half an hour later. It’s just meat.
I was also well aware that the strongest, hardest, most stoic, most unimaginably un-fucking-fazed woman you’ll ever meet, is a Triage Nurse.
So I lifted up my shirt.
And, for just a moment, I saw her humanity crack through her professional stoicism.
I pray that you go your entire life and never once hear a Triage Nurse say “Oh Dear” when she looks at whatever injury you have. It’s up there with getting a prostate exam and hearing the Doctor behind you say “Aw, fuck!”. You don’t want any part of this situation.
There was no paperwork, and my ass never touched one of the beige plastic chairs in the tiny waiting room. She stood up and walked me through the door behind the counter and ten seconds later I was sitting on the crinkly butcher paper of an examination table with my legs dangling over the edge.
A Nurse who was only ten minutes older than I was came in just a moment behind me. Thankfully, I didn’t know her at least, but I’d have liked to under different circumstances. She held a BP cuff in one hand and a clipboard in the other and asked me how I was feeling and if I had any allergies. We chatted for perhaps a whole minute before she asked me what was wrong.
I lifted my shirt.
She took it well, just a tiny gasp before she got her shields back in place. But her blush betrayed her. She held tight to her professionalism and assured me that the Doctor would be right in as she stumbled gracefully backwards out of the room. However, I did notice that she never did get my BP, temp, or anything else.
The Doctor was indeed, right in. I had been sitting there less than five minutes when he strolled into the room and said “So, I hear you’ve had an interesting evening.”
He pulled up a little rolling stool, put on a pair of gloves, and scooted up for a front row seat between my knees as I sat sideways off the edge of the table. We discussed how I had gotten myself into this situation, and he surveyed the damage. I found it ironic that the one person who had shared this experience with me and who could truly appreciate what I was going through was the one person who was completely at ease with the situation. Of course…..it wasn’t his dick.
It was also the first time I’d gotten a real look at things myself, and it was worse than I’d imagined. The skin on the bottom of my shaft was peeking out through the golden teeth of the zipper all the way from about a half inch above the bottom of the zipper to the top. There was way more blood than I had noticed at first and it had stained my pants several inches in every direction. The total zipped length was nearly five inches, and it was under tension on the inside because the standard response to pain is for your dick to shrink up like a stack of dimes.
The added effect, because my brain is an asshole, was that the pain just intensified once I got a look at it.
He pulled out a pair of trauma shears and we discussed what he was going to do about half a second before he did it with a running commentary. He planned on cutting my pants off around the zipper. I was fine with this, off is good, let’s get this off - free me from my golden restraints good Doctor!
Deftly, gently, and with surprising ease the shears sliced right through the seams and folds of my jeans. He cut the bottom through several layers of denim and seams straight up to the base of the zipper, and sheared off either side about four inches away, leaving me with two flaps joined only by the teeth of the zipper and the button on top. He spun on his wheels, reached in the third drawer behind him, pulled out a pair of cutters like I would have in my toolbox, and snipped off the bottom half-inch of zipper entirely. It fell to the floor and landed with a wet plop.
He gently unbuttoned what was now a much smaller piece of my pants, and examined it closely for a couple minutes with a flap held in either hand.
Then he said something you never, ever, want to hear any manner of medical professional say to you.
“We’re gonna go on three...”
We’re…..WHAT!? Where? Whatthefuckare...
“One”
There was no motherfucking Two. Three was an outright lie.
The way out was as blindingly fast and traumatic as the way in. The entire process was loud, a wild blur of motion, and terrifying. In what I have absolutely no doubt was a process he had experienced before, he tore apart the two halves of my zipper with the haymaker strength of a farm boy and kicked himself away from the side of my examination table with both feet to send himself rocketing backwards across the tiny room well clear of the wild reflexive punch I swung through the space his head had occupied a split second before. He landed in a heap, half fallen off his rolling stool, with a piece of my jeans in either hand and an accomplished smile from ear to ear.
That all happened in less than a second. It took exactly the amount of time it took me to say “MOTHERFUCK-....eh?”
The good side is, it didn’t actually hurt all that much when he did that. The bad side was, the blood was now rushing to my dick and it was throbbing with every heartbeat. It hurt like all hell.
We both took a moment to compose ourselves and both spoke at the same moment, saying the exact same thing.
“Are you alright?”
I looked at the sad strip of hamburger laying in my lap, surrounded by a terrifying amount of dried blood in matted black hair. It looked like Edward Scissorhands had given me an old fashioned.
“No?”
I had visions of sutures, staples, and all forms of Spanish Inquisition cock torture that I was about to endure and was blissfully thankful that all he needed to do was clean everything off and tape a strip of gause to it. After the most unpleasant experience I’ve ever had involving my dick being cleaned, complete with being hosed down with Betadine, now it I just looked like I’d fucked an Oompa Loompa.
I asked what would happen if I got a hardon, would I bleed to death or something? He assured me that the last thing I was going to get in the immediate future was an erection. After a few days it would be fine all on its own.
I thanked him for saving my manhood, secured my pants with my belt, hid the giant square hole in front under my shirt, and headed home. I tossed my shredded jeans in the trash, took a shower that involved the creative application of a baggie and a rubber band that moments before had been holding the wing on my model airplane.
He was right, I didn’t have any danger of getting a hardon for over a week. The throbbing pain became a dull ache that would hover just on the edge of being actively conscious of it. Sleeping was complicated, but I managed. After a few days it didn’t hurt at all, and a couple weeks later I was back to normal. In the third week a full operational test proved that all repairs had been completed and that all systems were operating within nominal specifications.
But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I let a woman zip me up again. I’ll take care of that on my own, thank you.
The scar is considerable, tapering to half an inch wide at the base and running front and center along the bottom of my shaft up to the tip. It’s been the topic of more conversations and won more stupid bets than I want to think about. But it’s part of me, a part of my life, and I’m just thankful that despite the relentless abuse and poor decisions my dick has endured, that all in all, things are working just as they should thanks to the compassionate care of a young country Doctor and a small team of Nurses.
Thank you to everyone in the medical profession, of any rank and stripe, for enduring all that you do to help us fumbling idiots live to see another sunrise. You are awesome.
With my kindest regards, cb
submitted by ChrisBoden to stories [link] [comments]


