Being the responsible troop of boy scouts that we were, we of course immediately wrapped strips of cloth around large sticks, soaked them in the oil, lit them on fire, and ran through the forest screaming and yelling with blazing torches held high.  It was a sight to behold.

Anyways, the night is winding down and we’ve finally grown tired of running through the woods with torches.  We settled down by the fire, each with our bucket of oil.  As the evening wore on, we would splash a small amount of oil on the fire from time to time and watch the flames erupt then subside.  A good time.  Everyone was having a nice evening when John Hodgins (the original name was much better, and for those of you who will undoubtedly give me a hard time for picking a different, obscure name…fuck you) showed up.

Now John was a special kind of person.  He was grossly overweight, clumsy, smelled badly and had a stutter, a stutter that got noticeably worse whenever he was nervous.  Now, this is the kind of person that one should feel bad for, seeing as how he had no friends.  Well, we would have felt bad for him if it weren’t for his attitude.  This particular overweight, smelly, stuttering buffoon believed himself to be God’s gift to the world.  His arrogance was matched only by his girth (which is saying something).

Anyways, John shows up from the other side of the camp to see what we’re up to.  In an attempt to keep him from telling the scout master on us, those with buckets were slowly trying to hide them, but too late.  He’d seen one.
“What do you have?” he asked, directly.
“It’s nothing.” reply several scouts at once, only increasing his curiosity.
This exchange went back and forth several times before he eventually found out exactly what we had, and what we were doing with it.  When he heard that we were putting it on the fire, he got even more interested.
“Can I put some on the fire?” asked John.
“NO!” shouted several scouts at once.
At this point, I get an idea and stand up.
“You’d do it wrong.” I say calmly.
“No I wouldn’t.” he protested
“Well, how would you do it then?” I ask
“I’d just go up, tip the bucket and poor a little in.” he answered.
“See?  That’s the wrong way.” I shoot back.
He looks at me dumbly and asks. “Well then how do you do it.”
“Well, if you just go up and poor a little in, the flame will climb up the stream into the bucket and the whole bucket will explode in your hands.  Then I’d be responsible for you blowing your hands off.  What you have to do is just turn the bucket upside down and dump the whole thing on there all at once.”  I answer.
At this point I can see my troop slowly moving back, away from the fire.
“Nuh-uh!” says John
“Hey, I’m not gonna be responsible for you blowing off your hands.  If you want to try it you have to do it right.” I said.
So, he takes the bucket from me and moves toward the fire.  He stands right next to the fire, lifts the bucket in the air, and turns it over.
SPLOOSH!! The fire nearly dies out.  Then, all of a sudden a flame shoots high into the air and out in a large circle from the base.  The flames lick the edges of John’s shoes, lighting them on fire.  Almost immediately the scout master rushes over.
“WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?” he bellows.
He looks at John and sees him holding the empty bucket, shoes still smoking and assumes.  John realizes what it looks like too.
He points at me and says, “B-b-b-but h-h-h-e…” and before he can get any further, I jump in.
“Oh sure, John, blame me.  Why don’t you just blame all of us?”
The scoutmaster grabs John by the ear and hall him away.

Needless to say, we didn’t hear from John for the rest of the trip.

This will be two stories in one, but they are related so…  enjoy.

Well, we really were cutting up a lot of bushes in our yard that year.  My dad had cut our bushes at the end of the yard back far enough to make them look nice and ratty.  Then, figuring a job well done decided to find an ingenious way to dispose of the branches and such.  Of course, the favorite method of destruction of anything flammable is what?….Fire of course.

So, we didn’t have a big 40 gallon drum like Uncle Pick Axe.  Though we did have a somewhat smaller laundry barrel from probably the 40’s when everything that could be made of metal was.  I think it originally contained laundry soap.  Little did the manufacturers know that years later it would contain fire from Hell.

So anyways, my dad is feeding bushes into the barrel for a while and is getting ready to light it.  I happen to be walking by at just the right moment to see him dump a tiny bit of gasoline into the barrel.

Now a normal child would thing, “huh, that doesn’t seem like such a great idea.”
My reaction was slightly different.  I hurried over to my dad and his barrel and asked, stupid little pyro child that I was, “Can I light it?”

