I digress. A few weeks ago, my bartender friend (whom when I met  was documented in my blog as Zombie Shirt Boy)  called me up with a story that immediately set off the TMI siren in my brain. He apparantely gets to hear great stories all the time, and although this isn’t techinally his story, it deserves to go down as a legend. I was too lazy too afraid I would mess up the details if I told it myself, so asked him to write it out, send it over, and I would share it with the world. I know that I’m one to occasionally skip over guest post, (sorrrryyyy)  but this one deserves a good read.

As Lilu always says: ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!

Make sure you check out Lilu’s site, and check out her TMI Thursday archives for all sorts of hilarity!

I now pass the mic over  ”Zombie Shirt Boy”… **** NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED TO PROTECT THE GUILTY.

I met this girl, Beverly, one night while I was hanging out at the bar.  She’s one of those types that doesn’t run into strangers and is always surrounded by her entourage of cool chicks.  Never one to shy away,  we hung out a few times and she had a way of telling these amazing tales that were her life.  None of them compare to what you are about to read.

Beverly met a boy one night while hanging out with one of her friends.  The boy is good looking, slightly funny, not too overbearing- and things are going smoothly enough that the liquid courage she’s been consuming has given her the courage to invite him back to her place.  Of course being a guy and not a stranger to drinking in bars himself, he cordially excepts.  When the bar closes, Beverly says bye to her friend while she and the boy venture back to her place.  There they watch some TV, have another cocktail, and start talking a bit more.   They stop talking and start making out, the lights go out and the more detailed stuff is leading up to the moment of awesome.

Then the search for the mystical condom commences in the dark.  Since they she’s not into the whole glow-in-the-dark stuff, none can be found.  So the lights come back on and the search continues until she sees the most horrific thing a girl never wants to see on a guy she’s about to hook up with.  His herpes is not only prevalent, is it in full break out mode.  Try to imagine your crotch catching on fire and someone decided the only way to put out the fire was to use a hatchet.  Making hamburgers never seemed like so much fun.

After her new found friend has given her a more sobering visual than a midget cop harassing a guy in a Santa suit about child labor laws, she decides now would be the appropriate time for him to leave.  Maybe a little sweet talking is all she needs to get her back in the mood the boy thinks and tries to protest his sudden shove out the door.  This is not going to end the way he wants it to though.  She eventually explains to him that having a permanent prescription for Valtrex is not on her list of things to do in the next few days and kicks him to the curb.

About a week goes by and Beverly has of course told/warned all of her friends about the retard simplex gross guy so that they can all revel about the times they had to kick “That Guy” out of their bed and avoid him at all costs in the future.  They all do a round of shots and as she puts her glass on the table she sees him.  Hoping she would never have to come into contact with this guy again has instead materialized into what might soon become an awkward moment.  Girls being girls and protecting those around them, they make sure there never is one.  One of the girls tells him that he’s no longer welcome to talk to Beverly that evening or any other time for that matter.  After explainig that they know about his gigantic little problem, he still waits for the moment to plead his case, but to no avail.  He leaves head hanging low never to be seen or heard from again.

HAPPY THURSDAY! Oh and keep those Truth and Dares coming. John Cusack and I will love you for it. I’ll have one for you tomorrow. THE WORST ONE EVER!!!! I’m also putting a tab up next week because I figure this will take a while and I want to keep track. CHEERS!

Make sure you check out Lilu’s site, and check out her TMI Thursday archives for all sorts of hilarity!

Remember how a few weeks ago I told you that my friend Moops has been wanting to start a blog? Well he’s been working on it. He’s even written a few posts, but nothing is live yet- and he’s not sure he wants me to reveal him to the world just yet. However, I did convince him to write a guest TMI post for me since my life has just gotten absolutely crazy the last few weeks. Maybe after reading his awesomeness you can help me convince him that he needs to go public!!!

And without further adieu, I present to you: Moops…

I am about to share a most pathetic tale of over indulgence; this story goes down as one of the worst nights of drinking I have ever had!  Wait a minute, who am I kidding?  I have a resume full of bad nights…with references.

