Post by Rainbow Blight on Sept 14, 2005 2:33:23 GMT -5
Saturday, September 10, 2005
My Anally-Insterted Analgesics[/size]
Think to yourself for a minute. What are the various ways which one could consume a drug? Smoke it, insufflate it, inject it (either intravenously or intramuscularly), eat it, or insert it into your eyes. But there is one way of inserting a drug that I'm sure most of you have forgotten. Rectally. That's right; you could insert a suppository capsule into your asshole, and damn straight it would act faster than putting it into your mouth. A few days ago, I contracted some form of disease that appears to be tonsilitis. Do I care enough to go to the hospital and get it treated? No, absolutely not.
Lo and behold, it turns out that my mother has some painkillers (phencyclidene or PCP for those who care) and she was kind enough to give them all to me. So now I insert two "bullets," because that's what they resemble, up my asshole to stop the goddamn tonsilitis from making me feel pain. Does it fix it? No way. But does it make the pain go away? Goddamn straight! I can seriously and honestly say that say that these anally-inserted tablets of phencyclidine are almost as good as morphine when it comes to painkillers. I'm going to make sure to take dozens of these to the U.S. tomorrow, not even to sell, but to use for myself. Panadol, Tyelenol, and other such painkillers haven't had much effect on me. But this phencyclidene actually works! Goddamn, does it ever make me feel better! As I type this particular entry, the inflamed parts of my throat don't even hurt (although they do tend to cause a weird feeling that is not pain)! Forget opium; if I want to diminish the pain caused to me by the assorted lethal illnesses that I have at this point in time, I'm going to make sure I get more of these phencyclidene-based painkillers immediately.
The Homosexual Who Hit On Me
Despite my serious sickness, I am not inhibited from venturing out of the prison that is my house and going to the bar. Unfortunately, today was the day, out of the previous three days, that I chose to go to Rockwell Cafe.
Everything was fine while I was in there, albeit the place was extremely empty; who cares, the DJ was playing good music and I enjoyed myself to a great extent. The problem arose when I decided to go home.
Perhaps I should have gone home long ago; I was sufficiently intoxicated from several Long Island Iced Teas, but something (the sight of several interesting-looking characters dancing on the dance floor) told me that I should stay until closing time. Once the bar closed, I quickly made my way to the elevator, and that was when the shit hit the fan.
"Listen, I want you," the man said as he came closer to me. He was obviously drunk; I could tell this not only by his slurred speech but also by his uninhibited ways. Being a homosexual is a crime punished by long-term incarceration in the United Arab Emirates, and no sober person would dare do what this particular man did.
Unfortunately for me, I was not talking to any sober person. I readily told him that I was not interested; at this point in time I can still say that I prefer the cunt to the cock, despite my menagerie of negative relationships with women. Nevertheless, he continued to pursue me, even to the point of getting off at the same floor as I did.
Now was when I concocted an elaborate plan: I decided to pretend to prostitute myself; see if the man would give me money for a kiss on the cheek. It was by this time evident that he would not leave me alone, so I informed him that any homosexual activity would require a large amount of money on his part (keep in mind, please, that I never intended to do anything with him; this was all a clever trick to get money from him). However, there appeared to be a problem at hand: he had no more than $15, and for those who know me, it would take much more than that simple amount to get me to kiss the cheek of a male who smelled like shit and looked even worse.
Attempting to convince me that he in fact had $1000, he brought me to the hotel room that he was "staying at." When he attempted to use his key, however, it became clear that he was not a guest in this hotel, meaning that more than likely he was in fact living in this country.
Several attempts at kissing me on the goddamn lips and several incidences of me pushing the bastard away later, I gave up on trying to see if he had any money and simply left. I told him that I was going to get a certain amount of "sex toys" from the trunk of "my car" to use in our foreplay. But of course, as we all know, I lack both sex toys and a car, and the second I got to the ground floor, I made a run for the nearest taxi. That, for sure, was the last I saw of him. What a surreal night that was.
