She looked like a sausage casing packed to the point of explosion with alternate shaped Legos, absolutely bursting at the seams with lumps and bulges (in all the wrong places). There she was, the first legitimate 3 that had ever been in my bed, drooling her way to a dreamland of George Clooney covered in pizza and chocolate syrup (or whatever the fuck “BBWs” dream about).
Thankfully, I would not be the one regretting her presence in the morning — aside, of course, from the now weakened structural integrity of my box spring and the subsequent dry cleaning bill. It was my fault, having trusted Mark, who loved fat chicks, to refrain from spite-fucking his latest prey on my bed.
But I wasn’t totally in the clear. Things hadn’t gone so well on my weekend trip to see the former want-to-be Mrs. Wahlberg. The accidental slippage of an ex’s name during a not-so-opportune moment had me thrown out while the lube was still moist and inhabiting her canals like an unruly hobo refusing to be evicted.
Mark’s shrubbery of a bush in full view, I declined to execute the perhaps-warranted “wake the fuck up and get out” proclamation, as the futon offered at least an imagined avoidance of Porky and the Pig Whisperer’s bodily fluids, and Mark’s debit card now more than owed me a late night snack after his unwelcome, conniving carnal cavorting.
I smoked enough to make cheese-covered cardboard taste like 2007 Jessica Alba, narrowly avoiding Mark’s attempted second helping of the hefer, who was Rip Van Winkling her way to overnight guest status.
I finished off their fifth of Goose. Then, while guarding my food and drink from possible attack from the slightly incapacitated Ms. Piggy asleep in my bed, I drifted into the kind of slumber that makes you wonder, if only for a second, “am I really going to wake up from this?”
Suddenly I awoke. It was still dark, and the Neanderthals behind me were gyrating in a manner reminding me that the ugly portions of society really do still fuck, against my hopes of abstinence for those under a consensus rating of 6. I swear she was snorting, though I’d imagine this was based moreso on substance than reality, when I realized there’s a smell singing my nostrils worse than the presumed stench of the sinister clam between Mark’s Rebel Wilson lookalike’s legs.
I couldn’t put my finger on it, partially due to diminished motor skills (I’m high enough to make Steven Hawking look nimble at this point), but something inside of me incited a fear worse than a 2 a.m. “Hey, so… I’m late” text.
I’d resigned myself to the fact that it was 4 a.m. and I was just Charlie Sheen “dragon blood” level fucked up when the smell got worse. The morons behind me had officially finished, I think, marking the first time a combined 7 had ever been in my bed, let alone exchanged bodily fluids. Suddenly, an alarm goes off in my head — I’d tried to reheat some fucking pizza. I sprang to my feet as fast as Mark hopes his real life “Becky the Blimp” will leave in the morning, and flung open the double doors to the staircase, Usain Bolting to the kitchen.
I turned the corner and see the kitchen ablaze, the entire countertop looking like the workstation of an overconfident hibachi chef after a botched onion volcano. The sink is literally on fire — touching the handle branded my hand with a Kohler logo and made collecting water from the nozzle impossible. I scream for Mark and his hefer (maybe she can suffocate the flames with her fupa?), realizing the disabled smoke detector (and by disabled, I mean we ripped it out of the ceiling instead of replacing the battery. TFM.) provided no assistance in fixing this catastrophe.
The flames continued to mount as I unscrewed and poured a case of Fiji (water, not frat) on the blaze in a desperate, upper 1% way of disaster prevention. It had gotten totally out of control, so I made a run for it, needing my phone and to wake up my comatose comrades.
To be continued….