Adult stories – mud flap

“Why do high school girls have such a hard time
forgiving their friends? They hold grudges forever.”
“Maybe it’s related to the quest for a good man.”
“Could it be that simple?”

Mud Flap

I never broke up with anybody. My adolescence and late
teen years were spent chasing females that were out of my
league. On occasion, I would land a great catch, but sooner
or later she would fi gure out that she was hot and I was a
dork, so she would dump me like yesterday’s trash. Perhaps
this is why I quickly turned to women that nobody would
steal from me. If I could have stuck with that idea, barring
all relapses, I would have been fi ne. My worst digressing
episode resulted in marriage. Why is that so bad, you may
ask? I mean, if she was so hot and all.well, I rarely got to
see it, let alone touch it.

Have any of you ever read James D.L. Staunton’s 1958
study of train and airplane crashes? Well, Staunton got
the stats on over 50 plane crashes since 1925, and over 200
train crashes since 1900. What he discovered was amazing.
Full planes and trains rarely crash. In cases where planes
or trains crash, they were running at 61% or less passenger
capacity. In cases where they do not crash, they were
running at 76% capacity or higher. A 3% deviation would
be food for thought, but a 15% deviation suggests that people
subconsciously knew the crash was coming and avoided the
travel.

Some people say that applies to marriage. Well, I ain’t
buying it. How many people say, “I didn’t get married
because I just felt like it wouldn’t work.”

My marriage got off to a rocky start. I accidentally
left one of my favorite porn fl icks, Deliveries In The Rear,
in the machine. Why the morning after party was in the
bachelor pad, I can not know. It probably had something to
do with availability or the fact that I was moving out of it
(I wound up keeping it.). We were opening the gifts in the
living room. I stepped out to use the bathroom. Apparently,
one of the gifts was an amateur VHS tape recording of our
relationship up to and including the reception, so they turned
on the machine and the TV. Awkward moments were not
unheard of with my in-laws. This time would be the worst,
by several orders of magnitude.

Upon electronic warming, fuck sounds were heard,
along with the sounds of balls slapping hair, and thighs
slapping ass (the latter drowns out the former, unless you
listen real close). The continuing warm-up, with picture
visibility revealed a close-up from the fl oor angle of a rather
well-endowed man stuffi ng his pork-sword in the rear of a
petite young Hispanic lady (From that angle, you could only
tell she was Hispanic from the accent in her moan.). There is
nothing like using your balls as a mud fl ap. If there had been
a Clapper in the room, the lights would have had a strobe
effect due to his balls slapping her ass so rapidly.

My mother-in-law was in the room. I am not sure what
her previous impression of me was, but now there was little
doubt.

“What the hell is that?”
“Well, what do you think it is?” her husband, and my
new father-in-law, replied.
She shot him a castrating look. “Well, it’s not good.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
“Let’s hope he was right with his Lord.”
Almost giggling, “He was all right with mine.”
“This place has all the charm of a dead whore.”
“As opposed to a live one?”
After that it was all hats and horns.

“Remember the elementary school fi re alarm? I just
shit my pants, and now you want me to walk briskly to the
nearest exit?”

My name is Earl

When my siblings and I were kids, Sis could not go as
Elvira. My parents did not feel it would be appropriate. It
was not until just a few years ago, that kids stopped wearing
OJ Simpson’s Bills’ jersey. Unless you plan to wear a big
purple dinosaur outfi t, most animated characters do not go
out of style.

I got to thinking about helping my kids choose costumes
for this year’s Halloween. Matthew, my three-year-old boy
will probably want to be Tigger again, or perhaps Bob the
Builder. I do not think we could pull off Thomas the Train,
but it would be cute. I keep telling Shannon, my eight-yearold
daughter, that it would be a great year to go as the Statue
of Liberty. She insists that she will be a Husker cheerleader
again. Unless typical local predictions are wrong, the
popularity of the Husker Football player costume may show
a marked decrease.

The media makes it mean more, sort of symbolic at
times. If you choose to go retro, Goodwill always has a great
selection of old clothes. Real clothes are often warmer than
the thin plastic outfi ts Wal-Mart has to offer. I am guessing
you will see quite a few children dressed as soldiers.
Hopefully, they will remember the bright orange tips on the
end of the weapon barrels.