Let me preface the detail of this story with the fact that I am not a delinquent, I have a good job, I contribute to society every now and then, and all in all I’m a pretty decent individual; I just get really drunk from time to time.  I’m about to be 30; I feel that I am fast approaching (or have long past) that threshold where getting boozed up and stripping down to my boxers can be considered acceptable if not slightly amusing behavior (not that that sort of conduct is ever acceptable). In my opinion, drunken behavior is on sort of a sliding scale. For example, when you’re in college, you can get naked and jump on a pogo stick in the front yard and it’s cool; but as age increases, even the slightest drunken mishap can be highly inappropriate and or embarrassing, and for me- this seems to happen at an exponential rate.

And so the story goes.  Halloween 2009.  At the time I was dating a girl who’s birthday was at the end of October. It so happened that her roommate’s birthday fell right around the same time, so they decided to throw a sort of joint birthday/Halloween party.

The night went like this- keg beer, lots of keg beer, my consumption could probably have been measured in gallons; this was supplemented with a cornucopia of shots, you name it I drank it; and then there were the few games of flip cup I participated in. PERFECT, I was ready to go, nothing could stop me, time to hit the bars.

Bar # 1 – I was now at the level of intoxication where I think I am inherently wealthy and feel the need to buy a round of shots for everyone within a 10′ radius of me. I remember the first shot, rupplemintz – GREAT IDEA!

I don’t remember much of the bar scene after that initial round; but from some forensic investigating I conducted in the days that followed, mainly examining my three separate tabs (all different cards,) subsequent bars were visited and many shots consumed.

Fast Forward – A couple of hours later we were back at the house for the after party – yeah, this thing doesn’t stop.  I start emerging from my self induced anesthesia, good, I made it back in one piece, I even somehow managed to make it to the couch and lie down, WAY TO GO!  But wait a minute, it seems that the copious amounts of alcohol I had consumed over the last 12 hours combined with my horizontal position on the couch was making me a little nauseous, make that a lot nauseous, yep I was about to puke.  My body seemed to be paralyzed, so there I was, on this girls nice white couch vomiting a vile substance while a host of characters looked on. Some watched in amusement but most watched in horror (when I say characters I literally mean characters…it was Halloween).  29 years old, and I just puked on myself, just wait it gets better.  I was then thoroughly scolded and clumsily escorted upstairs and thrown into my girlfriend’s bed.

I did attempt one more trip downstairs for an alcohol fueled spirited conversation with my girlfriend, not sure what prompted this one.  There was one eyewitness account that I actually fell up the stairs (vs. down the stairs), pretty impressive.

My first lucid moments the next morning were a bit of a sensory overload; my head was pounding, my mouth was completely dry, my contacts were shriveled up like little raisins in my eyes, my body was totally void of any hydration and my pants were wet, OH SHIT!  MY PANTS…I PISSED THE BED!!!!!!!  At this point I quickly gathered my things, walk downstairs past all of the girls sleeping on a pallet and left, didn’t say a word to anyone.  AWESOME night!  Not only did I puke in front of everyone, but I pissed the bed too, definite high point!  It’s on my way home, with quite possibly the worst moral hangover ever, that I pulled my phone out and tried to make a call; it wouldn’t turn on, great.  You see, my phone was in my pocket when I passed out, it was around the pocket region of my pants that there was the highest concentration of urine; hence my phone not working.  I think I am the only person who has ever pissed on their own phone rendering it useless.

A side note:  Two days prior to the incident I had moved into a new apartment by myself, literally all I had was a bed (I do have furniture now – FYI), so not only did I not have any furniture or cable- but now I didn’t have a functioning phone either. Hungover- this is particularly  lonely and depressing state to be in.  I was forced to go to the Fiesta grocery store down the street to use the pay phone.

Today I’m doing my first guest TMI post ever over at one of my favorite bloggers and new-found friend Tricia’s page, One Step to Recovery; One giant Step to OMG. Please head over there and show both of us some love, and make sure you read some of Tricia’s past posts and follow her blog! You won’t regret it, she is entertaining, honest, and completely made of awesome!

