For all future unsavory literary leanings (translation: to read all future shitposts), go ahead and find me at dickjokes.org. Kisses!
Drunk Linguistics
I went to the Guinness factory in Dublin when I studied abroad several hundred years ago. I was told it would be a fun way to “experience local culture.” For the amateur linguists who are reading, that expression in Irish Gaelic is interchangeable with the phrase for “get plastered and give a bunch of my parent’s money to a massive multinational corporation.” Language is so fascinating.
I went with a giggle of friends, which in American English is a quirky way to say “a gaggle of unhinged and annoying teens.” You go on a tour of the brewery and you learn about the local origins of the beer. You learn how often the feeling that you’ve consumed an entire loaf of bread when you drink Guinness was used as a substitute for food in early modern Ireland, and how many of its original workers were feudal English subjects. At the end, you get a free pint of beer. I’m exaggerating; they don’t tell you any of that stuff on the tour. They take more of the “hermetically sealed” approach to history.
“One pint” in the dialect of the American college student is synonymous with “six pints.” So, in an effort to partake in cultural exchange with the multinational corporation, I decided to drink twice that number. My friends, wanting to be good ambassadors of the college tradition of getting shitfaced inappropriately in public, joined me enthusiastically. Pretty soon, my friends and I were crowded around a standing table, gently swaying, overcome with the power of cultural diplomacy.
As inappropriately drunk young women often are, we were soon joined by inappropriately drunk men who were a little older. In the patois of young women whose frontal cortex’s haven’t fully developed (a condition that inhibits their ability to use logic even when they aren’t being ransacked by alcohol), “a little older” can and should be substituted for “at least twice our age.” The men asked if they could join us, which is internationally recognized as meaning “can we make you uncomfortable in a sort of enigmatic, bewildering way because looking at us will make you think of your fathers, but we are desperately trying to fuck you?”
“What’s your name?” asked the oldest member of this group of already ancient men.
“The Littlest Dick” I replied, giving him my actual name, like an idiot. An “idiot” is what women call girls who give strange men they’ll never see again their good Christian names.
“Ah,” he mumbled, “do you know what The Littlest Dick means in Gaelic?”
“No,” I said. This old man and I swayed at each other, yo-yoing back and forth in that special drunk way that is never perceptible to a drunk but alarming to the people around them. When drunk, I’m always trying to stack my spine so I can rest in a single position. But then it feels like the discs in my back slide out and tumble down like Jenga pieces, and that’s why I lilt from side to side.
“Your name means ‘a party,'” he sneered. The old man had looked at me and rightfully insinuated that my name was Irish for shitshow, but I didn’t appreciate the sneer. When I looked it up later, I found that the Irish Gaelic word that is a homophone of my name means “house party,” and is a derivation of another Gaelic word meaning “companion.” According to my mother, my name and the spelling she chose is Scottish Gaelic for “woman,” though I can’t find anything to back this up. So the etymology of my name indicates that I am both a woman, perhaps a companion, and a party. Did my name at one point mean prostitute?
Let’s imagine that we can get in a time machine and travel back roughly 1500 years, back to when the Gaels had been firmly established in Ireland as an ethnolinguistic group. We land just a few decades before they split geographically when a group travels to Scotland, thus forming the linguistic groups from which the Irish and Scottish languages will eventually emerge. We are observing a single soup of people stuck on an island, a population the rest of the world would come to know as “really fucking white.”
Perhaps there was a raucous house party, where lots of men who were just considered old instead of inappropriately so sought youthful female companionship. Maybe there was a very drunk young woman who was the belle of the ball. Possibly there were a few drunken missteps, she made a fool of herself once or twice. But she helped everyone have such a righteously good time that her name forever became synonymous with affable trainwrecks, and the whole affair was named after her. A detail or two about exactly what she did became twisted in a game of telephone that went on for at least a few generations. One man became two. Some sheep were added to the retelling for local flavor. The story of this girl and this party went through a re-write and a round of punch-ups. What had originated as several warm glasses of mead and some youthful indiscretions were transformed in the retelling into an orgy, and she became a practitioner of the world’s oldest profession. Her name became synonymous with a gluttonous glass, a good laugh, and a dick in the ass, even though the story was greatly exaggerated. Several thousand years later, I get to write a shitty blog post about the name where I demonstrate my very loose understanding of both history and linguistics, and punctuate my ignorance with wild speculation. Whatever, it’s okay that I’ll never know if my name once meant “the extra fun prostitute at the big kegger.” I guess I’m just happy my foremother fought for my right to party and be called one.