2020.03.18 13:14 UpbeatOrchit 21 [M4F] Oompa Loompa doom-pa-dee-di, why will no-bo-dy date me?

Before I start, no. I don't feel bad for posting with that title. I'm almost proud of it even.
Long story short! Dating websites are a mess, let's face it. Systems like having to pay to use them in order to see likes or even message people. On top of (From my experience) most people on there having the conversational skills of what might as well be a brick wall. It doesn't do all that well, at least for me!
Anyhow! Onto the.. juicy? Details! I am a Dutch, 21-year-old male who at this point probably speaks better English than he does his native language, thank you internet! I am 1.82m tall, that's scratching the 6ft mark! (Around 5'11" I believe! So close..) I'd say I am of average build if not a tad on the skinny side! I have short-ish brown hair, a beard, and large nerdy ass glasses! (I need those so my eyeballs do their job!)
Last summer I finished my study and got my degree in programming, god knows how I graduated but that doesn't matter! Since it's not really something I enjoy, I am now working parttime while trying to figure out what to do with my life!
When it comes down to hobbies I'd say I'm a pretty big fucking nerd. Ranging all the way from gaming (I play a lot of different games!) to Magic the Gathering, Tabletop wargames, StarfindePathfinder (Those are basically DnD!) and writing/reading. To make sure I don't sit inside all day, I picked up Airsofting as sport and got my license for it last week!
Enough about me, what am I looking for exactly? Well, of course, I am looking for that special someone, the person to spend the rest of my days with, trying to survive the apocalypse in the wake of Covid-19!
Like probably everyone, I would prefer it if you lived close by so we can eventually meet up IRL and be nice and awkward there! That is to say, I am also open to long-distance relationships.
I would prefer someone between the age of 18-25, yes this is somewhat flexible. I am not going to say no just because you turned 26 last month...To avoid making this post any longer than it already is, I'll make a list of preferences when it comes to people I'd like to get messaged by!
-Talk! I'm here to find a possible partner, which means I want to talk to you. I would prefer someone who's talkative!
-Share some hobbies! I don't need an expert in everything I am into, even if you're just interested but haven't tried most nerd hobbies. That's good enough!
-Voice chat. I prefer doing this over text chatting as it's more personal and helps form a connection faster!
-I enjoy physical affection! This is a difficult one for long-distance relationships of course, but just in case we were to meet! I enjoy physical affection. If you're not into shameless hand-holding and endless hugs. This probably isn't the right message to respond to!
-General affection and chattiness! I like talking, I like talking a lot. If I find something to talk about that I enjoy. I'll never shut my mouth! This also goes for texting, waking up to texts and such is something I really do enjoy!
-Do things together! Even more so for long-distance. I think doing things together regularly is important. The preference for what we do there obviously goes to playing games together!
I think that's more than enough ranting for now. If you're still with me and you'd like to get in touch. Please use the message feature and not the chat feature! From there I'd be more than happy to move to Whatsapp or Discord as well!
As much as this post might be of intimidating size! If you're interested. Just send me a message. I don't bite I swear!
submitted by UpbeatOrchit to ForeverAloneDating [link] [comments]


