At that sight, 100 out of 100 guys would have turned and ran...

I finally got hit with my first dose of myspace reality. And when I say hit, I mean hit real f'ing hard.

I decided to blow my frequent flyer miles on a trip up to Seattle to spend some time with Heel, Thing, and The Phat Rapper. I also figured I would use it as an opportunity to meet up with an attractive enough feline that I had met on a chance encounter on this new website called myspace.

Anyhow, I sped through my work duties that Friday and upon completion, immediately engaged in the mass consumption of alcohol. After a few beers at Heel’s spacious 600 square foot condo, we headed over to do some more pre-funking at Hot Gabe’s place before finally deciding to head over to Belltown Billiards. I informed the myspace bird of our plans and she agreed to meet us out later that evening. Perfect. I figured I would expand on the good buzz I already going and it would help to quill some of the awkwardness I would surely experience when she finally showed up.

Needless to say, we were all excessively speeding down blackout highway within a half hour of being at bar thanks in large part to consuming an ungodly amount of a Jaeger bombs and the bartender introducing us to a innocent blue drink known as an “Adios Motherfucker.” Considering I had a random chick meeting up with me later, I had every reason to believe the night was headed in the right direction. That was until it all came crashing down shortly after midnight.

The phone call I had anxiously been awaiting from the myspace bird finally came and I ran out front to meet her with the same excitement of a kid barreling down the stairs on Christmas morning to see what Santa brought. The moment I laid eyes on her I made two quick assessments:

1) There wasn’t a chimney in the world that this chick could slide down to deliver presents
2) God hates me.

Gone was the large breasted beauty that I had fawned over for months and thought of as my own poor man’s Trish Stratus. In her place was a gargantuan beast that bore an uncanny resemblance in both face and body to the goblin that nursed Westley back to help in The Princess Bride. Couple that with a five o’clock shadow that would make Colin Farrell jealous, and it was readily apparent that Tom needs to brand each and every myspace profile with a Buyer Beware stamp.

Now, I can virtually assure you that 100 out of 100 guys would have turned and ran the other way the moment they caught sight of Manface. However, as my track record clearly indicates, rational decision making skills continually elude me in these dire circumstances. With my B.A.C. level rapidly approaching Wade Boggs career batting average and armed with the knowledge that Manface was definitely willing to smash, I decided that I owed it to my friends, family, and myself to finish what I had started.

Did Barry Sanders let down his fans and teammates by quitting football unexpectedly at the age of 31 when he was less than 1500 yards shy of the all-time career rushing record? Well … bad example. But the fact of the matter is I felt committed to complete the mission I had laid out for myself, so I forged onward and began swapping stubble with Manface.

Once the bar closed, a couple of us agreed to accompany Manface and her friend back to their apartment. Sensing that if I sobered up even the slightest bit my conscience might kick in, I made it a goal to not only get to smashing Manface as quickly as possible, but to do so while extracting the fewest articles of clothing off her body as possible.

Unfortunately, we hit a bit of a detour when we stepped out of our cab. For, we all stood in amazement as we watched a parked 4Runner rock back and forth underneath the streetlight by Manface’s apartment. Seemingly, two people were consummating their love for one another by banging out in the backseat of their car in the middle of a fairly busy street. Rather than leave them alone to enjoy their SUV slam session, we decided that we wanted in on some of the action.

It started out innocently enough, with The Phat Rapper simply opening the backdoor and then running off giggling uncontrollably like a little girl who just got her first bake sale patch in brownies. Surprisingly, Romeo and Juliet were not fazed by The Phat Rapper, so we decided to jump onto the running boards and shake the entire car violently. Still, they were still undaunted by our actions and continued boning away. Finally, I elected to get in the driver’s seat to get a close of view of the action. The chick fit the mold of “pale Goth chick” exactly, so the sex was only mildly entertaining to watch. I tired quickly of their struggles to find a position that actually worked, so I laid into their car horn for a good ten seconds before refocusing on my quest to slay Manface.

When we finally got up to the apartment, I found myself more mortified then when I had first met up with Manface. The place looked like something straight out of Fight Club. The toilet and bathroom sink were clogged and smelling completely rancid, the shower looked more like a slaughterhouse than a place you go to cleanse yourself, there was trash, pizza boxes, and beer cans scattered all over the kitchen, and if you would have taken a black light to carpet or walls, the place would have glowed brighter with cum stains than the tip of the Luxor. Not wanting Manface to pin one of their hands down on the kitchen table and burn it with acid like Brad Pitt did to Ed Norton, my friends quickly decided to take off, leaving me alone to finally fulfill my prophecy.

Almost immediately after my friends shut the front door, I had my pants off and was searching Manface’s sausage bunker to make sure she did not possess a penis (or at least a bigger one than me.) Although I did not exactly find anything that bore any resemblance to a vagina, I also did not find a pig in her blanket, so I decided to put on my hard hat and go to work.