And speaking of guest posts… I have no idea how, but my best friend LA has yet again talked me into letting her post another TMI post ABOUT ME. I thought that she had already shared the most embarrassing “shit” she had in her vault (about the time I shit all in her car) but it turns out- I don’t remember my own embarrassing stories very well. So without further adoodoo, I hand the mic over to LA, and I’m gonna go cry and eat a bag of oreos.

As Lilu always says: ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!

Make sure you check out Lilu’s site today for her special post secret TMI edition, and check out her TMI Thursday archives for all sorts of hilarity!

Hola friends of Carissajaded,

This is now my second attempt at a guest blog for Carissajaded, and let’s hope this one reads a little better than the last. My previous entry may have been written on the eve of my birthday after a bit of celebrating.

I think that it has been said before that CJ and I have a bit of an “unhealthy” relationship. I may even have a broken engagement to show for it… my bad. Regardless, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. That being said, there have been a few instances when that line between being mere friends, and the things that you only tell/do/keep to yourself has been crossed. This is definitely an example of that.

It was long time ago in college when this incident took place. In those days we were busy drinking, eating, smoking, staying up late and doing countless other things to our bodies that don’t exactly bode well for a healthy digestive system. It was one Sunday in particular where it seemed that the deadly combination of the aforementioned vices had finally taken their toll on a certain somebody’s already delicate digestive track. Here’s a snippet of the things anyone could have heard throughout our apartment on that afternoon:

“Uuuuughhh, my stomach”.

“I feel soooo bloated”.

“Why can’t I poop”?

“Stop farting in my room and running away”!

You know, the usual things that you’re thinking in your head when a case of constipation comes your way, but that you choose not to say out loud – because it’s disgusting and generally bad manners. The scene was really that of a bad Pepto Bismol commercial…Or in this instance, Fleet.

After an entire day of the groaning, I couldn’t take it anymore. You see, in our relationship, my role is that of the doctor. CJ complains about an ailment, and I decisively give her my diagnosis (nothing is wrong) and my suggested treatment (drink a glass of wine). Most of the time Half the time I have no idea what I am talking about, but when your bff is a ridiculously paranoid hypochondriac, you learn to fake it. In this case however, I was right. I knew what needed to be done and I said it.

An enema.

Yes friends, that is a 5 letter word that no one wants to hear, but it had to be said. After a little convincing about how they are actually a very useful tool that doctors recommend for good colon health, she decided it was her only option. Off to CVS we went.

About an hour later – because for some reason neither of us can step foot in a CVS without spending AT LEAST that amount of time looking at all the “As seen on TV” merchandise and fake eyelashes – we were home. We chose my bathroom as the best option for the deed because I had the master which could be closed off to the rest of the apartment, and also I could shut the inner bathroom door between us. My role was, once again, that of the doctor. I stood on the other side of the door yelling out the instructions of how to assume the proper position (looks very similar to another position that is dirty in a completely more pleasurable kind of way) and administer the “medication.”

She was there. She was in the home stretch. All necessary components were, for lack of a better term, in place. But she froze.

I could hear crying from the other side of the door…  All I could hear in-between the mostly inaudible sobs was, “I can’t do it”. *sobbbbbbb “Please, help me”.

All I could think was, why God, why? Why hast thou forsaken me?

For those of you who don’t know CJ, she would have stayed in that position in my bathroom all night. It’s a rare combination of stubbornness and fear, but when she gets in that state, she’s liable to stay there… forever.

I knew this. I also knew I had to pee. So what did I do? I took a deep breath and I entered the bathroom.

The least she could have done was shift positions so I didn’t walk right into it, but no. There she was in all her glory – assuming the position that I had, just minutes before described to her from the other side of that door. What I would have given to have been back on the other side of that door. The “applicator” was facing me and I knew what had to be done.

I calmly stepped towards her, all the while soothing her with my voice. I described what I was about to do, and with my head half turned and only one eye open…I squeezed. The worst part about it is that you have to do it slowly, and you have to ensure that the bottle’s entire contents are used. After what seemed like the longest 10 seconds of my life, I ran screaming from the bathroom. I left the applicator right where I’d found it.

And that was it. My job was over. My duty – no pun intended – complete.

I can’t say I am proud of what I did, but I am a friend. However, CJ, if you ever need help with something like that again, please call someone else.

As Lilu always says: ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!

