Monthly Archives: April 2011

The Autobiography of Kevin

Chapter 1

Monday

 

I woke up today.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.  Then I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, I made coffee, and struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

After that I went to work.  Did some stuff there.

When I got home, I pooped.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.

When I emerged I made a quick, yet well-balanced dinner of instant mashed potatoes, instant stuffing and some kind of vegetable from one of those steamer bags, and a baked pork chop that had been thawing in a colander in the sink under a steady stream of warm water for the several hours I was pooping.

I inhaled my dinner in just under ninety seconds while I watched Sports Center, and paused before my now empty plate to catch my breath.  I left my plate and empty cans of Genny Cream Ale on the coffee table, and left the nineteen dishes and bowls I’d used to cook my dinner strewn about the kitchen.  There was no time to clean up, I had stuff to do, people to Facebook chat with, and farts to fart.

Later, I settled into my La-Z-Boy, beer in hand, to watch Sports Center for a several hours, despite there being only twenty minutes of actual information.  Perhaps it was the repetition of sports information that relaxed my sphincter as over the course of these several hours I farted an incredible five thousand ninety-seven times, beating my previous record.

Then I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2

Tuesday

 

I woke up today.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.  Then I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, I made coffee, and struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

After that I went to work.  Did some stuff there.

When I got home, I pooped.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.

When I emerged I made a quick, yet well-balanced dinner of instant mashed potatoes, instant stuffing and some kind of vegetable from one of those steamer bags, and piece of baked chicken that had been thawing in a colander in the sink under a steady stream of warm water for the several hours I was pooping.

I inhaled my dinner in just under ninety seconds while I watched Sports Center, and paused before my now empty plate to catch my breath.  I left my plate and empty cans of Miller High Life  on the coffee table, and left the thirteen dishes and bowls I’d used to cook my dinner strewn about the kitchen.  There was no time to clean up, I had places to be.

Tonight was Man Night, the weekly gathering of a dozen or so friends in a crowded, disheveled attic, complete with pool table leveled out with coasters, a naked female mannequin, several televisions of debatable working conditions, a deep-fryer and a keg, kept snuggly in a refrigerator of debatable working condition.  A paradise this attic is, a true Eden for the group of young professions interested in drinking, debating the merits of the metric system, making fun of Dyke Lofer, a young man in possession of the honey-pot who frequents the Buffalo Club for no discernable reason whatsoever, and pissing out windows in front of which the aforementioned naked female mannequin was situated.

After I polished off half the keg I decided it was time to go.  The local police had stopped circling the block watching the house about an hour before, so it was safe to leave.

On my way home I stopped at this great sub place and ordered the Philly Cheesesteak, a fourteen inch log of grease sprinkled with meat.  When I got home I sat in my La-Z-Boy and inhaled my sub.  Once I had caught my breath, I farted.

Then I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

 

 

 


Chapter 3

Wednesday

 

I woke up today.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.  Then I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, I made coffee, and struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

After that I went to work.  Did some stuff there.

When I got home, I pooped.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.

When I emerged I made a quick, yet well-balanced dinner of instant mashed potatoes, instant stuffing and some kind of vegetable from one of those steamer bags, and piece of baked fish that had been thawing in a colander in the sink under a steady stream of warm water for the several hours I was pooping.

I inhaled my dinner in just under ninety seconds while I watched Sports Center, and paused before my now empty plate to catch my breath.  I left my plate and empty cans of Busch Lite  on the coffee table, and left the nine and three-quarters dishes and bowls I’d used to cook my dinner strewn about the kitchen.  There was no time to clean up, I had stuff to do, people to Facebook chat with, and farts to fart.

Later, I settled into my La-Z-Boy, beer in hand, to watch Sports Center for a several hours, despite there being only twenty minutes of actual information.  Perhaps it was the repetition of sports information that relaxed my sphincter as over the course of these several hours I farted an incredible six thousand twenty-eight times, beating my previous record.

Then I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 4

Thursday

 

I woke up today.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.  Then I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, I made coffee, and struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

After that I went to work.  Did some stuff there.

When I got home, I pooped.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.

When I emerged I made a quick, yet well-balanced dinner of instant mashed potatoes, instant stuffing and some kind of vegetable from one of those steamer bags, and piece of baked chicken that had been thawing in a colander in the sink under a steady stream of warm water for the several hours I was pooping.

I inhaled my dinner in just under forty-five seconds while I watched Sports Center, and paused before my now empty plate to catch my breath.  I left my plate and empty cans of Icehouse on the coffee table, and left the twenty-two dishes and bowls I’d used to cook my dinner strewn about the kitchen.  There was no time to clean up, I had stuff to do, people to Facebook chat with, and farts to fart.

