The Fourth Judge Protects His Genitals
I had sex the other day. Sunday afternoon sex, to be slightly more specific. It was peaceful, tender, yet exploratory, and it happened during halftime of the Giants game. It was everything you could ask for in a sexual experience short of the highly-sought-after, but as-of-yet-unattained two-woman blowjob.[[MORE]]
Right after I finished, however – and I mean the second after I made my sweaty, grunty final thrust – I felt a slight tickle on my inner left thigh, right behind my buttocks. I craned my head to assess the situation and saw only the back end of my cat. The rest of him was wedged in between my ass cheeks. Not wanting to see my genitals or those of the terrified girl underneath me ripped to shreds, I gave the beast a kick/push (and coast…) with my foot. I wanted to remove him from the bed entirely, but my first attempt only knocked him to the edge.
Then he gave me “the look.” Every cat owner knows the look. It says, “I’m about to attack you and there’s nothing you can do about it.” Once you get the look, it doesn’t matter what you do to distract the furry little monster. You could throw a treat or a toy, but at most he’ll glance at it before returning his gaze to you, his intended target.
Again, not wanting to subject our still-engorged genitalia to savage claws and blood-thirsty fangs (re: that image – you’re welcome), I spun around quickly to shove him off the bed, only I spun too aggressively and ripped my penis out of the poor girl’s vagina at about 1,000 mph. Nothing crazy happened. A shining-style elevator of blood didn’t come roaring out (re: that image – you’re very welcome), but I know it wasn’t pleasant for her, so I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize to her the best way I know how – anonymously on a boxing/mixed martial arts blog that she will never read.
I’m sorry, mystery girl. I was only looking out for your vagina (and also my dangling ball sack, which, let’s be honest, is much more appealing to a frisky feline). I hope you understand.
It didn’t bother me much at first. He’s just a stupid animal. But the more I thought about how close I came to a very embarrassing hospital visit, the more I convinced myself that my cat might be retarded. He’s seven and a half months old, which is still very young, but in cat years, he’s about eight or nine. Yeah, you do dumb stuff when you’re eight or nine years old, but not that dumb. Maybe you walk in on your parents fucking and stand there like an idiot, completely dumbfounded by what’s going on, but you don’t jump on the bed, and you sure as shit don’t stick your face in between your dad’s hairy ass cheeks.
What’s the matter with this thing? If he’s not retarded he’s the fucking Good Son of cats. What kind of monster does something like that, especially right after you’ve finished? You should be basking in glory at that point, saying stupid shit like “I don’t want to leave (your vagina)” as you flex your penis a couple of times to make the girl giggle and/or smile. That’s no time to be fighting for your life. Fuck you, devil cat. Fuck you right in your stupid face.
Speaking of sex and hospital visits, do you think anyone has ever had to go to the emergency room for holding in farts for too long? I’ve never been comfortable farting in front of girls, even in front of girlfriends I’ve had for years and years, so I’ve spent many an anxious night/morning holding back a metric ton of fart juice. It’s especially bad in my current apartment, a studio with a bed nook that’s only five feet from the bathroom. If a girl is lying in my bed she’s guaranteed to hear the fart through the bathroom door, but no matter where the girl might be in the apartment there’s a greater than 50/50 chance she’ll figure out what’s going on.
The other night/morning I must have thwarted at least 62 separate fart opportunities. Those 62+ potential farts were bottled up from ten at night until the next day at four when the girl left. That’s 18 hours of gastric prison. That can’t be healthy, and I’m wondering if I’m doing permanent damage to myself. Are any of our readers doctors? If so, could you please shed some light on this in the comments section? How long can you hold in a fart without it blasting a hole through your skull? Does it depend on the volume of gas? Can it get reabsorbed into your body and slowly leak out of your pores and/or eyeballs? I need to know these things.
Did you ever think you might be dying but were too lazy to go to a doctor? Is that just me? I’m convinced that I’m ultimately going to kick the bucket because I refuse to see a doctor even though something horrible is happening to me like blood is shooting out of my ears or I’m being forced to read a Game of Thrones message board. Sometimes I won’t get up to shit for an hour because I don’t feel like moving, so it really doesn’t seem that far-fetched.
When I was a teenager I had a vague notion that I would die young and it fucking terrified me. I had an uncle who died before his 30th birthday from a heroin overdose, so there was family precedent, and I love drinking, doing drugs, and not thinking about consequences, so it seemed pretty plausible based on my own character.
But now that I’m 29 years old, rather than feel relieved that I’ve made it this far, I feel like I’ve missed my window of opportunity for a romantically young death. If I get drunk and drive off a bridge now I’m a fucking idiot, not some naive kid who doesn’t know any better. Plus, I’m a pretty big failure artistically, so if I die now people can’t eulogize me by praising my potential. There will be no, “He was a genius. He was going to be huge in the art world. I know it.”
I’ve had plenty of chances to succeed artistically and I’ve got nothing to show for it but credit card debt from a couple of ill-advised improv classes. At this point my only chance for an honorable death is to drag an old lady to safety off the subway tracks before getting slammed by the F train in a gruesome scene that gets captured on video and pulled from YouTube, but not before brick21EO comments “nigga gay.”
That’s probably not going to happen, though. Most likely I’ll grow old and die alone like everyone else in America, covered in my own shit and rightfully abandoned by my children who never received the love and attention they deserved.
Is it a bad idea to bring up your uncle who died of a heroin overdose in a humor column?
Speaking of death, last week there was an enormous dead cockroach in my office bathroom for three days straight. It parked its impressive carcass right in the middle of the floor between the stalls and the urinals. Given the foot traffic that bathroom receives, I’d say at least 50 people walked past it each day, yet it never moved an inch in those three days. Not one inch. You’d think somebody would kick it or crush it or something, but nobody touched it. This seems newsworthy, but I can’t figure out why. I feel like it’s a metaphor for our country’s health care system or something. Should I contact the people at Occupy Wall Street and tell them I potentially have a powerful metaphor that will drum up support for their cause?