January 11, 2010

• A few years ago, one of my friends--let's call him Mr. Friend--had abruptly gone back home after he found out his brother was involved in a car accident. Thankfully, everything was okay and Mr. Friend was able to return much earlier than expected.

  Having no social life whatsoever, I was the only person who could give Mr. Friend a ride home. And let me tell you, I have never been so glad to be a loserish homebody. Seriously. Because if I actually had a life, I would have missed out on a very valuable lesson on how to properly confront a friend who has heinously wronged you.

  So I'd just dropped Mr. Friend off at his house...

  

  

  The guy in the "69" T-shirt is Mr. Friend's friend, Mr. 69. Mr. 69 had been housesitting while Mr. Friend was away, and obviously had not expected Mr. Friend to return home so early because the house looked raggedy when we arrived. To his credit, however, he appeared to have been trying to tidy the place up beforehand.

  

  While Mr. 69 took out the trash, Mr. Friend decided to change out of his airplane-smelling clothes. A few minutes later, he called me into his room--but not because he wanted to bone me or anything...

  

  No bow-chikah-bow-bow here: Mr. Friend called me in because he thought he smelled something funky. He wasn't imagining things though: his room was stank. Even with the windows wide open, the whole place reeked of this foul odor that smelled a little like damp stinky moss, and a little like a can of asparagus juice. It was a distinct scent that is hard to describe, but very, very easy to identify.

  

  Indeed, my friends, the stankness in Mr. Friend's room was the stank of jizz. And anyone who has ever encountered that odor knows it's one you will never forget.

  

  

  Mr. Friend started pulling the bedding off his mattress in search of the source of the jizz smell--and can you blame him? His personal space had been invaded by someone else's dong milk, but he had no idea where the security breach occurred. That'd drive anyone crazy.

  While Mr. Friend was frantically checking his sheets, I starting wondering how he was going to approach Mr. 69 about this. If this were my room I'd definitely mention something to Mr. 69, but I wouldn't go so far as to say, "Why the hell does my room smell like it'd just been the site of a bukkake party?" I'd probably instead do the passive-aggressive thing and go with, "My room stinks for some reason," or, "Did you piss white stuff all over my room? Hahaha, just kidding." You know, something that would let Mr. 69 know that I am on to him, but without actually saying so.

  Seeing how upset Mr. Friend was becoming, I decided it would be wise to make sure Mr. 69 was the culprit. The last thing you'd want to do is blame someone who doesn't deserve it, especially when it's about personal fluid like jizz. One wrongful accusation is enough to kill a friendship. So before Mr. Friend said anything to Mr. 69, I wanted ensure there was evidence supporting a confrontation...and I knew exactly where to look.

  

  How come I can come up with solutions for stupid problems, but can't do the same on an exam?!

  Anyway, using plastic bags as gloves, I went dumpster diving in Mr. Friend's trash can in search of the mysterious garbage bag Mr. 69 had tossed out earlier.

  

  It didn't take long for me to find it because it was the only thing in the can. I took the bag back to Mr. Friend's house...and proceeded to walk right into the middle of a rather heated conversation.

  

  

  

  Hmm...looks like I missed something.

  I didn't know it then, but I picked the worst time to show up. Here's what happened while I was looking for evidence:

  

  

  

  

  "Piss-poor timing" would be a major understatement.

  I thought Mr. Friend was addressing me when he asked about the bag, so I opened it:

  

  • 4:08 pm
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