Later, I settled into my La-Z-Boy, beer in hand, to watch Sports Center for a several hours, despite there being only twenty minutes of actual information.  Perhaps it was the repetition of sports information that relaxed my sphincter as over the course of these several hours I farted an incredible six thousand one hundred and six times, beating my previous record.

Then I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5

Friday

 

I woke up today.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.  Then I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, I made coffee, and struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

After that I went to work.  Did some stuff there.

When I got home, I pooped.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.  I had to cut my normal pooping time down today though, after all it was Friday, I had places to be.

I changed from my shirt and tie and my gray pants that may be too tight or may accentuate my bum just for the ladies—you be the judge—and put on my play-clothes so I wouldn’t get yelled at later.  I wore my plaid going-out shirt and rolled the sleeves up in a just-so casual kind of way.  Some people might think that shirt’s a little tight on me, but I think it’s just right.  I’ll let the ladies decide when I’m up on stage later at karaoke with my buddy Dave, totally making “Bye Bye Bye” our bitch.

Then I went out to the bar.  That’s where I drank.  While I was drinking I held a conversation with my former roommate Busse entirely in quotes from The Simpsons, Seinfeld and Family Guy, occasionally referencing the “Danger Zone!” and “meowschwitz” as well.

After we finished all the beer at the bar we left to meet up with Dave and some other cool dudes.  We sang some karaoke.  For our encore, me and my buddy Dave sang “Quit Playing Games with My Heart.”  We totally rocked that shit.

When we left we stopped at Mighty Taco on the way back to my apartment.

Once back home we fueled our sphincters on taco-taco-burritos and polished off the last of the Natty Ice.  Then Busse’s girlfriend called him and he was “in twouble,” since he’d told her he was on his way right home after work, which was eight hours ago, so he had to go home.   When he left I put on this movie, “The Ice Cream Man,” starring Clint Howard in a tour de force performance that was heinously snubbed by those pretentious flamers running the Academy Awards.

Then I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 6

Saturday

 

I woke up this afternoon.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.

I made some coffee.  While it was brewing  I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, while I drank my coffee I struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

Being Saturday and all I spent my day firmly ensconced in my La-Z-Boy watching SyFy Channel original movies.

Around halfway through “Octoyetisaurus vs Giant Squidapus in Cleveland” I had to poop.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.

After that I went out to Wegman’s and picked up a sub, the quite tasty and vastly underrated Wegman’s Assorted with ham, turkey and roast beef.  I housed that shit and had a few Beasts, aka Milwaukee’s Best.  Damn right it is.  Then I burped and that bad boy rocked the house.  I thought the TV was going to fall off the wall.  It’s a really nice TV.  Then I farted.

After that, I settled into my La-Z-Boy, beer in hand, to continue my SyFy channel marathon.  Perhaps it was the utter stupidity of the movies or the 80s-pop-star/soft-core-porn/chick-fight in “Mega Python vs Gatoroid” that relaxed my sphincter as over the course of the next several hours I farted an incredible six thousand five hundred and thirty-two times, breaking my previous record.

Then I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 7

Sunday

 

I woke up today.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.  Then I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, I made coffee, and struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

I was skited, or excited for you lay people.  You see, today was foozball day.

I turned on the TV.  It was still pretty early, only 9am, but I turned on to the Buffalo Bills pre-game show.  Since kickoff wasn’t until 1pm I left the room.  The sink was overflowing with dishes and the trash can had garbage piled up about six and half feet above the rim of the can, but instead I ignored all that nonsense and put a load of laundry in.  three hours or so later I moved that load to the dryer and put another load in the wash so that they’d be ready in four days when I finally went back to retrieve them.  Laundry really takes a long time, I don’t know how my mom would get it all done.

When I came back upstairs, I pooped.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.

A  little before one Busse came over with half a case of beer and some tacos.  There was still some Red Dog left so we were pretty well stocked up for the game.

When the game finally started I settled into my La-Z-Boy, beer in hand.  Perhaps it was the repetition of Bills’ turnovers that relaxed my sphincter as over the course of the next several hours I farted an incredible six thousand seven hundred and two times, breaking my previous record.  It’d been a pretty good week for La-Z-Boy farts, I’m hoping I can keep it up and crack 7k next week.  I’m feeling good, the sphincter’s feeling loose.

Then Busse’s girlfriend called.  She was back from yoga or picking up smokes from the Indian reservation or doing something else, and he was nowhere to be found, so he was “in twouble” again.   Since it was a horrible day for the Buffalo Bills anyway, he left.

I flipped channels from one football game to the next and watched ESPN so they could remind me about everything that had happened during the football games I’d watched, then I watched some cartoons.

Around ten  I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

I certainly didn’t want to die in my sleep though.  Tomorrow was Monday, the start of another week, and I just couldn’t wait to do it all again.

 

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