The Prime Minister's Top Lawyer
Yesterday, as usual, I went to Rockwell Cafe with my friends Kate, Lynn, Ian, and Peter, to get a few drinks and of course, to dance a bit (actually a lot) on the dancefloor. This particular night, however, was quite different. Our table was situated quite close to another table, full of a quantity of Indians and Arabic-speaking people. And a nearly-full bottle of Absolut Vodka. Ian and I joked about asking the aforementioned people to share the bottle with us, but neither of us were sufficiently intoxicated to muster up the bravery involved in such a venture.
Then, it happened. Eventually, only one man at the table was left, an Arabic man in his thirties as it seemed, and the bottle was still almost full. That was when I made my move. After four Long Island Iced Teas and a few shots of Bacardi 151, I drunkenly made my way to the man's table and struck up a conversation with him, in which I casually mentioned the thought of the six of us sharing the vodka.
To my astonishment, he happily agreed, and even procured us extra glasses for our venture into the not-so-unknown that is Absolut. Several glasses of vodka later, the man and I were talking extensively; I mentioned something about my parents' jobs, and he informed me that his job involved being the head attorney for the Prime Minister.
Interesting information was this for me; I myself have never met the Prime Minister, but I have heard quite a bit of rumors and gossip regarding him and his family. Most of all, however, I was intrigued by the fact that a citizen of the United Arab Emirates would be allowed into a bar. I asserted that this was most likely due to his important status.
Soon afterwards, I used my remaining money to purchase some 'Araq for the both of us. For those not in the know, 'Araq is a form of Lebanese liquor somewhat higher than average in potency. I've never seen it sold in the U.S., but it tastes like black licorice and this isn't that bad when it comes to the flavor of strong liquors.
Following this, my friends and I went to the Hemingway's Bar, and later to my house to watch assorted drug-related movies. I remember little following that, except that Kate and I slept together as usual, as Ian slept on the floor, while the three of us watched Bridget Jones's Diary. That's one movie I'm definitely taking to college with me.
My Anally-Insterted Analgesics[/size]
Think to yourself for a minute. What are the various ways which one could consume a drug? Smoke it, insufflate it, inject it (either intravenously or intramuscularly), eat it, or insert it into your eyes. But there is one way of inserting a drug that I'm sure most of you have forgotten. Rectally. That's right; you could insert a suppository capsule into your asshole, and damn straight it would act faster than putting it into your mouth. A few days ago, I contracted some form of disease that appears to be tonsilitis. Do I care enough to go to the hospital and get it treated? No, absolutely not.
Lo and behold, it turns out that my mother has some painkillers (phencyclidene or PCP for those who care) and she was kind enough to give them all to me. So now I insert two "bullets," because that's what they resemble, up my asshole to stop the goddamn tonsilitis from making me feel pain. Does it fix it? No way. But does it make the pain go away? Goddamn straight! I can seriously and honestly say that say that these anally-inserted tablets of phencyclidine are almost as good as morphine when it comes to painkillers. I'm going to make sure to take dozens of these to the U.S. tomorrow, not even to sell, but to use for myself. Panadol, Tyelenol, and other such painkillers haven't had much effect on me. But this phencyclidene actually works! Goddamn, does it ever make me feel better! As I type this particular entry, the inflamed parts of my throat don't even hurt (although they do tend to cause a weird feeling that is not pain)! Forget opium; if I want to diminish the pain caused to me by the assorted lethal illnesses that I have at this point in time, I'm going to make sure I get more of these phencyclidene-based painkillers immediately.
The Homosexual Who Hit On Me
Despite my serious sickness, I am not inhibited from venturing out of the prison that is my house and going to the bar. Unfortunately, today was the day, out of the previous three days, that I chose to go to Rockwell Cafe.
Everything was fine while I was in there, albeit the place was extremely empty; who cares, the DJ was playing good music and I enjoyed myself to a great extent. The problem arose when I decided to go home.
