Freshman Year, 2001: Part Two
This was college. I had never been much of a drinker. But I found myself with a full cup for the fourth time within an hour and the happy tingles ran through my face and my eyes and into the room and the whole place was hilarious and beautiful. I was tipsy. Not too tipsy, but like I said, I never drank much in high school but I’m a pretty big guy, so it’s going to take more than four drinks to get me stumbling like a drunken sloppy-ass fool.
I was talking to a group of girls, three of them, a hot one, an okay one, and one I’d be mean to describe, honestly. Also my friend Brent was with me and he was actually doing most of the talking, which was alright by me since I could feel the hot girl’s blue eyes flash at me every chance she got. Brent’s kind of scrawny but his personality and his long curly black hair supplement his lack of beef. He’s a talker and he’d been drinking and getting blabbery and making most of his eye contact with the mid attractive member, who had a decent face, but like Brent, lacked in the body region.
Then Brent starts telling this bongo bongo joke which he told me the first night I met him in the dorms. This joke is sick and I couldn’t believe that he was telling it to a group of girls. I interrupted him in the middle of the joke, right after the second guy (out of three stranded on an island inhabitated by homosexual cannibals), like the first guy, chose ass rape (bongo bongo) by the big-dicked deserted island chief instead of death.
I screamed over the music as my face smiled with beer taste. “Brent, I can’t believe you're telling this joke!” “It’s a good joke,” he said with his beer greased motor mouth smiling, “you’re going to ruin it if you don’t shut up. So like I was saying, the second guy’s unconscious, lying on the dirt with blood running like a river out his ass crack and it’s the third guy’s turn to choose. And this guy’s not having it. He says...”
“I can’t believe you’re telling this joke. This is so sick. You’re so sick,” I yelled over the pulsing music through the dim basement light and the smell of smoke. “I’m not sick, yeah the joke’s sick, but the joke’s good and you’re gonna kill its genius if you don’t shut up,” he said as I stared at him and stuck my fingers in my ears and began singing my high school fight song at the top of my lungs. He continued his story anyway, screaming his loud voice out to the girls as I screamed the fight song, but quickly I quit my protest.
“So the third guy’s like ‘Man, Chief Enormous Fat Dick, there’s no way I’m gonna choose Bongo Bongo, that shit is so gay and so nasty and there’s no way you’re gonna pierce through my virgin asshole with that MK-47 of a cock you’ve got. I choose death, motherfucker.’ And then the chief spoke, “DEATH!.......BY BONGO BONGO!!!!!!!!!”
The girls didn’t even giggle politely. They just looked disgusted, like my grandma’s old wrinkly face puckering angrily when she talks about the child molesters on the news. Or like that big warty cock had actually been present and exposed right before them. I was glad the girls were as disgusted as I was.
“That’s such a fucked up joke man. It’s not even a joke. It’s just sick. I don’t understand how a man could ever want to stick his dick in another man’s asshole. It’s where pooh comes out of. Would you want to stick your dick up another dude’s pooh hole?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean the chief wouldn’t want to,” Brent said. “So what? I’d kick the chief’s ass. They don’t have weights on deserted islands. They’re probably all starving and too skinny. If a dude ever asked me if I wanted his penis in my asshole I would kick his ass on the spot. No doubt.”
The hot blue-eyed girl chimed in, “Yeah. Gayness doesn’t really make sense. I mean, the parts just aren’t made to match up that way. I could almost understand why a girl would be a lesbian because girls are hot but the whole pooh hole thing is just pretty nasty.”
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