The Drunken Donuts Guy

Gotta thank my friend Merry for the title. It's the perfect one for this story. 

Last year, around Christmas, my whole family gathered at my sister's house in Chicago. One day, my other sister and I got bored and she decided she wanted lentil soup at this one Arabic restaurant nearby NOW. And I was like OKAY LET'S GO.

We speak to each other via shouts in the loving way only family can.

So we hopped in the car and went. The place was not too busy but there were more people there than I thought there would be. Enough, anyway, to make the next event even more traumatizing.

There we are, sitting, eating our soup, and shit talking everyone else in the restaurant when all of a sudden my sister chokes on her soup and looks at me more terrified than a baby seal staring an orca in the face.

"What? What the fuck's wrong with you?", I said, abrasively.

"Noor. Oh my God", was her only reply.

"What?"

"Oh my God."

"WHAT."

"Noor. Wow."

"Tell me!"

"Holy shit. Wow. Oh my God."

"Will you please just fucking tell me what's going on? Should I stop eating my soup?"

"Did you see that man?!"She asked suddenly.

"No, what man? I was too busy wondering what you were freaking out about."

"His dick was hanging out of his pants!"

"Gross!"

"UHH YEAH! And he just went into the bathroom. You're gonna see him when he comes out. Tell me if it's still out."

"What?! No! You're sick."

"Oh my God here he comes" she said after whipping around to stare down the bathroom door.

Sure enough, this really tall, really wide, really old man comes walking out of the bathroom, clutching his pants up with both hands, dick a-swinging around all disgustingly and profanely. I, too, choked on my soup and nearly threw up.

"That's fucking sick" I finally managed to say.

My sister wasn't paying attention. The man was passing by our table and she was looking at him really pissed-like. She's really vocal and confident so she yells out "Sir do you know your dick is hanging out?"

Censored for your protection.

He apparently didn't hear her as he just waltzed out of the restaurant. Everyone else in the place looked mortified, and obviously it was all the buzz as far as conversations went. My sister and I lost our appetites and went to the car.

"I want a donut", she said, out of nowhere.

"What? Really? After that, you want a donut?" I replied.

"Yes. Dunkin' Donuts is right there. Let's go."

I looked over at it and noticed that the creepy man was walking into the Dunkin' Donuts next door to spread his drugged debauchery about over there. 

"You only wanna go there to accost that dude" I said.

"NO I DON'T I JUST WANT A DONUT OKAY??! LET'S GO."

"FINE BUT I'M NOT GETTING INVOLVED IN THIS."

"I'M NOT GONNA SAY ANYTHING."

"YES YOU ARE WHATEVER LET'S JUST GO"

She never ate her donut, by the way. Which was fine because I did.

So we went. The poor little Indian lady behind the counter looked so terrified. He was just standing there in front of her, dick out, trying to order a coffee, but he was so drunk that he didn't even know what he was talking about. She was just shaking her head and telling him she wanted him to leave. We got two donuts and waited.

Looking back, I don't think the cashier's hair looked like that.

 The following conversation occurred verbatim, I kid you not.

"Sir, do you know your dick is hanging out?" My sister said the moment we got our donuts.

This time he heard her. He turned around and said, "So what? Are you gonna send me to prison?"

"No, sir, but I will call the cops. You're fucking disgusting."

"No, YOU'RE fucking disgusting. I just wanna drink my coffee and put sugar in it okay?!"

"Well you can certainly stir your coffee with your disgusting tiny ass dick. Pull your pants up."

"NO. Are you gonna buy me a belt?"

"Sir, there are children around and you're sick."

"What are you, a school teacher?", he drunkenly blubbered.

At this, I piped up and said "Well, actually..."

"Shut up Noor," my sister said. "Sir, the cops are here, look." They were. Someone from the Arabic place must have called them and they wanted to arrest that dude. We took our donuts and left, mostly at my urging. Well, completely at my urging.

On the way out we passed a cop and my sister said "You need to arrest him" in stride. The cop nodded and said "Did he hurt you?". My sister replied "Only my eyes". 

When we got in the car, my sister made me drive around so she could get a picture of the cops arresting him. She did, kinda, but I just wanted to leave. She proceeded to tell everyone back home the story in full detail, which was gross, but also unforgettable. 

See? In the blue jacket? That's a pervert, kids.