2020.03.11 19:06 AsleepinAvonlea Ultimate Gilmore Girls Trivia: Season 1 (Episode 1-7) answers

1.01 - >! "Pilot" !<
  1. >! Then She Appeared -XTC !<
  2. >! "Please, Luke. Please, please, please."!< a. >! Lorelai Gilmore !< b. >! Luke Danes !<
  3. >! Joey !< a. Hartford
  4. 16 a. >! 15 !<
  5. >! A hayride !< a. >! A proctologist !<
  6. Painting their nails a. >! Bubblegum !< b. >! Huckleberry Finn !< c. >! Crazy Carrie !<
  7. >! The Glass Chimney !<
  8. >! "Funny" !< a. >! 24 hours !<
9.Harvard
  1. >! Her car. !<
11.>! A business class !< a. >! Easter !< b. >! Christmas !<
12.>! "Rosemary's Baby" !< a. >! Chicago !< b. >! Miss Patty !<
13.>! They're round. !<
14.>! Moby Dick by Herman Melville !< a. >! Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert !<
15.Motorcycle a. >! Lorelai Gilmore !< b. >! Rory Gilmore !< c. >! Dean Forester !<

1.02 - >! "The Lorelais' First Day at Chilton" !<

  1. >! A viking !<
  2. >! Knife !<
  3. >! "...the minute the strip turned pink." !<
  4. >! Snippets. Little Snippets. !<
  5. >! "Too late." !<
  6. >! Red !< a. >! Apple Venus Volume II - XTC !<
  7. >! 7:10 am !<
  8. >! The Ambroise building !< a. >! Ian Jack !< b. >! Julia !<
  9. >! Hanlin Charleston !< a. >! They're golf buddies. !< b. >! They're on the Symphony Fundraising Committee together. !<
  10. >! "... is your horse parked outside?" !<
  11. >! Journalism and Political Science !< a. >! The German club !< b. >! Christiane Amanpour!<
  12. >! Latin !< a. >! Mr. Winters !< b. >! Bulimia and pregnancy !<
  13. >! Herbal tea !< a. >! A balance bar !< b. >! Her clock didn't purr !<
  14. >! Mary !< a.>! Virgin Mary !<
  15. >! They're watery !<
  16. >! History with Mrs. Ness. !<
  17. >! His blood sugar is low. !< a. >! He gave her decaf. !<
  18. >! A ceramic turtle !<
  19. >! Martin Luther. 1520. !<
  20. >! Getting pregnant and dropping out. !< a. >! Luke Danes !< b. >! Al from Al's Pancake World !<

1.03 - >! "Kill Me Now" !<

  1. >! Mira !< a. >! Sara !< b. >! Anton !<
  2. >! Purple/Lilac !< a. >! Pink and blue !<
  3. >! Michel !< a. >! Lorelai !<
  4. >! Blueberries !<
  5. >! Jessica and Jackie !<
  6. >! Matt and Mark !< a. >! A post-it note !<
  7. >! Vice President of the Geherman-Driscoll Insurance Corporation !< a. >! Fez !<
  8. >! Swans !< a. >! The Luxembourg Gardens !<
  9. >! Her boobs are bigger than Lorelai's. !<
  10. >! The crack den !<