Again we explore the norms of society and how far they miss my family.  A normal father would think to himself about the dangers a barrel full of wood and gasoline and his son combined might create.  He would then, undoubtedly, decide “No” that he could not light it.

However… “Sure!” came my dad’s pleasant reply.  Excited and eager I took the matches from his hand and got ready.

Now I wasn’t completely without sense here.  I lit the first match and tossed it into the barrel…..nothing.  I lit a second match, got a bit closer, and tossed it into the barrel….nothing, just sat and died out.

I lit the third match.  I reached closer to the barrel.  Before my hand even crossed the brim of the barrel an enormous fireball shot out of it.  It hit me right in the face, sucking the air out of my lungs.  Dizzy and stunned I reeled back, spinning.  I couldn’t tell which end was up and was stumbling toward a van in the driveway.  I decided that, instead of waiting till I was close enough to fall over and smack my head on the van, I’d better just drop on the grass right there, which is what I did.

I’m wheezing, coughing, trying to catch my breath.  My dad runs over.  “Can you see… Can you see!?!” he asked tensely.

“Yes” I reply through coughs and gags.

“OK” he says and continues about his day as though nothing had happened.  I suppose, in retrospect, that he assumed that because I wasn’t screaming I wasn’t seriously burned and when he found out that my eyes were ok, he didn’t much care about the rest.

I got a nasty cut on my knee from falling and lost my eyebrows, forearm hair, nosehair, bangs, and a bit of dignity with the ordeal.  No serious burns, but a more intense respect for the gasoline and fire relationship.

So, you would think that, years later when offered the opportunity to light more gasoline on fire that I might have shied away…

It turns out that quite the opposite happened.

I was at camp with a couple of friends and we had piled all the leaves from the yard in the fire pit.  A couple of splashes of gas on the top of the pile and we were ready to have us a grand ole’ time.  Again…I ask…. “Can I light it?”

My friends, who obviously had more sense than I gladly obliged… and backed away.

Now my previous encounter did not go without a lesson.  I learned that the vapors of gasoline were what you really had to watch out for.  So, I made myself a small trail of leaves to about four feet away from the mound where the gas had been splashed.  I lit the first match and moved to light the end of the first dried up leaf.  My theory was that the flame would move along the leaves until the vapors caught and then I would be far enough away not to suffer the wrath of hell on my face again.  I was wrong.  Unbeknown to me, the vapors were moving along the ground while I set up my trail of leaves.

I lit that match and reached for the first leaf…. “Whooosh” came an all too familiar sound of fire.  The only thing that was better about this particular encounter with my nemesis (gas+fire) was that, due to my last encounter, I thought to hold my breath and just wait instead of gasping and falling.

The burst quickly dissipated and again I lost the hair on the front of my body.  I stunk like burnt hair badly.  Smart group that we were, we decided to spray “Axe” body spray on my arms to try to get rid of the scent.  I smelled like a burnt rat who’d spilled crappy cologne on himself… I could hardly stand myself.

there you have it folks, proof that I too am a Fogle

Cousin Billy took me aside in order to let me in on the prank that he was about to pull.  He had a little “trick” in mind to play on the congregated family.  Here’s the idea.  He takes an ordinary playing card, a piece of tape and an empty staple gun.  He explained the gag to me before hand.  He would put the tape on the back of the card (not letting anyone see it) and walk into the living room where everyone was sitting.  He’d get everyone’s attention, slap the card to his forehead and “staple” it there.

Now, some of you I’m sure can see what is about to unfold here.

So, he grabs the empty staple gun (one of two that were sitting side by side), his playing card, and his tape.  He puts a small rolled up piece of tape on the back and tells me to go into the living room ahead of him to watch everyone’s reaction.  I did so, doing my best, small child that I was, not to laugh.

Around the corner and into the room came Billy.  “Hey everybody, look at this.” he said as he entered, effectively getting everyone’s attention.  He then proceeded to stick the card to his head, raise the staple gun and….”Ka-chunk!”

Everybody completely believed that he had actually stapled the card to his head.  Shouts of “Oh my God” and “Why’d you do that?” and “Shit!” came from his bewildered audience.

Billy smiled happily, assuming that his prank had gone over better than he’d thought.

