The Number Four (866 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 2 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by gascs (View user info) at 2004-05-03 15:18:06 EDT
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
The day started like any other Saturday. I woke up at the crack of noon, a little sick from the last night's antics. Everyone has had wild Friday nights; last night was no exception. My friends all thought I was stupid for thinking I could eat 20 donuts AND a bag of Cheetohs, but I showed THEM who was stupid when I actually did it.
I rolled out of bed onto the pile of dirty laundry that had been collecting, basically, since the dawn of time. Wait, I thought, that smell... that's the distinct smell of feces! "Oh, no..." I actually said aloud, as I was filled with dread. Even though I ate enough donuts for the bowel functions to cease working, this shouldn't happen. Not to a grown man. With my utmost courage, I reached down to check in my He-Man underoos... nothing. Clean as a whistle. Well, clean as a dirty, unwashed, whistle that may or may not have been dropped into the trash, but at least I wouldn't be needing a diaper. That was a close one.
Still, there was a mystery to be solved. This smell had to be coming from somewhere. I briefly considered picking up Fred and Shaggy in the Mystery Machine, but I realized that was a stupid idea, because not only were Fred and Shaggy on a holiday in Kazakhstan, they were also fictional characters. The thought of Scooby did remind me that I had a dog, however, and I decided to begin searching for him.
The search was pretty short, because my dog sleeps in a box at the foot of my bed. Hoping for some help in my search, I let him out.
I was greeted by what appeared to be a living, walking, ball of diarrhea, anxiously wanting to be let outside. He sprinted to the door, leaving a stinky trail with every step he took. He stopped, briefly, so that he could attempt to shake off what had clung to his fur. Fortunately, he stopped right between the couch (that I cleverly had stolen from a neighbor's trash), my collection of John Travolta dolls (that I cleverly had purchased from the Home Shopping Network), and the television (that I cleverly had stolen from another neighbor's trash), managing to cover all of them in what might have been five gallons of fecal matter.
I gave chase, without knowing what my next course of action was. I wasn't really anxious to tackle a diarrhea covered dog, but I also wasn't dying to let this animal ruin everything I had worked so hard for over the last several years. I weighed my options as he began clawing the door, covering it with more of the vile canine rectal filth.
"Fifi, DOWN!" I tried to yell, but I couldn't follow up with my command, as a sound began to emanate from his stomach. I can't describe this sound with words, but if I had to, I think I would choose 'dead baby monkey rape' to most accurately sum up the feeling of dread and disgust the sound inspired, but only because it was followed by a nuclear-class explosion from my dog's ass. The area surrounding my door was covered in dogshit, but it seemed that the worst of the shitstorm had passed.
I coaxed Fifi outside and managed to spray him off with a hose. The cleaning was bad at first, but after about 20 minutes I got used to the smell. I was out of paper towels, but ironically, I had a lot of toilet paper.
I was done cleaning about 2 hours later. Despite all of the fecal matter, and the fact that I had committed a felony against my stomach the night before, I was pretty hungry. I decided to go to the diner around the corner to get some breakfast (by now it was about 3 pm, but fortunately, this diner serves breakfast all day long, which is the only way that guys like me know breakfast is). Before I left, I changed, put on enough cologne to drown a groundhog, and looked myself over in the mirror. Well, I've looked better, I thought, but considering the standard dress code at this place was a Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt with cutoff jeans (blazer optional), I figured I would fit right in. My hair was a mess, so I grabbed a baseball cap from beside the door.
One of this diner's specialties was onion-flavored pancakes (not intentionally onion-flavored, it's just that the cook always confuses the 'pancake spot' on the grill with the 'cook whatever the hell you choose here spot' on the grill). I was going for the Number Four special; pancakes, with bacon and eggs.
I took a table in the corner of the restaurant, trying to hide from anyone I might know. I was ready to order when the waitress came over, and I quickly told her, "I'll have the Number Four." She looked at me, seeming somewhat nervous.
"Uh..." she replied.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Um, we're, uh, outta bacon."
Great, while this definitely wasn't quite as bad as waking up to an excited shit bomb, it certainly wasn't helping my day out.
"Can I substitute something else?" I requested.
I don't know why everyone everywhere suddenly shuts up the instant before something embarrassing is said, but I knew something bad was about to happen when the entire restaurant stopped speaking. The waitress blurted out, "Sweetie, ya got shit all over the back a' yur hat!" for all of the patrons to hear.
I took off my hat, and, sure enough, there was a grainy liquid substance all over the top of it. It must have been caught by Fifi's splatter.
The Number Four: pancakes, bacon, and eggs, but fortunately, if they're out of bacon, they'll let you substitute a side utter humiliation.
User Reviews
Submitted by polly (user info) at 2004-07-13 19:52:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
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Submitted by ohlookasquirrel (user info) at 2004-05-24 11:43:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
All of these madness entries are great, and they shouldn't be
pulling down users' ratings just because they've been ignored and haven't
been rated, so I'm making this my mission.