1.04 - >! "The Deer Hunters" !<

  1. >! Three !< a. >! Yellow !<
  2. >! D !< a. >! 20% !< b. >! A !< c. >! B !< d. >! A !<
  3. >! "Perfectly fine." !< a. >! Lucien Mills !< b. >! He ordered the wrong wine. !<
  4. >! The shoe sale !<
  5. >! "Oh, I told him you were just too smart for us and that you had to go to the genius school." !< a. >! "... brainy chicks." !<
  6. >! "So, I hear the huckleberry crop is gonna totally suck this year!" !<
  7. >! "Well, you can bribe someone on the AP committee." !<
  8. >! "What in the world?" !< a. >! "You okay?" !< b. >! The AP test !<
  9. >! B-52s !< a. >! She spilled coffee on her shirt and had the t-shirt in the car. !<
  10. >! Make coffee !<
  11. >! A slice of pie. !< a. >! A trout. !< b. >! "... backwards baseball cap...." !< c. >! 4 months !<
  12. >! She overslept and then was hit by a deer. !< a. >! 8:05 !< b. >! "Loser." !< c. >! "And for the last time, the name's RORY!" !<
  13. >! She told him to take away the zucchini !<
  14. >! Il Duce !<
  15. >! Extra credit work !< a. >! "I hope it happens again." !<

1.05 - >! "Cinnamon's Wake" !<

  1. >! Claudia !< a. >! Rudolph Gottfried !<
  2. >! Cinnamon !<
a. >! a wagon !<
  1. >! Buses make stops !< a. >! "Goodbye Lorelai Gilmore." !<
  2. >! Texas !<
  3. >! A mini blow torch !< a. >! Lemonade !< b. >! Mr. Medina !<
  4. >! 4:12 !<
  5. >! Philadelphia !< a. >! To hang out with M. Night Shamalan !<
  6. >! Clams !<
  7. >! Plum !< a. >! A boy-type person !< b. >! "... you don't know that boy." !<
  8. >! A mouse trap and a head of lettuce !< a. >! A head of lettuce !< b. >! Make a salad and clobber the mouse !<
  9. >! Her business card !< a. >! We don't know, but no. !<
  10. >! Sookie. !<
  11. >! 206 y/o. !<
  12. >! Michel !<
  13. >! "gum." !< a. >! Max Medina !<
  14. >! "Kirk the Jerk" !<
  15. >! Morey and she will break up !<
  16. >! To apologize for bothering her !< a. >! "Wait! I am interested." !<
  17. >! She went to a cat's wake, not her family member's. !<
  18. >! Keep him out late. She has an oral exam. !<

1.06 - >! "Rory's Birthday Parties" !<

  1. >! Pudding !<
  2. >! A Rasquat !< a. >! Raspberry and kumquat !<
  3. >! He'll be out of town !<
  4. >! Emily passes out invitations at her school. !<
  5. >! Light up plastic bracelets !< a. >! 12$ !<
  6. >! "Will you marry me?" (swoon) !<
  7. >! 4:03 am !< a. >! "... doing the splits on a crate of dynamite." !<
  8. >! Blow up balloons, write "Happy Birthday Rory!" (notice the !) on them, and bake coffee cake. !< a. >! "Happy Birthday." !<
  9. >! 6 inches. !< a. >! Shirley Temple Black !< b. >! Shirley Temple !<
  10. >! Mitzi !< a. >! California !<
  11. >! Money in envelopes !< a. >! Money for Fez !<
  12. >! A birthday kiss !< a. >! Paris Geller !<
  13. >! Lorelai's room !< a. >! Shouting at her in front of her staff. !<
  14. >! Does she like/is she dating Tristan? !<
  15. >! He doesn't wear a tie. !< a. >! The chimney !<
  16. >! Ice (hero!) !<
  17. >! Lorelai's room !< a. >! She broke her leg. !< b. >! Rory's baby clothes !<
  18. >! A magazine !<
  19. >! Have a food fight !<
  20. >! Dean and Rory !< a. >! Dean's bracelet. !<