“No no” he said. “It’s just taped on.”  He then proceeded to try to pull the card off to show his audience that it was only a joke.  However, it didn’t come off.  He pulled once or twice then turned sheet white.  He had, in fact, stapled a playing card to his own forehead.  The impact from the staple gun had temporarily desensitized his forehead and he didn’t feel the staple entering his head.  He began to lose his composure as the initial numbness began to wear off.

My uncle, his father, did not bat an eye, however.  He was calm, collected, and possibly a little too unconcerned with the whole event.  He simply reached down beside him and picked up a pair of needle nose pliers (he’s an electrician, pliers were everywhere).  He walked over to his whimpering son, held his head steady with one hand, grabbed the staple in the pliers with the other and pulled.  Billy nearly fell over as the staple was yanked from his very skull.  Uncle Bill put the card, staple and all, into his gun cabinet on a shelf to be displayed.  It remains there to this day, proudly proclaiming the stupidity of a Fogle family member.  My uncle then went back and sat down to finish watching whatever had been on when this all started.  It wasn’t until he was forced to do so that he took Billy to the hospital, or rather had my mother take him.

X-rays show that the staple chipped his skull.  Billy will forever look as though he were attacked by a tiny vampire on the face.

Yet another splotch on the record of the Fogle family…

I was 18 years old when I moved out of my house and into Renee’s (with her parents).  I just couldn’t live under the same roof with my mother anymore.  I love my mom to death, but we butt heads like no one you’ve ever met.  We do better at a distance…

Anyways, about six months after I left home, my parents took me to Arizona with them to visit a friend of theirs and to do some sight seeing.  We were going for just over a week.  By the middle of our vacation, my mom and I were beginning to get on eachothers nerves a bit.  We were in Sedona (the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen in my life) and I was getting sick of them going to bed at around nine o’clock and me lying in bed bored out of my mind.  So, I went looking.  It was at the “Red Dirt Shirt Shop” that I found what I was looking for.  I struck up a conversation with the pretty girl behind the counter.  After some polite chit chat I presented my case as follows.

“I’m in the area for two days and I’m getting so sick of my parents going to bed early and leaving me with nothing to do.  I’m a night person and the early nights are killing me, I have to get out for a while.  Do you want to get together tonight?  There’s an ice cream place that’s open for a while down the road, we could just hang out.”

To my surprise and delight she said yes and that she’d pick me up outside the shop at 8 that night.  I immediately went out and called Renee.  “Guess what!” I said.  “I’ve got a date tonight”.  I proceeded to tell her about my courageous request to a stranger (never been the type to be that outgoing).  She was more impressed with the fact that I actually asked her if she wanted to get together than anything else.  Her response wasn’t “what?!!? I’ll kill you!”.  It was “you have to tell me how it goes when you get home”
(fyi, that’s the bragging part)

So, eight o’clock was fast approaching and I made my way to the storefront.  I’m not ashamed to say that I made sure I looked good and wore cologne.  Just cause my intentions were pure, doesn’t mean I don’t want girls to be attracted to me.

Anyways…. I wait till about 8:05 and a GMC Envoy, black, comes rolling up.  The door opens and there’s the girl from the store in the drivers seat.  The passengers seat is empty and in the back….

In the back is three more girls.  Let me rephrase that.  In the back is three more HOT girls.  At this point I’m thinking to myself that this evening can go two ways.  Either they’ll be my type of people and we’ll have a good time anyways or they won’t and they’ll wind up talking amongst themselves and I’ll hate every minute of it. I hoped into the car and off we went.  It only took me about fifteen seconds to realize which way the evening was going to go.  It turned out that I was riding with four “Valley Girls”.  For those of you who don’t know that particular “jargon”, a valley girl is the epitome of dumb blonde/ditzy cheerleader/airhead type.  Let me give you an idea of the intellect that I was working with here.  We wound up going to a pool hall/stoner bar.  There we were serenaded by someone on stage reciting poetry… Well, it wasn’t poetry so much as it was… words that rhymed.  Just lists of rhyming words and when he ran out, he picked a new word and started over.  While playing pool with the barbie girls the only time they bent over the table was not when lining up a shot.. no no.  They took their shots standing straight upright.  They bent over the table solely in an attempt to distract me and get me to miss/lose.  My concentration, I am happy to say, was just fine.  Needless to say, I kicked their asses.
The girls spent alot of time that evening talking about what they should wear the next day to their friends court hearing that was scheduled for the next day.  They were trying to decide whether they should wear revealing clothes or conservative.  Their train of thought on this was that a male judge may be more leniant if the defendant’s friends were hot and exposed some clevage.  Their friend was having the hearing to determine whether she’d get out on parole or have to serve more time.

