The last Courtney disaster got me thinking. I needed a new start and I needed to move onto greener, sexier, disease free-erer pastures. A new era of love, money and reduced alcoholism beckoned. The regeneration of my life began with Lara Croft’s nipple and ended with a severe pain in my asshole. Unfortunately there are no metaphors present in that last sentence.
The evolution of Derek (me!) kicked off with a trip to the job centre. The dead people at the job centre reviewed my qualifications and relevant work experience. The piece of paper my college gave me for hanging around in their buildings for 4 years opened some really interesting doors for me that day. Doors that led me to a job tending to the needs of nerds, orcs and elves at a gaming convention in Boston.
One of the fat zombies at the job center gave me all the information I needed to successfully locate and work the event. I thanked him for his time and immediately forgot everything he told me. I had just accepted a job and had no idea what it entailed. Maybe I would be answering phones? Maybe I would be greeting people at the front desk? Maybe I was a sex slave for the event? Regardless of the tasks involved, whether I would be holding a phone to my ear, or an old mans scrotum, I would do my very best to make sure that everyone had a great time.
Four days later, it was time to get up and get ready to go to work. After a wash and a quick bite to eat, I hopped on the mechanical travelling snake or, as the locals call it, the train, and arrived at the gaming convention just before 9.00a.m. The convention center was infested with a swarm of middle-aged men in wielding swords, shields and secret video footage of their sisters showering.
Now before you start hating on Derek… I’m not one to subscribe to stereotypes, especially when it comes to the gaming community. I too have led vast armies in Command & Conkers, and fought my way through the deepest, darkest levels of Gash Bandicoot. I know what its like to be a gamer and so I went to this convention with an open mind. I certainly didn’t think that everyone I would meet was going to be weird, socially Chernobyl, or in a long-term relationship with their over protective mothers. No sir. Not the way I do things.
Avoiding all the gamers or SEX OFFENDERS, I scurried down towards the east side of the lobby. Walking around from stall to stall, I started to worry about the unknown job that I had accepted. It was nerve-wracking not knowing what I would be doing that day. That’s when, once again, a terrifying illness returned – The Brown Worry.
It’s a chronic disease that causes a large welt of warm sludge to form in the pit of your stomach which then propels itself out of your colon with little to no warning. I have been struck down by TBW in nearly all the pivotal moments in my life. I have fallen victim to it before important interviews, during college presentations, and one time when I got lost in Dublin. A routine family excursion reduced to nothing more than a sloppy brown nightmare.
In extreme cases, some twisted individuals have been known to wet a piece of toilet paper and shove it up the front door of their arse to help reduce the effects of TBW. I have never done it myself but I know a person who has and I would be more than happy to provide pictures and diagrams upon request.
Since I didn’t know what my job was and since I couldn’t find the place where I was meant to meet the manager, the Brown Worry quickly took hold. I located a suitable dumping ground for the evil mess bubbling deep down in the stink chasms of my balloon knot. The bathrooms of the convention center were about to face their greatest enemy. Shit.
It was not a pleasurable experience for anyone involved. The first slippery plops were followed by violent rectal explosions. Nerds ran out of the bathroom mentally altered and deranged by the power of the smell. Some even left their spy cameras behind. In the beginning the toilet bowl had chilled my Irish arse but now the brown lava spewing violently from my rectum had sent my body temperature soaring.
The gushing gunk had been reduced to a few drips after 20 minutes or so. A clean up team made up of my hand and sand-paper toilet paper entered the disaster zone. The clean up operation was a complete disaster. It was clear that a shower was the only thing that could revert the damage. In the end, instead of removing the climate changing waste I just moved it around a bit and created prime real estate for American blue bottles.
Shaken and defeated, I walked out of the bathroom. A few feet down the corridor, a group of people wearing similar clothes to myself had gathered together. I went over and introduced myself hoping that they were all born without the power of smell. After some short introductions I was put to work.
It turned out that there was no need for the carnage now evident in my underpants. My job was simple. Nerds gave me their coats and bags. I gave the nerds a ticket with a number on it. After a few hours of masturbating over the latest release of Tetris, the nerds came back and collected their stuff. It couldn’t have been easier.