A Queer Quarantine Tale: The Legend of Papa Dick in San Francisco
Like all of us, I am fucking up on Zoom a lot. Every time I hop on a call, one of my pets decides it’s the perfect time to stand behind me and start steam-cleaning their butthole. And who can forget the time I made that butthole joke at the start of a webinar I was hosting without realizing we were recording and had gone live. Oh, quarantine!
I think some people are benefitting from the apocalypse, besides my pets and their buttholes, all of whom are getting a lot of screen time (the dogs have begun negotiations with the cat to unionize and form an OnlyFans). For example, I don’t know if you have seen any recent ads with the Energizer Bunny in them, but he has clearly gone through a glow up. I think Energizer’s sales came roaring back as we all began stockpiling our bunkers, so he got his bag and then got a revenge body. If you don’t remember what he looks like, allow me to paint a very horny picture. He’s Barbie pink, and his fur is looking glossy. He’s got shades, slides, and a big round ass, all very on-trend. He’s so glam historians will undoubtedly ask: was the Energizer Bunny the only true power bottom?
If you didn’t know the Energizer Bunny was gay, then you have a terrible gaydar; he has even been linked to personal trainer and notorious jock, Tony “The Top” Tiger. However, don’t feel poorly about yourself, gentle reader, your gaydar is still probably better than someone I love very much who has an absolutely appalling one – my father.
My dad was a sailor stationed in San Francisco in the 1970s – arguably one of the gayest sentences ever written. He is an extraordinarily blind kind of heterosexual, like a Jonas Brother. You didn’t know they were straight, or brothers, but they’ve all married women. It would never occur to my dad that he could be romantic with another man, and because of that, he has a difficult time imagining that other men could feel differently. We know he’s straight for several reasons, one of the most prominent being that you don’t marry women three separate times without at least being able to commit to a bit.
Sometimes he’ll pepper his conversations with wistful stories about San Francisco in the 1970s where it’s clear that every man around him was trying to stuff him like a jockstrap. I’m sure there were entire bathroom stalls in the Castro devoted to lists of gentlemen signing up to Golden Gate Bridge my dad. Golden Gate Bridge: an Eiffel tower with a San Francisco twist! Try it at your next cocktail party.
My family can see one of these stories coming when my dad calls someone “a really nice guy.” Here is an abbreviated list of “really nice guys” who very obviously wanted to fuck him, a fact he is completely unaware of:
His landlord
His favorite commissary clerk
His lawyer
His librarian
His butcher
His baker
His uniform maker
The guy who ran the gym on base
The guy who ran the auto shop on base
Every single sailor who worked for him AND
The rear admiral that he reported to (that title is not a joke, that was just his boss’ rank)
“Wow, your dad had it going on,” you might say. Of course he did, he looks like me in a different wig.
So one day, I was in the car with my dad driving to north San Francisco. We passed a pizza shop just outside of the Castro, the neighborhood where he had spent more than a decade being an oblivious cock tease.
My dad points and says, “there’s my favorite pizza place! The guy who worked there was just the nicest guy. Anytime I came in, he always gave me free pizza, and one time he even showed me how to make it. He took me to the back, and he taught me how to mix the dough. I didn’t get it at first, because there’s a very particular way you have to massage the dough to make sure it’s firm enough. I wouldn’t have gotten it if he didn’t stand behind me and guide my hands, it’s a very special technique.”
I look around at the rainbow flags gently flickering in the wind, contemplating what my dad would look like as Demi Moore in the pottery wheel scene of Ghost.
“Dad, it kind of sounds like he was hitting on you.”
“No, it wasn’t like that. In the 70s San Francisco was just a vibrant city full of young men embracing physical fitness and healthy living. It was a tight-knit community of men who really reveled in each other’s company.”
Sure, I thought. That last line is essentially the tagline of a bathhouse, but what the fuck do I know?
“After he showed me how to make pizza, he took me to a gentlemen’s club down the street. And wouldn’t you know it, we ran into a bunch of guys from my crew at the shipyard, just the nicest guys. We danced the night away. I don’t remember very much of it, but it was a good male bonding experience.”
By this point, as an ally, I’m looking at my dad like Jesus Christ, what did this guy have to do to suck your dick? Instead, I say “Dad, he took you to a gay club. All of those men, everyone on your crew, they were all gay.”