The friend
Was in jail
For beating
HER MOTHER!!

WITH A FRIGGIN’ BAT!!!

So, my advice was that they shoot for the conservative look and not work too hard to match eachother (another idea they’d had).

After the pool hall/rhyming contest, we piled into the SUV and headed for the Shirt Shop Girl’s home.  Now, something you must know about living in Sedona.  If you live there, you have to have more money than you know what to do with.  We show up at Chez Barbie and the livingroom could contain my whole apartment.  The ceilings were over two stories up.  What did we do there?  A freaky foursome?  Maybe some drinking and sex games?

We played battle tetris on a tv that stood taller than me (fyi, I’m six feet tall).  We played for about a half hour then sat around and talked while eating chips and dip.  One of the girls had an IQ a little higher than the others and I spent my time talking with her while the others talked about getting boob jobs.  Idiot that I am, I had to ask… “What size are you now?”  Shirt Shop Girl pulls her shirt aside, exposing her……………………(don’t get too excited) bra.  She shows me and says “A small C cup”.
My response (thinking) “What the fuck?  Boob jobs are for small Bs and lower.  What the hell do you need more than a C for?
My response (speaking) “I think you’re quite big enough”.  They all said that that was really sweet of me to say and I thought “who the hell are these girls dating that that was a sweet sentiment?”

Anyways, the night wore on and eventually Shirt Shop Girl and the others drove me back to my hotel.  I walked in the door and called Renee…”You are not going to believe the night I’ve had”……..

It was ninth grade and, if you’ve read my previous blog “highschool shenanigans” you know that I was not the most popular guy in school.  And, if you can believe it, I was even less so in ninth grade (which was not technically High School because we were in the Intermediate School building).  The reason for this is that I had not yet found my clique.  Not found the Chief, Todd, Krammit and the rest.  I was still trying to hang out with people who considered themselves above me and those who were so different that we never really got along.  Now, let’s all collectively shed a tear for the poor freshman with crappy or no friends.

So, it was lunch time, an awkward time for me.  I sat with a group of people who simply didn’t not like me.  I had been feeling sick to my stomach all week, it being Wednesday now.  Mom said I had to go to school considering I only had a stomach ache.  And so, there I sat at lunch, eating little and uncomfortable when something began to churn in my stomach.  Have you ever had a fart so big that it made your stomach-ache go away?  Well I thought that that was what was coming.  I leaned to the side, careful not to look too obvious, and let it slip.  It was silent (thank God) but it wouldn’t stop.  Soon I was feeling warm….. down there, and a little messy.  I realized what was happening and tried my hardest to stop it, but to no avail.  Eventually it stopped on its own in what seemed like hours, but were, in fact, only about four seconds maybe less.  I pulled my shirt down around me and sped off to the nurses office praying that no one noticed (prayers that were in fact answered).

I got to the nurse an the exchange went something like this…
“I need to go home, I have diarrhea.”
“Are you sure you need to go home?”
“Yes, can I call my mom?”
“Why don’t you see if you can tough it out for the next three periods and go home at the end of school”
“You don’t understand I HAD diarrhea and I need to go home”
“You sure you can’t wait till the end of the day?”
“LISTEN LADY, I SHIT MY PANTS OK?”

She called my mom.  Mom wasn’t home at the time and so I was left with only one option.  Attempt to get a hold of my sister.  My sister, at this time was dating an asshole.  The asshole had the magical ability to turn my sister into a bitch.  Something she has realized upon reflection.
I finally got a hold of her at her boyfriend’s house (goody).  She was pissed.  I told her I needed her to go home and get me a change and come pick me up from school.  With her boyfriend still in the room she asks “What do you need a change for?”  I told her, she responded “Eww, that’s sick.”
But she did what I asked however, not as I would have liked because about twenty minutes later she showed up, with her asshole boyfriend, in his car, with his friend, who was also an asshole.  To their credit they remained quiet the entire time.  However, sick little me got to ride home in the back seat of a shitty car, with shitty pants in a bag on the seat next to me just wishing I would die.