Perhaps I should have gone home long ago; I was sufficiently intoxicated from several Long Island Iced Teas, but something (the sight of several interesting-looking characters dancing on the dance floor) told me that I should stay until closing time. Once the bar closed, I quickly made my way to the elevator, and that was when the shit hit the fan.
"Listen, I want you," the man said as he came closer to me. He was obviously drunk; I could tell this not only by his slurred speech but also by his uninhibited ways. Being a homosexual is a crime punished by long-term incarceration in the United Arab Emirates, and no sober person would dare do what this particular man did.
Unfortunately for me, I was not talking to any sober person. I readily told him that I was not interested; at this point in time I can still say that I prefer the cunt to the cock, despite my menagerie of negative relationships with women. Nevertheless, he continued to pursue me, even to the point of getting off at the same floor as I did.
Now was when I concocted an elaborate plan: I decided to pretend to prostitute myself; see if the man would give me money for a kiss on the cheek. It was by this time evident that he would not leave me alone, so I informed him that any homosexual activity would require a large amount of money on his part (keep in mind, please, that I never intended to do anything with him; this was all a clever trick to get money from him). However, there appeared to be a problem at hand: he had no more than $15, and for those who know me, it would take much more than that simple amount to get me to kiss the cheek of a male who smelled like shit and looked even worse.
Attempting to convince me that he in fact had $1000, he brought me to the hotel room that he was "staying at." When he attempted to use his key, however, it became clear that he was not a guest in this hotel, meaning that more than likely he was in fact living in this country.
Several attempts at kissing me on the goddamn lips and several incidences of me pushing the bastard away later, I gave up on trying to see if he had any money and simply left. I told him that I was going to get a certain amount of "sex toys" from the trunk of "my car" to use in our foreplay. But of course, as we all know, I lack both sex toys and a car, and the second I got to the ground floor, I made a run for the nearest taxi. That, for sure, was the last I saw of him. What a surreal night that was.
The Prime Minister's Top Lawyer
Yesterday, as usual, I went to Rockwell Cafe with my friends Kate, Lynn, Ian, and Peter, to get a few drinks and of course, to dance a bit (actually a lot) on the dancefloor. This particular night, however, was quite different. Our table was situated quite close to another table, full of a quantity of Indians and Arabic-speaking people. And a nearly-full bottle of Absolut Vodka. Ian and I joked about asking the aforementioned people to share the bottle with us, but neither of us were sufficiently intoxicated to muster up the bravery involved in such a venture.
Then, it happened. Eventually, only one man at the table was left, an Arabic man in his thirties as it seemed, and the bottle was still almost full. That was when I made my move. After four Long Island Iced Teas and a few shots of Bacardi 151, I drunkenly made my way to the man's table and struck up a conversation with him, in which I casually mentioned the thought of the six of us sharing the vodka.
To my astonishment, he happily agreed, and even procured us extra glasses for our venture into the not-so-unknown that is Absolut. Several glasses of vodka later, the man and I were talking extensively; I mentioned something about my parents' jobs, and he informed me that his job involved being the head attorney for the Prime Minister.
Interesting information was this for me; I myself have never met the Prime Minister, but I have heard quite a bit of rumors and gossip regarding him and his family. Most of all, however, I was intrigued by the fact that a citizen of the United Arab Emirates would be allowed into a bar. I asserted that this was most likely due to his important status.
Soon afterwards, I used my remaining money to purchase some 'Araq for the both of us. For those not in the know, 'Araq is a form of Lebanese liquor somewhat higher than average in potency. I've never seen it sold in the U.S., but it tastes like black licorice and this isn't that bad when it comes to the flavor of strong liquors.
Following this, my friends and I went to the Hemingway's Bar, and later to my house to watch assorted drug-related movies. I remember little following that, except that Kate and I slept together as usual, as Ian slept on the floor, while the three of us watched Bridget Jones's Diary. That's one movie I'm definitely taking to college with me.