He pauses for a second, his mustache twitching suspiciously. He is a tremendous male walrus suddenly realizing that the other male in his huddle wanted to wrestle for something more than dominance and sport, the only reasons to wrestle he can understand. “Do you really think so?”
“Yes Dad, and you don’t realize stuff like this all the time – Chasten Buttigieg is Pete’s husband, not his brother, Rupaul is not a woman, and the pizza guy was gay. He took you to a gay club. I’m so glad you had fun, but I can’t believe you didn’t notice.”
“Well, I could be gay and I wouldn’t notice.”
Engagement in the Aftermath
Nearly two weeks ago the following scenario took place:
60,834,437 Dumpster Inhabitants
We’re here! And we’re angry! And we think Hitler 2.0 fairly represents us and how fucking pissed we are! We’re going to elect him!
61,782,016 Dumpster Inhabitants
Please don’t! He’ll set the dumpster on fire! He’ll set lots of other dumpsters on fire! This won’t fix anything for anyone!
60,834,437 American citizens legally elect a bigoted narcissist as leader of the free dumpster. Bigoted narcissist begins preparations for setting the free dumpster on fire with his tiny hands. Exit democracy, enter fascism.
Based on your outlook you’ll have named The One True Cause of the impending dumpster fire a different thing. People of color have said its racism. Feminists have said it was misogyny. Lack of economic opportunity, anti-intellectualism, job losses, gerrymandering, the electoral college. Democrats, Republicans, class warfare etc. etc. A laundry list of social ills and institutions has been generated and each blamed in turn by the frightened dumpster inhabitants.
The truth is, we’ll never be able to point at just one thing and say “well, that was the reason it all went to shit.” That would be reductionist. It would too closely parallel the rhetoric of our president elect, that Machiavellian marionette who’s stuffed with such a putrid assortment of filth we might as well have shredded Enron’s final board of directors for use as his jet-puffed filling. As the days and the laundry lists dragged on, I only understood one thing:
We’ve forgotten that our politicians work for us. We don’t live in North Korea you idiots, you dumpster people. Our elected officials are the hired FUCKING help, and we’ve agreed to their presence because they are, in theory, supposed to make our lives easier. If you don’t think they’re doing well you can fire them. You can change the rules. You can spy on them. You’ve fooled your own damn selves by thinking the political system is out of our hands, or that it’s run entirely by shadowy forces that we have no control over.
This doesn’t mean that we haven’t been lied to by people who want to hold on to power. We have. But we’ve used the excuse “I have no control over this” as a reason to stay disengaged, instead of as a reason to challenge the political mouthpieces of those who would cheat us. We’ve procrastinated and put off the smaller, lesser pains of having real conversations, trying to listen to other people, and knowing what the fuck is going on. Donald Trump is the aggregate of that pain, and he’s primed to bring a whole lot more of it.
Everyone, from every corner of the dumpster is responsible for this happening.
And we don’t get to look away from the ugliness anymore. We don’t have the right to ignore what our politicians or our fellow citizens are doing, and we cannot, not for one second, sit still. We haven’t earned any breaks from reality. Every day we choose to continue being inactive, ignorant and silent is another day we choose to be a lesser species. We’re not just naked monkeys with guns, goddamnit. We’re naked monkeys with empathy and complex thought, and the unrelenting, nearly unachievable desire for happiness, wellbeing and security. We are more than those of us who have gained notoriety for throwing poop at the cameras.
Looking away again, disconnecting and moving on with life would be total treachery, the worst and last of its kind.
We won’t let it consume us, but our anger is righteous. Our sadness means we have an intense love for the planet and all of its inhabitants, despite our divisions. Our hope is thankfully not all we have left. We don’t live in a totalitarian government yet, assholes.
Our anger, sadness and hope are more than just chemicals in our brains, they’re a reaffirmation of our reciprocal humanity, the little thing inside us that says “because I care about you, it not only means that I’m human but that you’re human too.” These feelings are a call to action. Hold on to them. The only way we’ll survive this with both our bodily and spiritual integrity is if we wake up every day angry and sad that a person who embodies the worst animal parts of us has been chosen to lead us. We’ll only make it through this period of history if we move with speed and urgency.
Say it again: Our anger is righteous. Our sadness means we love. Our hope isn’t all we’ve got.