My first customer was a six-foot seven elf who wanted to check in his sword, shield, cloak and big bag of small children. My manager had encouraged me to make small talk with the customers. I said I would give it a shot.
Where are you coming from today Mr. Elf?
said a very polite me.
I am not Mr. Elf. I am Torrfull the Great. I have traveled today from Gagagoon. I am the proud leader of the Golden Elders. We are all level 789 sorcerer elves!
said the 40-year-old man wearing a green cloak.
It must be very hard being retarded…
After fighting off a bunch of irate elves, my boss took me aside and gave me a formal warning. He insisted that I must respect all the customers no matter what their colour, creed or past time. I tried explaining that thinking you’re an elf from a place that doesn’t exist is not a past time and you need to be killed. He disagreed and gave me a second warning.
A few hours of dealing with trolls and intergalactic aliens went by without another problem. My next customer put an end to all of that. A very well endowed Lara Croft walked up to my counter. Ms. Croft came to collect a coat she had handed in earlier. Smiling, she extended her arm in my direction to give me the ticket. That’s when her left titty fell out of her top.
It’s safe for you to assume that I handled the situation in a disastrous fashion. The sight of a nipple reduced me to a garden vegetable. A garden vegetable with an erection. Still clueless of her soft-porn début, she again motioned for me to take the ticket. The young Lara was unaware of the crowd of nerds that had gathered around her to catch a glimpse of their first non-internet boob. The crack of their unfolding erections could be heard all over the convention centre.
After an exceedingly long amount of time, I gathered myself together, took her ticket and went to fetch her coat. I knew that if I didn’t do something quickly Lara Croft… was… the nerds were going to rape her. I ran back with her coat and watched helplessly as my body planted a bomb under social etiquette. As I handed her the coat I tried to cup her breast with the jacket and sneakily put it back into her top. She didn’t respond well to my helpful groping and ran off screaming with her titty flopping about in the air.
After my boss saw me dressing one of the customers he decided it was time for me to go home. The resulting happy feelings were short-lived as all of my concentration was drawn to the extreme pain growing in my boy hole. The work of the day had blinded me to the consequences of my actions in a bathroom earlier on that morning. Phase II of Brown Worry had begun.
The anal evacuation in the bathroom and subsequent failed clean up, had dehydrated my body and dried out my food deportation device. No moisture remained in the chocolate desert. My arse cheeks were grating against each other like two great cheese graters greatly grating against each other grating. Walking and wincing, I caught the next train home.
I was only able to conquer the walk from the train to my house by employing a bow-legged, arse dividing, crab walk. It eased the grating but it drew stares from several concerned citizens and several sexual predators. I eventually crabbed home but my arse wound had become life threatening.
There was only thing to do to stop the pain and friction. It needed to be lubed up. Strangely enough I didn’t have any lube in the house (I usually keep it in bushes around the neighbourhood). I looked around the bathroom cabinet for some sort of moisturiser. The only thing close to a bottle of moisturiser was a small tube of Old Spice after-shave balm. It said on the tube that it would sooth and re-moisture irritated skin. That tube was a filthy liar.
I took a liberal amount of the balm and applied it to the clown nose poking out of my arse hole. The relief was immediate. I could walk for the first time in hours. Once again, my cheeks could slide effortlessly past one another. I walked into my room and lay down on my bed. As soon as my head hit the pillow, the unstoppable burning began.
The after shave balm was heavily scented. This guaranteed me a great smelling fudge factory but also burned said factory to the ground, killing all of its workers and their families. I screamed uncontrollably and ran into the bathroom. Without having time to fully undress, I grabbed the shower head and put it to its most powerful setting. A supersonic jet of water cut through the air. Bent over, with my pants down around my ankles, I aimed the jet of water up into my burning sewerage system.
Unfortunately I did not realize how loud I had screamed. Anyone listening nearby would have concluded that I had seriously hurt myself and needed immediate assistance. That’s exactly what my roommates thought before they burst into the bathroom to help me. They quickly realised that there was no emergency. All they saw was their new roommate with his pants down around his ankles blasting water up his hole in the middle of the bathroom. I might have to start looking for a new place…