1.07 - >! "Kiss and Tell" !<

  1. >! Underwear !< a. >! She had to serve herself. !< b. >! "Don't sit on any cold benches." !<
  2. >! The Mayflower !<
a. >! Plymouth Rock !<
  1. >! A free "pop" !< a. >! Using silver thread to sew on her buttons. !<
  2. >! Dean kisses her. !< a. " Thank you." b. >! Isle three. Near the pest spray. !< c. >! Rory was kissed by the Lord. !< d. >! "It was perfect." !<
  3. >! It's making a noise. !<
  4. >! Rory was kissing Dean in the market. !< a. >! A rocking chair !<
  5. >! Pilgrims !<
  6. >! Beth !< a. >! Todd !<
  7. >! Decorate for Thanksgiving !< a. >! "Hey, you know some streamers would look so great in here." !<
  8. >! ".... look concerned." !<
  9. >! "from 'The Crucible.'" !<
  10. >! Spying on Dean !< a. >! "... bagging groceries." !<
  11. >! It's double coupon day. !< a. >! Before the gelato stand. !<
  12. >! Willy Wonka !< a. >! "It's nice too." !< b. >! She invites Dean to movie night !<
  13. >! Babette and Morey stole him. !< a.>! "God, I hope not." !< b. >! Half an hour before. !<
  14. >! Sookie. !<
  15. >! Oompa Loompas !< a. >! Prince Charming from Sleeping Beauty !< b. >! Boogie Nights !<
  16. >! He gives her a pillow for her back. !< a. >! "... out of prison or something?" !< b. >! Washing her face. !< c. >! "... your motorcycle." !<
  17. >! "Thank you." !<
  18. >! "That's a good isle." !<
submitted by AsleepinAvonlea to u/AsleepinAvonlea [link] [comments]


2020.03.10 12:35 e_wu In-depth review of the Westerlind Climbing Jumpsuit and indigo dyeing

In-depth review of the Westerlind Climbing Jumpsuit and indigo dyeing
TL;DR -- The Westerlind Climbing Jumpsuit is a good upgrade over vintage jumpsuits, but it’s lacking in features. Try indigo dyeing, I think you’ll love it.
A couple of years ago, I became obsessed with jumpsuits, partially because it was trendy, but mostly because I love convenient and comfortable clothing, and a single piece of clothing that covers the top and bottom with no waistband is very, very convenient and comfortable.
I ended up buying enough jumpsuits that I can confidently categorize myself as a “jumpsuit collector.” I have 3 vintage military mechanic jumpsuits, a NASA jumpsuit, an Air Force pilot jumpsuit, 3 skiing jumpsuits, and a construction jumpsuit.
But I think my favorite one is the Westerlind Climbing Jumpsuit, your typical “modern take on a classic piece.” It was inspired by what the first rock climbers of the 20th century wore.