 So... yeah. That's the Drunken Donuts Guy.

The 5 Levels of Being Pissed

First of all:

Amen, kid.

 Everyone gets pissed right? Right.

I sure do. Matter of fact, I'm pissed right now (at level 3). Why? Because none of your business. >:O

I've found through my experiences with episodes of fomenting rage that there are 5 levels of being pissed. I present them to you now. Bear in mind, I've never reached level 5, but I know it exists. And I never hope to reach it, either.

Let us begin.

LEVEL 1

Level 1 of being pissed is the initial anger. You're pretty mad, but it's controllable. You don't have the unrelenting urge to strangle babies and punt small animals, but you do have a slight eye twitch and you really just want to complain. However, things are under control as you're not lashing out and you're not visibly mad.

Relativity:
Level 1 is akin to how a wild bear feels all the time.

Ease of dealing with it:
It's easy to deal with level 1. A few drinks and good compnay and you'll go back to feeling normal and rainbow-shittingly jolly in no time. No big.

The good news:
It'll all be over soon. 

But-

LEVEL 2

Level 2 is almost the point of no return. It's much harder for you to calm down and pretty much anything anyone says about your predicament when you vent to them makes you more angry, even if what they're saying holds merit. If someone doesn't agree with you, you get pissed at them too. And you're looking a bit mad on the outside. If you're not talking about what is making you so mad, you're not really talking. If you are, it's one word sentences or grunts.

Relativity:
Level 2 is like this girl:

You tell 'em, gurl.

Ease of dealing with it:
Not so easy to deal with level 2. It's not completely debilitating, but it definitely occupies your thoughts. I recommend a bottle of wine.

The good news:
You can still calm down, if you try.


However-

LEVEL 3

Level 3 is the point of no return. From here on out, you're pissed as fuck. Nothing helps but time, and a lot of it at that. No amount of venting will calm you down and your face is flushing with rage, the kind that you can feel building up as it's working it's way from your spine to your cheeks. You know what I'm talking about. You're liable to burst out with incredibly obscene remarks to anyone. "Fuck", "shit", "balls", "bitch", and other shades of colorful language are 85% of the sounds coming out of your mouth. And whoever it was that pissed you off is probably no longer in your phone contacts or Facebook friends or what have you.

Relativity:
I'd place Lewis Black at a solid level 3.

Ease of dealing with it:
Terribly hard to deal with level 3. If left unchecked, level 3 rage will keep boiling and building up, leading you to the disastrous next levels. All you think about is whatever the fuck made you mad in the first place, if you can even remember anymore. Really, now you're just so mad at everything that any memory of the first spark is fading. You probably should avoid public places. Don't drink. It'll only be bad.


The good news:
In these times of extreme anger, you get creative. Now's the time to play an instrument or write or sing or do something to distract yourself. This is how most metal music was born[citation needed].

Then-

LEVEL 4 

Oh boy... level 4. Shiiiiiiiit. Level 4 no es bueno, amigo. If you had to avoid public in level 3, you have to avoid public and yourself in level 4. Your voice has tripled in volume. At this point, as you can see in the picture, you do indeed want to strangle babies and punt small animals. Cute things just piss you off. People piss you off. Electronics piss you off. Get it? EVERYTHING pisses you off more and more and more and more and more until you blow up on the first person you see. You're like:

I wish.

 You don't wanna be talked to, you don't wanna be touched, and you certainly don't wanna see anyone who looks happy with their life. "WHY THE FUCK DID YOU JUST BREATHE NEAR ME", "FUCKING ASS PEOPLE", and "WHAT THE SHIT BALLS ARE YOU DOING SMILING AT ME?! AIN'T NOTHING TO SMILE ABOUT, BITCH" are things that will probably come out of your mouth.

Relativity:
Quitting smoking is an automatic level 4. If you don't know what that's like, imagine how mad you'd be if someone randomly slapped you across the face and multiply that by 1,000,000. Then, take that number to the 5th power. After that add 1. Stir and enjoy piping hot.

Ease of dealing with it:
Not easy. At all. I recommend you break glass or ceramic objects in a controlled environment. And definitely don't interact with anything that has a pulse or consume any drugs.

The good news:
Umm... you're not at level 5?


Uh-oh...