A Neopet’s Revenge
By the 50th time I had tried to give my blog some attention, like any other absentee parent attempting to do the bare minimum, I decided I hated everything creative I had ever done and I gave it up for a while. I regretted having a blog in the first place. I wondered what blog control might look like for people online who should really never have blogs and oh god why did I have a blog I just created yet another reader-less burden on the system. No one to look after it. No one to love it. I googled “is retroactive blog abortion a thing and how do I get one?” then, “is retroactive blog abortion just murder?” I thought about contacting Ted Cruz for a little insight on a blog’s right to life, before the clock strikes midnight at the Republican National Convention, and he returns to being a slightly-melted decorative garden gnome in George W.’s living room.
I read way too much horrible internet content and thought “why am I not contributing to this?” I missed my blog. I realized it was coming up on its 1-year birthday and I thought about posting something. You know, just to let it know I remembered it. Then my thoughts turned to the worst: What if I had neglected my blog for so long I didn’t know how to write a post anymore? What if The Littlest Dick really was dead?
And that’s where the metaphor stops. Of course I can still sort of vaguely string words together. My blog is not an unwanted child, it’s just a motherfucking Neopet. I left my blog to languish and starve like many a forgotten Neopet. I didn’t feed it mean words. I didn’t give it any of my feelings to play with. I let it sit in its anthropomorphized destitution and boredom, existing only when concerned relatives and friends sought it out once they got bored with cat videos.
And as we all remember, despite their cuddly exterior and general futility, Neopets are survivors. It’s well known, and confirmed by this FAQ section on their page, Neopets will literally never die. I’ve reached out to Neopet support to find out if they delete inactive accounts, and to say that I’m eagerly awaiting their reply would be a severe understatement.
So yes, I think The Littlest Dick is like a Neopet. Huggable and harmless on the outside, starving and desperate for attention on the inside. Angry, and coming for your bandwidth, bitch. Like a Paris Hilton meme on your Instagram: something you’d never thought you’d see again and sort of hoped was gone for good, but kind of sort of love a little bit? The Littlest Dick is back again with a Neopet-ish vengeance, terrible mixed metaphors intact.
Directions for my Funeral
First off, calm the fuck down. I’m not suicidal, I’m just taking precautions to ensure my life isn’t commemorated with some weak-ass bullshit. So if these instructions are not followed precisely I will haunt the shit out of everyone who is complacent in my final wishes being ignored. I will live in your closets, steal your good shoes, and destroy your dreams. Now:
I want my funeral to be held in the bathroom of the most expensive hotel in San Francisco, because death, like life, must be shitty and fabulous. The bathroom will have to be renovated in order to accommodate the thousands of people who will undoubtedly flock to pay their last respects to me, so I demand that the construction team be made up entirely of washed-up male models being supervised by some nasty dominatrix bitches in patent leather onesies. I will, of course, haunt the construction site, providing disembodied wolf-whistling accompanied by the faint smell of weed and Coach perfume. The bathroom should be renovated to reflect the following phrase: King tut in a threesome with Britney Spears and a human disco ball with the personality of Jon Stewart. For brevity’s sake, I’ll leave that exact layout up to interpretation. You’re welcome.
All guests will be required to remove their underwear before they’re granted entry, following the logic that if one is not wearing any panties one cannot get them in a twist. Any men who really love me should dress in drag. Ladies, bad-ass dapper suits are encouraged. There will be an open bar and trays of edibles being passed around, because who wants to deal with death sober? I want beautiful, naked men and women to dance around in literal champagne fountains during the reception, while a naked pianist of indeterminate gender plays wearing nothing but a 6-foot tall lavender wig and fluorescent body glitter. I want all flower vases to be filled with California poppies and the tears of Kim Davis.
I want to be cremated so that my ashes can be mixed with cocaine and snorted by anyone who wants Dick inside of them. No worries for those who aren’t so into white girl(s) because my funeral will, undoubtedly, end in a gigantic orgy, so they can get the D that way. The funny thing is it won’t end in an orgy because I’m demanding it but because you can’t have the sheer amount of beautiful people I’m friends with in one room to celebrate my awesome life and have it not end in fucking. My vast collection of shoes, which Guinness will have awarded the “world’s largest and most fucking fabulous” award will be given to whoever leaves the best dick joke in my guest book.
Anyone who starts crying will be back-handed by a Nicki Minaj look-alike and then thrown in a dumpster full of glitter.
Dear Santa Cruz
Dear Santa Cruz,
Oh, Cruz. You’re that one really hot hippie bitch that everyone knows. You’re beautiful. You smell like lavender and some disgusting banana bread edibles I had once. You don’t ever wear a bra, and hell, you don’t need to. Physically you’re pretty perfect, and it doesn’t matter how much you grow out your armpit hair. Everyone still wants a piece.