This defi nitely would not be the year to wear a “Bin
Laden” or “Saddam Hussein” suit. That abuse might even
bring back the Barney costume. Unless you’re wearing
Everlast shorts and boxing gloves, do not go as anybody
named Muhammad.

Years back, when I fi rst began my correctional career
at the Diagnostic and Evaluation Center, I made friends
with a young man named Earl Lemanski. Earl and I were
frequently paired up as fl oor corporal and control station
offi cer in housing unit one. Earl and I shared many stories,
and a great deal of what we told each other was for shock
value. Eventually, we learned that we were not shocking
each other, but discovering a kindred-perverted spirit. What
started from there was a competition of sorts. Who could
get away with more?

Things got started when Earl fi lled my lunch box with
toilet paper and trash bags. I did not notice until I got
home. The next time we worked together, I fi lled his cooler
with over-the-counter meds that we use for inmate ailments.
Making unintentional thieves out of each other got old
quickly, because we got in the habit of checking out our
respective lunch receptacles prior to leaving the post.

For a non-Marine, Earl had some unusual talents that
I appreciated. He could almost fart on command, and his
gas smelled like golf-course pond-water with extra range
balls. I do not have the time and space to offend you with
all the suitable entries, so I will just tell the most shocking
story of all.

Earl was the control station offi cer for units six and
seven on a day when unit six and their fl oor corporal were
in the gym. I was working unit seven, and many of my unit
inmates were out on passes, and one inmate in particular,
Fisher, would be out for at least an hour.

Billy Fisher was a pretty cool inmate, but he always
dropped ass right under Earl’s hatch. The gas was purely
evil, and even impressed Earl. Even I was impressed by the
sound. Fisher’s droppings had a way of reminding you of
steel girders being bent.

Not to be outdone, Earl hatched a plan. While Billy was
out, Earl and I switched places. I ran the control station, and
Earl worked the fl oor. He entered Billy’s cell, and fi lled the
toilet with wiping paper. Earl proceeded to take a massive
dump on top of the paper so it would not sink, and the water
would not absorb the stench. To top that off, when he wiped
his ass, he just threw the shit paper away in the trash can next
to the pot. Earl came out, and slammed the door, laughing
and adjusting his pants.

“You gotta see it dude, you just gotta see it. That muddump
makes me wonder why I feel so healthy.”
“Dude, I can see it from here, it’s like a mountain of
poo.”

Prior to my departure, Earl claimed he was going to
perform the most daring feat of them all. He was constantly
talking about all the shit he could pilfer if wanted, but he
decided the one thing that would be worth the risk was the
fi re extinguisher.

“How the hell are you gonna steal the fi re
extinguisher?”
“I’m gonna walk out of here carrying my coat in my
hand, but my hand will be carrying the fi re extinguisher.
The coat will be a cover, disguising it.”

The strangest conversation we ever had involved the
naming of his soon-to-be-hatched twins. Earl and his wife,
Emily, both had names beginning with E. For some stupid
fucking reason, his wife wanted to start a tradition and
continue with the Es.

Jokingly, I said, “How about Elvis and Earnhardt?”
“That’s brilliant! We both love classic rock and roll, and
we are both race fans. But what if one is a girl?”
“Elvis and Earnhardt. They can call her Ernie, or by a
middle name.”
“What if they are both girls?”
“What about Elvira?”

“That’s a wicked-cool name.”
“Did I tell you about the time I met her in the Denver
airport? Her real name is Cassandra Peterson, and she is
a redhead. I offered to buy her a beer, and she said it had
to be a Coors Light. I suppose that’s because she had a
contract.”
“She’s a redhead?”
“Yah. Red on the head like a dick on a dog.”
“You sat with Elvira and drank a beer?”
“Yah, and just so nobody could ever say, “You should
have at least asked,” I asked her.”
“What do you mean you asked her?”
“I asked her if the carpet matched the drapes.”
“Then what?”
“Do you want the truth, or do you want a good story?”
“Oh fuck, you got me hanging, lie to me!”

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