https://preview.redd.it/16dzu69a0ul41.jpg?width=2316&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=14f53c018f988313e841efc59ca03ccbe9fcf9fe
I’m grading everything on a scale of 1 to 5. 1 is far below expectations, 3 is average, and 5 is outstandingly spectacular.
Fabric, 4/5
The fabric is a midweight ripstop cotton (ripstop stops rips) -- a very good blend of durability and breathability. It feels lighter, more malleable, and overall more comfortable than Dickie’s coveralls (heavyweight cotton twill) or thrift store military jumpsuits (mostly heavyweight canvas).
The problem that you’ll get with most vintage jumpsuits is that they run pretty hot because they’re optimized for durability, which makes sense when you think about it because real vintage jumpsuits were made for people who were welding sheet metal and not for people who sit around at home on Reddit writing jumpsuit reviews. Anyway, the fabric on the Westerlind jumpsuit is a huge step up for everyday wear.
That being said, I think my absolute ideal jumpsuit would have an even softer handfeel and more flexible fabric. The fabric is inspired by rock climbing, but I have to assume the vast majority of people aren’t wearing it to climb, so the ripstop cotton is slightly too utilitarian and crunchy. There are better fabrics for everyday comfort wear.
Fit, 4.5/5
Jumpsuits are made to be baggy because they’re supposed to be worn over your normal clothing. In 1951, Joe from Kansas would get into the B-52 manufacturing plant at 9am and then put on his Dickies coveralls over his jeans and flannel so that the sparks from the fighter plane he was welding together wouldn’t light him on fire.
And in 2020, Benji from Brooklyn (Bushwick to be specific, Wyckoff and Irving off the Myrtle-Wyckoff stop to be even more specific) who paints in the style of “abstract expressionism marred by the injustices of post-modernism” (read: Jackson Pollock knockoffs) wears his jumpsuit over his Yohji Yamamoto jeans and Outlier UFT so that his paint (or his chaga ashwaganda maca-infused date hot chocolate) doesn’t stain his shirt.
The point is, jumpsuits are baggy because their function is to protect your everyday clothing. But if you’re wearing a jumpsuit for aesthetics or convenience and not purpose, and you’re not into the super baggy look, then you’re usually shit out of luck.
Westerlind, on the other hand, adds a bit of much-needed modern tailoring -- the shoulders are narrower, the sleeve width and length are more reasonable, and they add a drawstring at the waist so you don’t look like an oompa loompa. Everything below the waist is boxy and long, but I don’t mind that look and I usually roll up my pant cuffs a bit.
The rise of the pants is balanced very well, which is difficult to do in a jumpsuit. Remember, too high of a rise in a jumpsuit and dudes with longer torsos get their balls squeezed, whereas too low and it becomes baggy.
The only thing I would prefer is a slightly narrower waist. The drawstring is a very nice touch, but I don’t want to undo it every time I pee (more on that below).
Functionality, 2/5
The jumpsuit is the PERFECT place to go all-out on function, and Westerlind really, really falls short here. It improved on fabric and fit, but it just copied-and-pasted all the features from a standard jumpsuit: two breast pockets, two large front pockets, two large back pockets. So they didn’t really fall short; they were just average, but I had such high expectations because of the fabric and fit that I was disappointed, so I’m docking them another point.
The jumpsuit is inherently utilitarian, so why not add some zip pockets and/or smartphone compartments and/or velcro adjustable cuffs and/or ventilation zip enclosures in the armpits? There’s so much room for creativity here, and it’s clear that Westerlind didn’t make an effort in this category. I’m positive that if they spoke to just three rock climbers, they could have come up with some gnarly features.
At the very least, they could have made a zipper (instead of buttons) for peeing! Women complain about how terrible it is to take off their entire romper just to pee, and a similar problem is happening here. I don’t need to take off the whole jumpsuit, but it’s a pain for me to unbutton the lower parts to pee because I don’t like buttoning and I don’t ever remember which buttons are at the level of my penis so I end up unbuttoning the whole thing. In general, I think they should have used zippers instead of buttons to open and close the jumpsuit.
I have a skiing jumpsuit, and there’s a translucent pocket for my skiing pass, an iPhone pocket with an earphone hole, a pocket for a pen, and a zillion other features. Do I need a ballpoint when I’m shredding the gnar?


https://preview.redd.it/xbf86kub0ul41.png?width=320&format=png&auto=webp&s=268757d2920b315c5189c28f5d550d7e17d6da84

But it feels nice to know that someone made the effort. It’s the thought that counts.
Indigo dyeing, 5/5
Another big problem with the jumpsuit is that it only came in black, gray, brown, and white. I don’t like black because wearing black in NYC is a cliche, gray felt too construction work-y, brown’s not great for my skin tone, and white had that “Jesus has returned” look.
I reluctantly went with white. The jumpsuit was too good.
But then I’m wearing it around, and it really just stood out way too much. My girlfriend suggests that I dye it indigo, which I did not realize was something I could just do. She gave me the name of an indigo dye shop just around the corner, and I was like, whatever, it couldn’t hurt.
I walk in and there’s a small Filipino-American lady there who’s selling a bunch of indigo stuff and I show her my white jumpsuit and she tells me that she can do it but I’ll have to help her because this thing is huge and how many layers of indigo do I want and I say I don’t know whatever will make it blue?
I learned that the shade of indigo depends on the number of indigo dip cycles you put it through. An indigo dip cycle starts with putting the garment in the bucket, mushing it around, then doing some stuff that I forget, then you wring it dry, and then the two of us took it outside the store and sort of did that thing you did as a kid with the giant rainbow parachute in gym class where you air it out? But we didn’t go underneath it. Anyway, we did that whole cycle 6 times or so.
And now the jumpsuit is really mine. When I look at the jumpsuit, it feels like I’m in there, not just because I’m wearing it right now, but because I was a part of the process that created it. When I look into the closet and see all of my clothes, the jumpsuit’s a little bit brighter than the rest. I wear it on days when I have a desire to express my creativity a little bit more. Is it the right shade of indigo? It’s perfect, and I think it could only have been perfect because it came from my hands.
I work in fashion and yet up until this point, I never knew how something actually gets dyed.
I didn’t mean to get all sentimental, but if you ever have a chance to dye something indigo or sew something, I really encourage you to go for it. For some people clothing is just a surface-level expression of aesthetics and status, but I suspect if you’re reading a detailed product review of a jumpsuit, you are a little more connected to the creative aspect, the product design, etc.
It feels really good to get involved in making something, even if that just means something as simple as taking a sewing class, altering a shirt, getting a custom made suit (if you’ve got the money), or grabbing something you want to turn blue and seeing if you can find a local dye shop. It made me more connected to the jumpsuit, and probably more aware of my clothing and its origins in general.
submitted by e_wu to MeritStore [link] [comments]


