I figured I might as well go back with her to her place...

I have two credos by which I live my life:

1) My range for hooking up with women is 8 to 80 2) My top 5 stack up against anyone else out there, while my bottom 5 likely trump anyone else out there (which way the curve slopes is not important)

This is one of those occasions where one of my bottom five gets replaced.

On Saturday night, my evening got off to a bit of a late start thanks to Todd bestowing on me a lethal ball tap in the middle of our basketball game, forcing me to wither around on the ground for no less than fifteen minutes while play continued on without me. After icing down little Ernesto and regaining some similitude of my manhood, I decided to head out to a party Jared knew about to drink my testicular troubles away.

Unfortunately, Jared failed to mention to me that this was going to be a bon a fide “ugly person party.” For those of you not familiar with an ugly person party, it usually requires three or more of the following elements:

1) A group of emo girls huddled up in the kitchen thinking they are sophisticated drinking $4 bottles of Riesling and stopping their conversation to stare angrily at any person who passes by and looks like a normal member of society

2) A geology major in a plaid Columbia shirt who mixed and match a six-pack of microbrewed beer that nobody has ever heard of, yet won’t stop talking about how full bodied each beer is and how much light beer sucks

3) A cheese and cracker platter

4) A board game such as Cranium or Guesstures not only being played, but enjoyed with a raucous amount of laughter

5) A large contingency listening to a kid with a graffix jester shirt share the story about time he did peyote and his plans for attending The Burning Man Festival this year. He is usually the same person you faintly remember from high school who was on academic decathlon, ate lunch by himself, and attended every single student council meeting without every speaking a sullen word.

6) Fiona Apple or Gin Blossoms playing on the CD player.

Fast forward three hours and I had unleashed a crippling ball tap on Todd, upper-decked/ tanked the bathroom, played a dozen or so games of Beirut, and was now operating a Chrysler minivan with an elderly stateswoman sitting in the passenger seat. While words cannot really describe what this lady looked like, I would put her at somewhere between a poor man’s version of Ellen from Seinfeld and a leopard from your local zoo. The reason I say this is because she possessed a rare skin disease that bestowed upon her random, majestical white spots all over her body. As a result we will call her Leanne.

Leanne had a strong desire to go out dancing and requested we go to a bar that I knew a lot of my friends frequented. Oddly enough, driving a minivan with a woman who was growing increasingly unattractive by the minute in the seat next to you can be a pretty sobering experience. As a result, I knew I had to do everything in my power to avoid being seen in public with her. Once again, a moment of ingenuity hit me and I came up with a way to cut a rug with Leanne without my friends ever finding out.

Therefore, I cranked up KOOL FM, pulled over to the side of one of the busier intersections in Chandler and took Leanne dancing. We slow danced on the sidewalk for what seemed like an eternity, with her hideous face resting casually on my chest as my eyes darted frantically around to make sure no cars I recognized drove by. By this point I was stone sober and absolutely hating myself and everything I stood for. In that same breath, I figured I met as well bang Leanne because all of my friends had seen me leave with her and I was already going to be subjected to heaping mound of shit talking.

So I guided the minivan back to her humble Gilbert abode, thanking my lucky stars that her eight-year-old daughter was at the sitter’s for the night. She seemed intent on showing me any nook and cranny of her 450 sq. ft. apartment; while I was more intent in showing her the first penis she has likely seen in five years.

Eventually we made it to the bedroom and the love making process began, only to be met by a small stumbling block. Unfortunately, Leanne’s half-century old vagina had forgotten about the whole getting wet process and was about as moist as a three-day old bowl of oatmeal. No problem. I made the quick decent downtown, pushed some hair out of the way, and ate her out for a solid forty-five minutes. It tasted like a dry sandwich of nothing more than two pieces of processed bologna served on texas toast.

Sorry to get you (and me) excited, but I actually was not fortunate enough to taste Leanne’s waffle. Instead, I opted to pour the glass of water from the bed stand onto her nether regions and continued onward with one of the worst decisions of my life. About ten minutes into the torture, I began wondering why the water I had poured onto the bed was not only not drying up, but it seemed to be spreading and getting damper. I elected not to pay heed to the warning and continued sawing away.

Not twenty seconds later, Leanne let out a primordial scream and engulfed me with a steady stream of asparagus laden piss. Before I could realize what was happening, I was completely soaked in the foulest smelling urine I had ever encountered. After repeatedly asking her, “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?” and getting no response, I sought refuge in the shower.

Much to my demise, the shower was also the housing station for her daughter’s Barbie mansion and contained hundreds of Barbie parts. Thus, the water drained at the rate of about a fluid ounce per minute, leaving me standing in puddle of piss that did not belong to me. Ironically enough, my chronic athlete’s foot went into remission and has not resurfaced since.

Leanne kept trying to help scrub me down despite the fact I kept informing her that I would appreciate it if she got the fuck away from me. She refused to listen to my demands, so I decided to repay the favor and began peeing on her hands. Thankfully, she shrieked in horror and ran off into her bedroom for the remainder of the night. She called out several times for me to join her, informing me that she had changed the sheets. I informed her that I would not be joining her until she put on a diaper.

The following morning we hopped in the minivan and she drove me back towards campus. I took her down about fiteen side streets to ensure she would never find my house again, told her my name was Todd, and gave her Todd Blutton’s phone number.