About two minutes in, I suddenly found myself disgusted and no longer able to look down at the face of the man moaning below me. I determined the only way I would be able to maintain any semblance of a robot chubby would be to put her on her knees and have her face the wall. We both assumed the position and just as I was about to begin sawing away; I witnessed the most horrendous site of my first twenty five years on this earth. Not believing the spectacle that lay before me, a second glance confirmed exactly what I hoped it would not: extruding directly from Manface’s mangled butt hole was a dingle berry comparable in size to a lucky rabbit’s foot.

Upon verification that Manface had a five ounce piece of shit crusted toilet paper affixing itself to her brown eye, my sword immediately shriveled up and shrank back into my small intestine. Not sure whether to run, puke, or help Manface dissect her asshole, I sought refuge in the very bathroom where she had likely formed the partnership with her dingle berry. I quickly realized that my options were fairly limited considering: 1) I had no fucking clue where I was 2) All of my friends had left and were almost assuredly passed out by this point 3) Even if my friends were awake, the likelihood of them helping me out of this predicament was zero because they all thoroughly enjoy when I put myself in these situations. Resigned to my fate, I decided I would just pretend to fall asleep and wait for the light of day to erase the horrific events of the night.

Unfortunately, Manface had other plans and she continually fondled my penis which at the time could have easily been mistaken for a hot tamale. One thing was clear, Manface could stroke and suck my famished penis all night long if she wanted, and there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that I was reengaging in sexual intercourse with her.

So five minutes later, I am thrusting away at Manface in the missionary position, opting for the full viewing of our chiseled face instead of the full viewing of her two-ply blanketed butt hole. Suddenly, she starts screaming like the leader of an African tribe and informs she is going to cum. Before I had an opportunity to blink, she erupts and drenches my lower torso in a substance that looked, smelled, and felt exactly like Wesson oil. Apparently her pussy mistook me for the world’s largest frying pan because Wesson oil continued to spurt out of her gash at great force, completely coating my lower torso.

In lieu of all of events that preceded her volcanic explosion, I surprisingly found that not only was I not disgusted by my misfortune, but actually rather impressed by her ability to spring open her floodgates so instantaneously. However, this admiration dissipated quickly, as she repeated this act no less than a dozen more times as we dingle danced all over the living room in her apartment.

At this point, I had pretty much accepted the fact that banging a chick with manly facial features that squirted Wesson oil every other minute out a hole located just above an enormous dingle berry was not going to end in me getting off. Just as I was about to give up on trying to bust, she asked me to place my little fella directly in between her two massive mammories. Realizing that her hoots were the only the decent aspect of her entire body and that enough Wesson oil covered both of our bodies to provide ample lubricant, I obliged and soon after I felt my balls begin to boil.

At long last, after Manface had put me through a night of absolute terror, I had an opportunity for justice. As I jabbed away at her fun bags, I removed my jimmie and prepared to unleash a firestorm of my own, giving her absolutely zero indication of what was about to transpire. Then in one swift motion, I slid forward on her chest and let out one of the most impressive streams of man goo I have ever had the pleasure of unleashing.

Enamored with how my cum was shooting off like the fountains at the Bellagio, I failed to recognize that my first and most powerful shot had landed squarely in the center of her right iris. She squirmed around uncontrollably beneath me and let out several loud shrills, as her eye immediately turned beat red. Feeling slightly responsible for her discomfort, I did the chivalrous thing and wetted down a couple paper towels for her to cleanse out her poisoned cornea. As she scrubbed feverishly at her eyeball, I sensed the perfect opportunity to escape.

I gathered my belongings and told her I was going to use the bathroom. As soon as I was out of sight (of her left eye), I opened the front door and bolted down the staircase. I would love to say my adventure ended there, but the truth of the matter is it was 5:15 in the morning, my phone was running on empty, and I had absolutely no clue where or I was or what direction I needed to go. Basically, I spent the next three hours of my life wandering around the streets of downtown Seattle before somehow miraculously arriving at Hot Rich’s front door, which I would later find out was exactly two blocks north of Manface’s apartment.

The following evening, I was so disenchanted by the whole experience that we went out to couple bars and I didn’t speak a sullen word to a member of the opposite sex. All in all, I would say it took me a good three weeks to even consider touching another chick. In actuality, I am still not fully recovered from the trauma. I still wake up some nights in a cold sweat, and I haven’t cooked anything on the wok I used almost nightly prior to my trip to Seattle. The only silver lining on this otherwise extremely cloudy night is that fact that I now take every precaution to make sure my crap cave stays 100% dingle free. That means baby wipes after each and every bowel movement, as well as an extensive three-step cleansing every shower involving shampoo, conditioner, and apricot body scrub.

Ultimately, I guess my philosophy was wrong all along: girls really do take shits.