2020.03.10 12:31 e_wu In-depth review of the Westerlind Climbing Jumpsuit and indigo dyeing

In-depth review of the Westerlind Climbing Jumpsuit and indigo dyeing
TL;DR -- The Westerlind Climbing Jumpsuit is a good upgrade over vintage jumpsuits, but it’s lacking in features. Try indigo dyeing, I think you’ll love it.
A couple of years ago, I became obsessed with jumpsuits, partially because it was trendy, but mostly because I love convenient and comfortable clothing, and a single piece of clothing that covers the top and bottom with no waistband is very, very convenient and comfortable.
I ended up buying enough jumpsuits that I can confidently categorize myself as a “jumpsuit collector.” I have 3 vintage military mechanic jumpsuits, a NASA jumpsuit, an Air Force pilot jumpsuit, 3 skiing jumpsuits, and a construction jumpsuit.
But I think my favorite one is the Westerlind Climbing Jumpsuit, your typical “modern take on a classic piece.” It was inspired by what the first rock climbers of the 20th century wore.

https://preview.redd.it/xdobvbxmztl41.jpg?width=2316&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=1b1c7adadba1bcaca5579deb9ca48213c1b58eaa
I’m grading everything on a scale of 1 to 5. 1 is far below expectations, 3 is average, and 5 is outstandingly spectacular.
Fabric, 4/5
The fabric is a midweight ripstop cotton (ripstop stops rips) -- a very good blend of durability and breathability. It feels lighter, more malleable, and overall more comfortable than Dickie’s coveralls (heavyweight cotton twill) or thrift store military jumpsuits (mostly heavyweight canvas).
The problem that you’ll get with most vintage jumpsuits is that they run pretty hot because they’re optimized for durability, which makes sense when you think about it because real vintage jumpsuits were made for people who were welding sheet metal and not for people who sit around at home on Reddit writing jumpsuit reviews. Anyway, the fabric on the Westerlind jumpsuit is a huge step up for everyday wear.
That being said, I think my absolute ideal jumpsuit would have an even softer handfeel and more flexible fabric. The fabric is inspired by rock climbing, but I have to assume the vast majority of people aren’t wearing it to climb, so the ripstop cotton is slightly too utilitarian and crunchy. There are better fabrics for everyday comfort wear.
Fit, 4.5/5
Jumpsuits are made to be baggy because they’re supposed to be worn over your normal clothing. In 1951, Joe from Kansas would get into the B-52 manufacturing plant at 9am and then put on his Dickies coveralls over his jeans and flannel so that the sparks from the fighter plane he was welding together wouldn’t light him on fire.
And in 2020, Benji from Brooklyn (Bushwick to be specific, Wyckoff and Irving off the Myrtle-Wyckoff stop to be even more specific) who paints in the style of “abstract expressionism marred by the injustices of post-modernism” (read: Jackson Pollock knockoffs) wears his jumpsuit over his Yohji Yamamoto jeans and Outlier UFT so that his paint (or his chaga ashwaganda maca-infused date hot chocolate) doesn’t stain his shirt.
The point is, jumpsuits are baggy because their function is to protect your everyday clothing. But if you’re wearing a jumpsuit for aesthetics or convenience and not purpose, and you’re not into the super baggy look, then you’re usually shit out of luck.
Westerlind, on the other hand, adds a bit of much-needed modern tailoring -- the shoulders are narrower, the sleeve width and length are more reasonable, and they add a drawstring at the waist so you don’t look like an oompa loompa. Everything below the waist is boxy and long, but I don’t mind that look and I usually roll up my pant cuffs a bit.
The rise of the pants is balanced very well, which is difficult to do in a jumpsuit. Remember, too high of a rise in a jumpsuit and dudes with longer torsos get their balls squeezed, whereas too low and it becomes baggy.
The only thing I would prefer is a slightly narrower waist. The drawstring is a very nice touch, but I don’t want to undo it every time I pee (more on that below).
Functionality, 2/5
The jumpsuit is the PERFECT place to go all-out on function, and Westerlind really, really falls short here. It improved on fabric and fit, but it just copied-and-pasted all the features from a standard jumpsuit: two breast pockets, two large front pockets, two large back pockets. So they didn’t really fall short; they were just average, but I had such high expectations because of the fabric and fit that I was disappointed, so I’m docking them another point.
The jumpsuit is inherently utilitarian, so why not add some zip pockets and/or smartphone compartments and/or velcro adjustable cuffs and/or ventilation zip enclosures in the armpits? There’s so much room for creativity here, and it’s clear that Westerlind didn’t make an effort in this category. I’m positive that if they spoke to just three rock climbers, they could have come up with some gnarly features.
At the very least, they could have made a zipper (instead of buttons) for peeing! Women complain about how terrible it is to take off their entire romper just to pee, and a similar problem is happening here. I don’t need to take off the whole jumpsuit, but it’s a pain for me to unbutton the lower parts to pee because I don’t like buttoning and I don’t ever remember which buttons are at the level of my penis so I end up unbuttoning the whole thing. In general, I think they should have used zippers instead of buttons to open and close the jumpsuit.
I have a skiing jumpsuit, and there’s a translucent pocket for my skiing pass, an iPhone pocket with an earphone hole, a pocket for a pen, and a zillion other features. Do I need a ballpoint when I’m shredding the gnar?