And there you have it.  If anyone can beat that I challenge them to try.

Back in the day before my massive amounts of tickets I, humble Adam Fogle, was a speed DEMON. I raced anyone who would be willing to speed.  I always won, not because my car had a bigger faster engine, but because I was willing to top out faster than most.  I would go as fast as it took to win.  So, if you haven’t already guessed, this story is about a race.  A rather unusual race.

It’s about nine o’clock on a nice summer night.  I’m driving along Rt. 8 (for those of you who aren’t from around here, it’s a highway, speed limit 40) at my usual clip of around sixty.  A leasurely ride considering I’ve hit 100 on it.  So, I’m cruising along at my usual pace.  Ahead of me, in the right lane (the lane I’m in) is the cab portion of a semi truck.  As usual I move into the left lane, prepared to pass him.  I planned not to accelerate any but to pass at sixty which would have me at about five to ten mph faster than he (he was also speeding a bit).  So it’s not like I was going to blow past him.

I pull up next to him and begin moving past when I hear the semi cab shift gears.  Suddenly I’m no longer passing but keeping pace.  I think to myself “no way…. there way a semi wants to race me”.  Before I finish my thought I notice that his bumper is edging out ahead of mine.  That is something I was simply not prepared to allow.  I pushed the gas, but not hard, just wanting to move ahead slowly, to make sure I wasn’t making it up in my head.  “Maybe he’s just speeding up” I thought.  But sure enough, after another sound of hydro pressure, he moved up to keep pace and begin to pass.

I finally hit the gas and so did he we kept pace for a while utill I pulled ahead at ninety miles per hour!  I came to a stoplight and he came up in the lane next to me.  He rolled down his window and leaned out so I could see him.  In the most redneck voice I’ve ever heard he yelled out…. “Ha ha ha, wur jus’liiike in’a fast an’a ferios, huh?”

I laughed, agreed, rolled up my window, and burned him at the green.  Not many peole can say they  raced a semi.  I am proud to say that i have.

Supermagnet:  I’m not talking about the ones you can buy at a toy store or out of a magazine.  I’m talking serious friggin’ magnets.  My dad was a computer technician back in the day that computers were the size of refridgerator.  Well, after those computers were obsolete my father was on to bigger and better things.  However, he did manage to score the magnets that came from the hard drives of these mammoth machines.  The magnet was about three inches long, an inch and a half wide and about a half to three quarters an inch thick.  A force to be reconed with.  Just to give you an idea of the power of these magnets.  You could put one on either side of your THIGH and they would stick.

Ok, on to the fun part.  My father, in his infinite wisdom, deemed it appropriate to give two said magnets to his middle school going son.  The hilarity insued.

The first thing that I remember about the magnets was the first day that I decided to take them to school with me.  I put one in each front pocket, felt them shifting toward one another and immediately removed one and put it in my opposite side, back pocket.  No need to have my penis sandwiched between them.

I got to school, sat down at my desk, felt one sliding and CLANGGGGG!  THe magnet in my right pocket was now stuck to the bar in the desk.  I just left it there throughout the rest of the class and enjoyed everyones shocked expressions everytime I sat down thereafter.  At this point I was keeping one magnet in my backpack and one in my pocket.  After several loud clangs the teacher became upset and demanded my magnet.  I thought I was being slick and only gave him the one in my pocket.  Little did I know that my bookbag, which I had believed I set beside me, was suspended, attatched to the chair leg, about three inches off the ground.  So, prof took the magnets, proceeded to put them in his two shirt pockets and wound up with his tits smashed together.  He gave them back!

The fun part about the magnets was when yearbook signing time came around.  I would sign a friends yearbook and then simply drop my pen, which would be immediately drawn to the outside of  my pants pocket and stick.

Walking down the hall, if lockers were not latched shut, they would open if I passed too close to them.

Now you see the fun that I had with these things and how sad it was when I had to give them up.

