Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Attack of the Douche Pack

One day I found myself in a pretty precarious position. I had hopped on a public bus in a feeble attempt at finding a suitable place to sleep, and it was at the precise moment when I was just about to doze off for the first time in three days that some dickhead lost his shit and tried to hijack the bus at gunpoint.

Now most folks would have peppered their britches at the first site of a gun. But not me. Oh no, not me. You see, along with being endowed with what most people refer to as "the biggest dick they've ever seen" there comes the added benefit of having huge balls to match. They're so huge, in fact, that I once used them to break down a bathroom door when my friend's daughter accidentally locked herself in the bathroom. You might have read about it.

Anyway, so here's this choad trying to get all uppity on the bus when up I pop, wiping drool from my face and balls swung valiantly over my shoulder. And what did I hope to accomplish you may ask? Well, to be perfectly honest I didn't really have a battle plan, but I figured if I was trying to hijack anything the sight of some slovenly wanderer with his ball bag draped across his back like a hobo would have sent me scrambling for the doors. Then again that's probably why I don't try to forcefully separate motorists with their vehicles; I don't like surprises.

"Put down the gun," I said in my best Clint Eastwood voice. It came out sounding more like Screech from Saved by the Bell.

"Fuck you man," gunman screamed. "I'm taking this bus. Y'all can get off if you want, but this bus goes with me. And are those your nuts dude?"

"That's what you think ass bag. And yes they are. Impressive huh?" I struck a pose that would have made David Hasselhoff crumble in awe, and when I did my nuts swung around in front of me.

"Not bad," responded the gunman before busting a cap in my left nut. It deflated like a popped beach ball and made a high-pitched squealing noise as it did.

"You forgot one," I said as I raised my one remaining ball high above my head and began swinging it like a mace. The look on the gunman's face was one of both fear and wonderment.

He raised the gun again, presumably to shoot me, but before he had a chance to pull the trigger I turned that bus into the world's largest Whac-A-Mole game.

Bop-bop-bopbopbop went my ball, and before I knew it I had racked up enough tickets to get my girlfriend an oversize Kermit the Frog. Just kidding of course, but the gunman. . .

"Sir? Sir? Are you all right?" It was the driver, who in my REM-induced stupor looked like a cross between Denzel Washington and that fat kid from the Goonies. "You've been sleeping back here for the better part of three hours now and, uh, I'm going to have to ask you to leave now."

As I groggily got to my feet I looked around and noticed that, with the exception of myself and the driver -- Sloth love chunk on training day officer Hoyt! -- the bus was entirely empty.

"Ugh, yeah, OK. No problem." I removed my hand from my pants, zipped them up and stumbled off the bus. As I turned around to watch it embark the driver flipped me off, to which I responded by burping up the beef combo burrito I forced down my throat the day before.

So what next? Where now? I didn't know, but one thing was for sure:

My balls hurt.

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