It’s a cliché, but it kind of is always summer for you. You’re one of the most beautiful cities in California, and you’re never-never land for stoners.
Mentally all of your locals stopped developing at about 22, but physically your people have aged like shit. I’m talking about these man-children that skateboard and bike down the streets at all hours of the day and night. To be fair, some are drifters, but it’s hard to distinguish them from the locals. From behind they all look like your average 20-something year old men wearing baggy t-shirts and jeans, carrying backpacks that are positively bulging with probable cause. But then they turn around and they’re clearly on the sadder side of 40. Their faces are like vintage birkin bags, not just because they’re discolored and pock-marked, but because the drugs and the luxury of the relentless sunshine that made them that way cost at least as much. It’s like a PSA about meth had a baby with a Pacsun commercial, and both were directed by Harmony Korine.
And that’s your much darker side, Santa Cruz. Heroin. Acid, mescaline, and unstable people. A good amount of prostitution. I’ve heard more than whispers of sex workers frequently turning up dead around here, but you won’t see anything like that in the newspapers. It could be because those stories are bullshit, but I think it’s because no one wants to fuck with the “perfect beach town” vibe. More importantly, no one wants to scare away the tech babies who are trying to move here. You know, all my contemporaries with Facebook money and a hard on for driving Teslas through flocks of homeless people on their way to private surf lessons. So it’s fun when the tables are turned, like that time a Santa Cruz prostitute killed an executive at Google. It was a huge deal, obviously. Why am I surprised? Double standards are everywhere. I could slap a man in the face and no one would bat an eye, but if a guy slapped me there are dozens of people who would exact brutal justice on my behalf with nothing but the second amendment and a smile.
I’m not leaving yet, but when I do I’ll miss you, Santa Cruz. All of your quirks and your eccentricities, your beauty and your grotesque hypocrisy. I know I need to leave never-never land so I can grow up, but I’m not ready for summer to be over yet. You’re beautiful, you crazy hippie bitch. Now before I have to leave, roll me one more joint and let’s hit the beach.
Huggles,
The Littlest Dick
Funemployment Isn’t a Thing
I realized the other day that the only word my phone suggests after “hardcore” is “unemployed”. It’s so nice that my phone is learning what I sound like when I bitch.
Unemployment sucks. No shit. Without a set schedule you kind of just float through days desperately trying to get something productive done before you’re forced to throw your computer at the next well-meaning person who asks “So, how’s the job hunt going?” After deciding I probably shouldn’t wreck the only piece of equipment that gives me any chance of getting a job, I got a bag full of those little pencil toppers that look like dicks, and now I just throw those at people instead. Flying rubber phalluses are a really effective way to express mental anguish, among other things.
It’s difficult for me to believe that anyone actually thinks people would choose to be unemployed, especially considering that unemployment insurance is, at most, half your previous salary. Anyone who believes the welfare queen myth has probably never been unemployed longer than it took for them to come up from a bump of coke and ask daddy to make a few calls. You only choose to be unemployed if you can afford it. Again, no shit. This doesn’t seem to be something that many of our politicians understand though, probably because a very visible portion of our government has run on the stale fumes of dynastic nepotism for the better part of the last century. Kennedy. Bush. Clinton. These people don’t know what job insecurity feels like because their family connections essentially guarantee them any job they want.
You know what I want? I want politicians who grew up in circumstances way worse than my own. I want politicians who have been unemployed. I want politicians who have lived in extreme poverty and met with the reality of how fucking difficult it is to hustle your way out of it. Maybe then we could have people who know how to create meaningful reforms instead of assholes who at best don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about and at worst might have “trickle down” tattooed like some disgusting pube wreath over their junk.
/End pointless rant
Smashmouth. See? You’re already laughing.
For those of you who don’t live in this pretty little douche receptacle we call the bay area, you should know that the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk puts on a series of free concerts every Friday night during the summer. It’s typically a who’s who of the one-hit-wonders from the last 40 years that actually survived their drug addictions. Consequently, the concerts are often a shit show. That’s part of the draw. You go to watch people who burnt through money and fame and never managed to regain a significant amount of either. Looking at their careers is like watching a wildfire burn through poor people’s houses knowing full well they’ll never get rebuilt. It’s fun!