Make sure you check out Lilu’s site today for her special post secret TMI edition, and check out her TMI Thursday archives for all sorts of hilarity!

***Carissajaded here. As today is my best friend LA’s Birthday, and I am poor, I granted her the only wish I could. Oh yes, I have handed my blog over and given her the opportunity of a lifetime, to tell the most embarrassing story she can about me. And she knows a lot. I am not allowed to edit this story in any way. I now hand the mic over to LA!

It might have been a regular hungover Sunday afternoon.  Either way, it’s a great story.

I should take this one small moment to say, this is not a CarissaJaded.  I was given an opportunity today to “guest blog” because it’s my birthday. I’m taking full advantage.  Karma is a bitch.

And without further ado… I need to start at the beginning.

We had a friend who was soon to be married.  I know, I know… To many, that’s the scariest part of the story - it gets better – trust me.

We, of course, did what every best friend does and threw a bachelorette party.  To mix things up, we decided to go to the River Walk in San Antonio, TX.  There were 8 of us in total and I will leave it up to your imagination as to whom the star of this story is.  However, this is obviously CJade’s blog so I’ll go ahead and make the point that she was definitely a witness to what happened (insert dubious smile here).

It was a wonderful night filled with stories about exes, “do you remember the time you”, and about twenty or so shots.  You know?  The norm.  At around 2am we went back to the hotel because it was closing time.  Everyone, of course, cozied in for the night.  (Note to the reader: I may or may not have omitted some key moments that occurred this evening.  Excessive drinking may or may not have occurred after 2am.  Because I have not chosen to write a blog about my life, I do not necessarily want to share those things with the world.  I am, however, giving you the option to read between the lines and use your imagination about what could have possibly happened… until around say…5am that following Sunday morning.)

We all awoke that Sunday, hungover and wishing we were dead bright eyed and bushy tailed.  It was a 3 and 1/2 hour drive northward – not a big deal- and we were all at that point in a vacation where you just want to be home.  This is when it gets scary.

We had an hour left to go.  Wait, did I forget to mention that at hour 2 we stopped at the “Beef Jerky Farm” to buy a pound of habanero beef jerky?  Who wouldn’t?  Duh!

We’re cruising right along (45 minutes left) when I notice that something isn’t right.  My nostrils are twitching. They have somehow caught wind of something that my brain has yet to catch up to.  It’s unmistakable.  It’s a fart.  Yes, I said it.  It’s a fart.

I immediately do what EVERY person does when one is laid in their car.  I roll down the windows and yell.  “Eeeeew!!!! You are soooo disgusting!!!  You have to warn me before you do that!!!  What did you eat (habenero beef jerky)???”  And after a few seconds of us laughing and fake vomiting, I roll up the windows.

The windows are up.

My nose begins to twitch again.

I’m confused.

I look at her curiously.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

She looks at me with a look of horror.  “OH MY GOD!”

The look is unmistakable.  In that one instant I knew what she could not say.

I yell, “LIFT UP! LIFT UP! DO NOT SIT ON MY SEAT!”

She says, “PULL OVER! PULL OVER!”

I say, “GET SOMETHING! PUT SOMETHING UNDERNEATH YOU!”

And I did.  I pulled over to the nearest exit.  And she did.  She grabbed the paper sack the beef jerky came in.

I should also mention that there is a third party in the backseat at this time, the bachelorette, who has been laughing so hard that her her shrieks and tears could easily be mistaken for those of someone in labor.  Mine however, could not be.  I was of course, very worried about my light beige cloth seats.  Neither one of us, the bachelorette or myself, are of any help at all.  All I can do is yell and shove my passenger from my car.  All the soon-to-be-married girl can do is gasp between her laughter and tears.

And this is where the story ends my friends.  I pulled over at the closest, yet most inconvenient place.  She got out and changed her pants using my car door and the nearby dumpster as her cover.  We met our friends who were driving in front of us (and wondering about the hold up) at the Chili’s that was an exit ahead of us.  ”She” passed on the queso they’d just ordered.  Amidst her embarrassed tears and nervous laughter she retold the story just as I’ve now told you.

I love you friend for allowing me to put this story out for all to read.  And oh yeah, you deserve it.