I was at home, playing with my supermagnets and the refridgerator.  I had one magnet on the outside of my hand and the refridgerator on the other side.  It stuck, undoubtedly.  Here’s where the problem came in.  I put one magnet on the fridge and the other on the other side of my hand.  The magnet slid and connected with its counterpart on the fridge.  Normally not a problem.  However, in my case, the skin between my thumb and first finger (that webbing like stuff with nothing inside) was caught between the two magnets.  Needless to say, I SCREAMED!!!  My Gram came to the rescue, or so she thought, with a METAL BUTTER KNIFE to try to pry the magnets apart.  The magnets ripped the knife from her fingers and it stuck to them with the handle cracking me on the knuckles.  Finally I just ponied up the courage and ripped my hand free.  After that my mom made me throw out my precious toys.

I firmly believe that to this day my supermagnets reside on the inside of the garbage truck that visited us the next day, refusing all efforts to be removed.  Hold on tight my friends, one day I will find you.

So, being that I had the week off and wasn’t allowed to go anywhere fun, I decided to do somthing inside to entertain myself.  ***This is where the dork part comes in, fair warning.***  I made a backpack entirely out of duct tape.  I shaped it around a box and it had a flat lid.  Looked pretty gay/retarded but damnit! I was proud of my creation.  So I take the monstrosity to school and wear it with pride, inspite of the smell of the tape and glue following me everywhere.

There was this one hallway where the biggest student in school had his locker.  ***here comes the part where I’m a pansy***  One day I come walking by, gay backpack and all, and behemouth thinks it’d be hilarious to slap the flat top of the backpack as hard as he can.  I turned around immediately, grabbed his hand and bent it behind his back.  I pulled hard until he was on the ground at which point I kicked him in the kidney’s and ran off….  Believe that?  No?  Yeah, me neither.  In actuallity I just kept walking (a little faster mind you) and developed a more passive agressive way to combat this particular nemisis.  I formed an idea… a good one.

Over the next week I made it a point to walk that way every day after lunch or wherever I was coming from at that time, at the same time.  Each time he’d slap the *flat* top of the backpack, laugh with his buddies and I’d walk away, doing nothing.  After about the third day in a row it was time to exact my revenge.

That night I went home and flipped open the lid.  I then took a staple gun, stapler, and thumb tacks and drove all manner of pointy objects, point up, through the lid.  That’s why it’s important to know it was flat… meaning his whole hand would connect with it.

Then next day I proudly and carefully donned my homemade backpack and went off to school.  My parents said nothing, they were proud that I was so clever as to use sharp stuff that was thin enough not to leave a lasting mark (that way I don’t get into trouble, I mean I coulda had a friggin razor blade in there).  They both thought that my idea for revenge was pretty cool.

Sooner or later lunch time came.  After lunch I double checked my backpack/weapon for good measure.  Made sure all the points were facing up and added a few extra staples for maximum efficacy (that’s a good word, efficacy).  I walked down that same hall, just like always.  I wore that same backpack, just like always.  And, just like always, Mr. Mammoth was there waiting for me.  I kept my head down so he wouldn’t see me smiling and walked his way.  Just as I passed him I felt this HARD slam on my back, his hardest hit yet, the a scream.  Not just any scream but an “I just had ten regular staples, twelve staplegun staples, and six thumbtacks thrust deeply into the soft flesh of the palm of my hand!”.  Now, that’s a lot to say with just a scream, but , judging by the dropped books all around, the clatter of miscellaneous items being dropped by fellow students out of startled fear, and the wailing of the thug behind me, that’s exactly what it said.  I quickly went to the next garbage can I could find, pulled out my needle-nose pliars (I come prepared) and pulled out the staples.

Of course, he’d have to be crazy to try to tell on me.  “So I slapped his bookbag as hard as I could everyday, and today he had staples in it and it hurt.” The response would likely be “good”.  Never did have a problem with that particular bully again, and I continued to take that route to my locker after lunch.

If you read my blog, I’d ask that you make a comment this time.  After I posted my last one I almost immediately had eleven people read it.  I think that Myspace is lying to me, so, if you could leave me a short comment, I can determine if the numbers are actually accurate… Thanx, more to come!

So, in the summer that we got miss molly, we decided that it would be a good time to do some obedience training.  So, we signed up for an obedience class at Petco.  Molly did pretty well, followed the instructions and so on.  However, on this particular day, Molly’s mind was on something else.

