Archive for May, 2012

Men’s Bathrooms

May 28, 2012

Today, I sit before not as a friend, a writer or an equal.

I sit before as a teacher of the masses.

My words will spread through the Internet like a wild digital fire, and readers everywhere will learn a few valuable lessons.

Today, I’d like to talk to you about something that holds a very dear place in my heart (among other parts.) This place has been very instrumental to the man I have become over my short quarter-century on this earth.

The bathroom.

Yes, to some it may be a place to relieve oneself and clean up afterwards. But to me, the bathroom has evolved into a beacon of inspiration, a mecca of bottled lightning.

Heck, some of my best ideas strike me in the bathroom, and not just my private bathroom at home.

I’ve had tons of ideas in public restrooms everywhere.

There is just something about that cool porcelain and the time spent sitting quietly with just your mind and a bit of gas to keep you company that breeds a fantastic environment for ideas.

However, I’ve only been struck by ideas while using the men’s bathroom.

It’s true; I am a man. As such, I am not generally granted access to the ladies’ room. However, I have ventured into the testosterone-devoid abyss once or twice in my day, and I can assure any confused parties that there are only three main differences between the two.

You know, other than overstuffed couches in the ladies’ room.


It’s true, ladies. We men can pee standing up, and we love to do it. Whether it’s outside, into the potted plant in the office or into a large bucket in a friend’s garage, we just love to stand and pee.

That’s where the urinal comes in. We walk right up, throw our collective dong into the wind and fill her up as fast as possible.

With the help of a urinal, a man can be in and out of the bathroom to two shakes of a… well, you know.


Don’t fret, ladies. You make lack the comfort and convenience of a urinal, but you have a piece of equipment designed solely for you.

Of course, men aren’t usually on the list of “People Who Need Tampons.”

And I suppose the whole period thing isn’t close to being as fun as standing to pee. I’m not sure, but from what I hear, that’s pretty close to the truth.

Either way, women have to deal with Aunt Flo when she comes in for her monthly visit, and the tampon dispenser helps immensely.


That’s a bit of a given, but it’s a big difference.

The only exception is little kids going with their parents, or the occasional hanky-panky in the bathroom…

Not that I would know anything about that.



This is not included in the 500 word limit.

Thanks again to Ashton Cutright.

I have a feeling that she only requested this since she is a woman and doesn’t know what men’s rooms are like.

…or maybe she’s a man in disguise and wanted to know what ladies’ rooms are like.

Pretty sneaky…

Truly ghjr


Campus Security

May 25, 2012

Let me start by saying that I’m glad I wasn’t asked to write this while I was still in college.

That’s right. Your Humble Blog Overlord has a degree.

I can hear you clamoring about it now.

In what?

Well, a very lucrative, secure and prestigious field: Music Journalism.

Okay, so… maybe I talked it up a bit. It’s not that prestigious. Regardless, it’s what I want to do, and I think that the 77 posts and 3 readers of this blog can attest to my ability to write in… shall we say “interesting” ways.

I like to keep it entertaining regardless.

And yes, there are many who helped me along the way.

My parents footed what part of the bill that the State didn’t cover.

Room and board, mainly. I lived with them until this time last year. That’s it. The State covered the rest. I’m a smarty, you know.

They call us “nerds” for a reason, and it ain’t Star Wars.

Of course, most of the professors I had helped. Some more than others, mind you. I have my favorites, and I have a few on my shit-list.

They know who they are.

Of course, my friends help keep everything in check throughout college, and my beautiful girlfriend Lisa (who I’ve managed to sink my talons into and keep a dire grip upon for a majority of my college year) has always kept me on track.

Honestly, I think the only people in my life the past five years (yes. It took me 5. No shame in it.) were the campus security.

I’ve always been at odds with campus security. Not that they’ve ever really done anything to me (until last year, that is), but I’ve just never been a fan.