Smashmouth was not nearly as much of a trainwreck as I was hoping they were going to be. Actually, they weren’t a trainwreck at all. They sounded good. They were rehearsed. They look like they still enjoy themselves, which was probably their biggest feat after more than a decade of cultural irrelevance. They drew a fat crowd too, because everyone my age wants to to relive their childhood through the grotesque sepia filter of nostalgia. The crowd was so big my friends and I got trapped on some stairs behind a morbidly obese drunk man who kept screaming “PLAY SHREK”
But the whole experience brings me to a couple more questions.
- Do they still have groupies??? Seriously, are there women and/or men who follow Smashmouth to all of the (now free) concerts they play around the country with the hopes of boning the members? I gotta say, I would consider it just for the story. Fuck it, I know a lot of people who would think about it just to say they had sex with a member of Smashmouth. Nothing screams “your childhood is over” like having sex with someone who helped make the soundtrack to the last good Eddie Murphy movie.
- Why the fuck do so many people credit their covers to them? Like fuck guys, the world didn’t start in 1999. I’m a Believer was first sung by The Monkees, you ignorant twats. As much as Smashmouth didn’t suck during this performance, the following remains true: Once a shitty cover band, always a shitty cover band.
- I know people have been saying this for years, but really, Steve Harwell is for sure just Guy Fieri in a wig, right?? Or perhaps the opposite? I’M RUNNING OUT OF EXPLANATIONS FOR FROSTED TIPS GUYS
Either way, I came to poke the festering carcass of their career with a stick made out of mean words, and I left unsatisfied. You guys didn’t suck. A+. I’ll take this as my cue to be a cunt elsewhere.
My Phone is a Piece of Shit
This began because I had wanted to stay awake. I was on a short flight from New York to Chicago, so I decided to down 2 cokes, thinking this was how I could beat my body’s clock and make it onto my last plane back to California. I thought I had time. I thought I wouldn’t have to use an airplane bathroom. Overestimating the capacity of my tiny bladder was mistake number one.
I used the first class bathroom, which in reality is just as shitty as coach. That’s not important, just an observation.This next part I really blame the clever engineers at American Airlines for. Hey guys! I have a great idea. Let’s save money and make toilets without lids. Fuck sanitary flushing. And gravity? Planes defy that shit anyway.Good job assholes.So that one was all theirs. Mistake number two.
As I finished washing my hands, I turned a little too enthusiastically to get a paper towel from my right. Mistake number three.
I heard a little splash, then a thunk. It was so quiet, I almost would have missed it had it not been punctuated by a sudden lightness in my pocket. And that, boys and girls, is the sound of an electronic device committing suicide. It took me a couple seconds to realize what had happened, but then I stared at the little metal flap sitting under that fluorescent blue water, and I knew, I just knew, that fucker had eaten my phone.
I became a little concerned because right above the toilet sat several red signs saying “DO NOT PUT ANYTHING MORE SOLID THAN SHIT IN ME OR YOU WILL BREAK THE PLANE AND KILL EVERYONE.”
I mean I’m paraphrasing. But I’ll be damned if that’s not what it said in the Spanish translation.
So I stepped outside and found a stewardess.
“Hi ma’am. Umm. My phone kind of slipped out of my pocket and into the toilet.”
“Oh,” she said. “Did it go past the little metal flap?”
“It went past the little metal flap.”
“Oh. Well I can call it in but you know if you get it back, its just sitting in… sitting in…”
“A big vat of shit, I know. I don’t want it back (its cool TSA, this one is on me. It’s not a bomb I swear), I was just afraid that it was gonna break something. Because of all those signs above the toilet. So I was just checking.”
The nice lady reassured me that no, I wasn’t going to break anything because I had been too stupid to leave my phone behind when it was a) not necessary because it was b) not on, because I was c) ON A FUCKING AIRPLANE, DICK, but she got on the phone and warned the airport crew anyway. Watch out guys, the ghost of Steve Jobs has taken an angry shit in the first class bathroom. Honestly, with a diet like that, it’s no wonder he got pancreatic cancer. But I heard Apple recently instated a policy where all of its employees are fed outdated phones, so this can’t be the first time this has happened. Also its very possible that my phone would be what an iPhone would have shat, could it shit out anything besides your duckfaced selfies.
Lastly, as a final Fun Fact for those of you who have cared enough to read this far, would you like to know what they do with your poop on airplanes?
They freeze it. In big cubes. That Blue “water” is not in fact water but something akin to that instafreeze shit that you find in an ice pack. So my phone has been laid to rest in a giant blue cube of human excrement. I always said it was a piece of shit, and now it has gone to be with its own kind.