Everyone had just arrived to class and the instructor began talking when Molly walked out to the end of her leash toward the center of the room.  The room was only about 10×20 or a bit more.  She looked back at me and I could see that “look” in her eye.  She assumed the position and proceded to take the largest shit that I have ever seen in my entire life.  And can anyone tell me what it is that makes dogs want to make eye contact while they’re doing the deed?  There she is squatted down in the middle of the room leaveing logs big enough to build with and she’s looking at me as if to say “Dad!, Look at how friggin’ big I can make it!”  And she was right, she made it big.  Now most dogs at one point or another drop a turd in obedience class, but this was no turd.  This was Mt. Everest of shits.  If I’d had a camera I would have taken a picture of it just to prove to everyone how much actually came out of her.  AND…. IT….. STUNK!  Again, she must have been shooting for some kind of award.  While most of the dogs have left their owners little presents during the course of the class, most people were courtious and would just stand patiently while the owner apologized and cleaned it up… NOT IN MY CASE!  This polite group of people buried their faces in their shirts, held their noses, gagged, and tried at all costs not to cry from the stentch that entered the room and exited my dog.  Just to give you an idea of the enormity of my task of cleaning the mess.  It took three GROCERY bags (not doodie bags mind you but full sized milk and bread bags) to carry out the load and half a roll of paper towl to…uh…clean the rest.  Finally, after the deed was done and cleaned I came back to class and we could begin.  My dog, who usually bounces off the walls the entire time (literally off the walls, a story for another time) was contentedly snoozing at my feet.  Couldn’t blame her, I’d have been exhausted after passing ten pounds of poo too.

A while back my friends and I got into the habit of leaving wierd shit on other friends windshields, underneath the wiper blades.  Chief and I had left a belgian waffle, a cup of “au jus” (the sauce that you dip your “beef dip” in at Quizno’s), and a seedless cucumber under the windshield wiper of Todd (all at different times of course).  So one day I’m driving around with Chief in the car and we decide that we have a dire need to leave something under the windshield wiper of Zim.  He was currently at work at a pharmacy nearby.  When Chief asked me what we should leave I had a sudden flashback to my childhood.

I’m over at my Uncle Gary’s house and I’m playing with his dog.  The dog brings me this chew toy that looks sort of like a long rawhide thingy.  I pick it up and examine it.  I determined that it was not a rawhide and asked “Uncle Gary, what’s this?” while holding the object firmly in my hand.  “A dried bull’s penis” he answered.  I threw the bulldick across the room in disgust.

So, when, sitting there in the car Chief asked, What should we leave for Zim?  My immediate response was “A dried bull’s dick!”

Chief and I visited many different pet shops, but all to no avail, apparently there is little market for the naughty bits of a castrated bull (turned cow).  So, defeated we headed toward Zim’s work, determined to think of something on the way there.  Driving down Mcknight road, I took a sudden right turn, into the parking lot of “Condom nation”, Porn/sex paraphanelia shop.  “We’re bound to find something funny in here!” I exclaimed and we exited the car and went in.  We stopped at the front desk to ask where the “Novelty” items were (to us meaning items not to be used for actual sex).  We were directed toward one side of the store that had a wall lined with blow-up dolls, various items in the shape of boobs and much much more.  Feeling that all that was too obvious we continued our perusing untill I struck paydirt.  The title of our chosen item “Anal-EzE”, strawberry flavor.  Perfect, we agreed and went to the register.  Now what didn’t actually occur to either of us as we checked out was that we, two men, just entered a sex shop, purchased ass lube and said it was a gag gift for a friend.  In retrospect I can almost hear the thoughts of the clerk “yeah, whatever boys, have fun.”
So, butt gel in hand (not in ass), we were off to leave our gift on the windshield of Zim’s car.

Later that day we received a call from Zim.  He had two questions for us.  The first was, “did you leave butt lube on my windshield?” to which we of course admitted YES! hahahhahahahahhaahhahahahahah.  But it was his second question that threw us.  Not, why or when but this.  “Why is it strawberry flavored?”

The reason that I chose this story for tonight is that there has been a recent development in this prank that was initiated over six monts ago.  Recently Zim’s brother found the Anal-EzE in Zim’s room and is currently holding it hostage as blackmail on Zim saying, “I don’t even want to know what you’re using this for”