I’ve always gotten that “false sense of entitlement” from them. It’s the same I get from college students with rich parents who buy them nice cars, or from that jack-hole Remi Bucksaplenty.

Not the one from that cartoon with the fairies. There’s a real one wandering the campus of Fairmont State, hitting on teachers and snorting cocaine out of the hairy anuses of the disease-ridden ladyboys that live in the more desolate parts of the nigh-abandoned Turley Center.

Campus security has always been like a real PD on a super tight budget. Mind you, I’ve never understood why the budget was so tight. The university has always been a fan of gouging every penny they can from the lifeless pockets of any simp who breezes his way past admissions.

It became personal when the new head of security came and started ticketing in faculty spots after 5 p.m. That’s when they started plastering my car and made a lot of enemies.

I have 10 or 12. Still haven’t paid them.

Doesn’t matter. I’ll have that diploma soon and I’ll be done with the place.



This is not included in the 500 word limit.

Thanks to Ashton Cutright for the challenge. I can only imagine what it would have been like if she had written this.

She waged an Unholy War against campus security in her entire first stint at that college.

She’s the one with all the good stories on this subject.

Truly ghjr

Fran Drescher (and Her Obnoxious Laugh)

May 21, 2012

I have an overwhelming feeling that this post is going to be filled with a lot of judgment.

On your part and mine.

The first celebrity crush I can vividly remember having was on Princess Leia.

Not Carrie Fisher, mind you. It was Princess Leia.

The robe. The buns. The weird hair twists on the side of her head. (HEY-OH! I’m a trickster.)

Anyway, that was around the time I first saw Star Wars, around the age of 7. Soon after that, though, my tastes began to change.

In a way, they devolved somewhat. For a little bit, at least.

I can remember watching a show called The Nanny on Nick-at-Nite with my parents. The show was about a rich man with rich kids who hired a down-to-earth, somewhat ditsy Jersey Girl to watch after the kids and secretly get into a variety of high-jinks around the estate.

Pretty simple story line. After all, it was the early ’90s. We didn’t need none of them vampires and zombie death machines in our TV. No way, no how.

We was just plain ol’ simple folk.

Now… what does The Nanny have to do with crushes on Princess Leia? Glad I prodded you until you asked.

Soon after watching the show, I started to develop a bit of a thing for leading lady, Fran Drescher. She had a long, slender body, legs for days and HUGE…


She didn’t have the prettiest face, but neither did Leia and that never stopped me from lusting after her.

She was the top candidate for newest unobtainable celebrity crush.

Then, she opened her mouth.

Good God. It sounded like a constipated goose was being sexed and strangled at the same time. Not that I would know anything about that… ::shifty eyes::

Seriously. You could grate fresh Parmesan cheese with that lady’s voice. It’s almost as if God Himself looked down upon Fran and, knowing that He had already cursed her with a Jersey accent, decided in His infinite wisdom to damn her even further by forcing her garbled vomit of Jersey words directly through her clamped, crusted nasal cavities.

And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, just when my developing brain and genitals began weeping bitter tears of acid at the atrocity of the voice, the fated laugh occurred.

It was enough the split the earth open beneath me and conjure a fiery-hot enema of blistering magma from the bowels of Hell itself.

The pillar of brimstone entered my body forcefully and blazed a trail straight to my soul, taking out my heart, my lungs and my stomach full of Lunchables and Ecto Cooler with it.

The body on screen had brought the hopes (and other parts) up so quickly, and the voice dashed the boner-dreams violently against the tragic rocks of vocal reality.

Luckily, Leia was still around to pick up the pieces.

Help me, Leia Organa. You’re my pre-pubescent boner’s only hope.



This is not included in the 500 word limit.

Thanks to Ashton Cutright for always giving me good challenges. They usually allow me to rip into famous people that I don’t much care for.

As an added side note: Fran Drescher has still not done any nude scenes.

Which is a bummer. I’m sure I’d be able to find it online.

And trust me, I’d be thanking God for the mute button on my laptop.

Truly ghjr