https://preview.redd.it/vmevp2boztl41.png?width=320&format=png&auto=webp&s=290df41a90739a88741bd1f8793899519c9557f1
But it feels nice to know that someone made the effort. It’s the thought that counts.
Indigo dyeing, 5/5
Another big problem with the jumpsuit is that it only came in black, gray, brown, and white. I don’t like black because wearing black in NYC is a cliche, gray felt too construction work-y, brown’s not great for my skin tone, and white had that “Jesus has returned” look.
I reluctantly went with white. The jumpsuit was too good.
But then I’m wearing it around, and it really just stood out way too much. My girlfriend suggests that I dye it indigo, which I did not realize was something I could just do. She gave me the name of an indigo dye shop just around the corner, and I was like, whatever, it couldn’t hurt.
I walk in and there’s a small Filipino-American lady there who’s selling a bunch of indigo stuff and I show her my white jumpsuit and she tells me that she can do it but I’ll have to help her because this thing is huge and how many layers of indigo do I want and I say I don’t know whatever will make it blue?
I learned that the shade of indigo depends on the number of indigo dip cycles you put it through. An indigo dip cycle starts with putting the garment in the bucket, mushing it around, then doing some stuff that I forget, then you wring it dry, and then the two of us took it outside the store and sort of did that thing you did as a kid with the giant rainbow parachute in gym class where you air it out? But we didn’t go underneath it. Anyway, we did that whole cycle 6 times or so.
And now the jumpsuit is really mine. When I look at the jumpsuit, it feels like I’m in there, not just because I’m wearing it right now, but because I was a part of the process that created it. When I look into the closet and see all of my clothes, the jumpsuit’s a little bit brighter than the rest. I wear it on days when I have a desire to express my creativity a little bit more. Is it the right shade of indigo? It’s perfect, and I think it could only have been perfect because it came from my hands.
I work in fashion and yet up until this point, I never knew how something actually gets dyed.
I didn’t mean to get all sentimental, but if you ever have a chance to dye something indigo or sew something, I really encourage you to go for it. For some people clothing is just a surface-level expression of aesthetics and status, but I suspect if you’re reading a detailed product review of a jumpsuit, you are a little more connected to the creative aspect, the product design, etc.
It feels really good to get involved in making something, even if that just means something as simple as taking a sewing class, altering a shirt, getting a custom made suit (if you’ve got the money), or grabbing something you want to turn blue and seeing if you can find a local dye shop. It made me more connected to the jumpsuit, and probably more aware of my clothing and its origins in general.
submitted by e_wu to malefashionadvice [link] [comments]