LEVEL 5

Fuck. You're at level 5? Sorry about that. If you're at level 5, you're chances of being incarcerated septuple*[citation needed]. Also, now you are capable of breathing fire and leaving a smoldering trail of devastation that is devoid of all joy and creation in your wake. If it's really bad, you also have laser vision. While these superpowers sound fantastic in theory, you must remember that you, too, are vulnerable to them, and that your control over them, like your emotions, is non-existent. Unlike the previous levels, where there was some semblance of hope to return to normal, at level 5, you're fucked. If breaking shit helped calm you down at level 4, it only serves to fan the flames of your insanity at level 5. This is your best chance ever of being on the news, but probably not the way you wanted to be.

Relativity:
Most mass murderers are at a constant level 5 (except Dexter), as well as crack-addicted hobos. 


Ease of dealing with it:
Can't you guess? You don't deal with level 5. Level 5 deals with you, Sovyet Rashah style. Just let it wane naturally. Lock yourself away somewhere. Go out into the desert or forest or something and don't come back for days. That's all the advice I can give you.

The good news:
There is no good news.

Hopefully you all know what I'm talking about when I say that being pissed is an all-consuming fire that instantly incinerates anything you touch. Do feel free to share what level you think you've reached before, and any strategies you have for calming down.

Adios.

--- --- ---
*Spellcheck, dammit, today's NOT the day to cross me. Septuple IS a word. Look it up. Motherfuck. 
Also, thanks to this link (http://mensconfidence.com/2012/03/17/saturday-funnies32-pics/) for the lulsy pics used in this post. 

The List of Irrational Fears

I have prepared a list of my irrational fears, most of which are made up. Why have I made this list? Because just read it okay?!
1. That a popped balloon will send a stray piece of elastic to blind me. DELIBERATELY.

2. That the number 4 will murder me someday. (I blame Asians for this.)

3. That if I rub my eyes after petting an animal I will get rabies and die. (Only the eyes though.)

4. On the note of touching, that when people touch me I will contract their personality flaws. Like Rogue, but the opposite.

5. That if a cell phone is directly touching food or cigarettes or gum or other ingestible objects, the radiation will permeate them and cause multiple tumors of myriad shapes and sizes.

6. That all of my texts are read by the receiving party in a very aggressive tone. (I never mean to be aggressive.)

7. That mixing two different brands of gas in a car's tank will cause a violent explosion. (It doesn't.)

8. Blood and guts. Especially my own. Shudder. (But only real-time blood and guts, not like movies and video games and shit.)

9. On that note, the drawn-out description of physical trauma, surgery, or terminal illness. Pass. Out.

10. That if you DON'T knock on wood, terrible, horrible things will happen to you. Like an elephant will fall on your FACE. :-O (See Fig. 1)

Figure 1

 That's all.

Happy trails. Wait... that's a horrible thing to say as a sign off. Happy... voyages. Bon voyage?

...

I'm just gonna go with bye.

The "Fuck Your _____" Game

I invented a new game.

You see, these past few weeks I've spent most of my time enveloped in a bitter aura of rage and hatred. The result of all this negative energy is what I have dubbed "The 'Fuck Your _____' Game". (As in "Fuck Your Blank") Here are the rules:

1. You must play with at least one other person.

2. The other people playing must have a knowledge of the people who are about to referenced in the "Fuck Your ____" construction.

3. The object of the game is to score ten points.

4. Points are gained by correctly guessing who is being referenced. Incorrect guesses lose you a point.


Now, those are the basic rules. The real meat and bones of the game, however, is the "_____" part. That "_____" is filled in by a personality trait or other characteristic of any person that you and the other people playing know. Obviously, this trait should be something glaringly (and annoyingly) apparent.

For example, let's say the subject is Owen Wilson. I would say something like "Fuck your broken-ass looking nose". If you guessed "Tom Cruise", you'd be wrong. You would then lose a point. If, however, you did indeed say "Owen Wilson", then you'd be totally right! And you would gain a point. Go you.


Now, you try. I'll wait.

...

Good. You're getting the hang of it.

To make the game a bit easier, you should probably give some context of the person you're victimizing. For instance, if you're playing with coworkers, say, "This person works with us". If you want to play strictly with celebrities, say "This person is a celebrity".

So, I'm going to leave you with an example. It's another celebrity, for simplicity's sake.

Fuck your Ra Ra Ras.

Happy playing.