I’ve seen things in this life that makes me wanna take a power drill to my forehead and press for home. This epic blunder was a calamity of manly proportions, as unforgettable as it is unbearable to live with! I’m torn between wanting to kill myself and bragging about it, so–of course–I had to share it with the world. I have no pride, just a massive ego.
I was young and beautiful, drunk and delirious, roaming the streets of Bergen, Norway. Quite frankly, I was a bit of a bimbo, so it’s a good thing I’m a man, because I lacked the survival instincts of a woman. I was that kid who would definitely get in a stranger’s car at the promise of hard candy, every day of the week, bless my ignorant youth. For reasons beyond recollection, I ended up drinking with a bunch of strangers in a gloomy watering hole far off the beaten path. A pretty girl asked me to dance, so I tore a brick out of the wall, and the guy spilled a table of drinks in my lap. Wait… I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s rewind. I went dancing with the pretty girl, and then one of the dudes from our table joined in. At first, I thought he was trying to steal my new girlfriend, stupid as I was. He kept saying all the wrong shit, though… complimenting me on my “impressive physique” and stuff. I almost wrote it off as an unwitting act of self-sabotage from a loser with no game, but then it occurred to me that he was playing wing man! Wrong again, young Mr. Hoodling, you poor, deluded imbecile!
Quite frankly, I was a bit of a bimbo, so it’s a good thing I’m a man, because I lacked the survival instincts of a woman.
Just to set the scene; it was 1999, I was barely nineteen, and this wasn’t my first encounter with an aggressive, inebriated homosexual. A few months prior to this incident (in another pub), an older fellow leaned into me and asked if he could fondle my balls! Nice of him to ask for consent, I guess? Still… fuck off you creepy uncle fucker! This–on top of very narrowly escaping molestation at the hands of my mom’s gay friend in my early teens–didn’t exactly leave me with a stellar impression of gay people. To complete the picture, a friend of mine told me I looked like an elf at one point, on account of my long hair, prompting me to take immediate, drastic action and shave my head to the bone! Yes indeed. I was a walking, talking textbook case of homophobia, and I still couldn’t spot a gay advance until I was cornered. In my blissfully ignorant, binary fantasy world, other men only wanted to be my friends because I was awesome!
When I finally realized that this dude wasn’t playing wing man, and that he’d been buttering me up for a romantic rendezvous of the very gay kind, one might say I suffered a stroke-induced conniption! In a very heterosexual fit of panic, I tore a loose brick out of the wall and threatened to bash the pretty girl’s head in if he tried to hump me again! I figured he might throw caution to the wind and go all in for another humping if the only stake was his own life, but surely he wouldn’t risk hers as well? Sure, it’s a twisted bit of logic, but it’s sound. There are so many levels of wrong here, and we’re just getting started, so don’t get hung up on it. Naturally, we all ended up back at the table, drinking together and laughing about it. Well, they were laughing… I was drinking. No, I didn’t skip ahead this time. This is what my life is like, because nobody ever takes me seriously!
After finishing a round of beers, we ordered another. Just as the bartender placed the last glass on our table, the dumb cunt at the other end gets up and knocks it over, spilling everything–glasses and ashtrays alike–right into my lap! To put it delicately, my head started spinning and demonic vocabulary spewed from my mouth like a runaway fire hose! My leisurely night out had turned into a disgusting fucking train wreck!
To put it delicately, my head started spinning and demonic vocabulary spewed from my mouth like a runaway fire hose!
Again, let me set the scene. I can’t stand getting sticky! Even as a toddler, my mother couldn’t bring me anywhere without wet wipes in case of a stickiness related emergency. As a grown man, this presents me with certain problems in life that I’d rather not discuss in the same paragraph as my mother. To this day, I’m borderline phobic about getting my hands dirty, and stickiness is the fucking devil! I refrain from audibly freaking out, but I do take immediate action when my hands get dirty–nothing’s getting done until my hands are clean! I went to mechanics school and dropped out two weeks before graduation because they ran out of soap–I shit you not! Major life decisions isn’t my strong suit. I would turn my ass to the wind and walk out on the King of Norway if we shook hands and he left me sticky! To be perfectly honest, I’m quite comfortable in the current pandemic. In the past, not shaking someone’s hand, you were considered an asshole or a germophobe! I’d made sure to be an asshole about it to avoid looking like a panicky wuss! “You sure have a lot of issues, Hoodling!” Yeah, I know.
I would turn my ass to the wind and walk out on the King of Norway if we shook hands and he left me sticky!
The guy who flipped the table offered to pay for everyone’s drinks, which–honestly–was the least he could do! I told him to go fuck himself to death, because money was my last concern at this juncture. The pretty girl intelligently surmised that we had better remove me from company before the proverbial shit hit the fan! We went outside for some “fresh air,” as if that was gonna make a lick of difference. Freshly humped, drenched in sticky beer and covered in cigarette ash, young Mr. Hoodling was about to self-detonate! Her hotness tried to calm me down, but all I could hear was the blood boiling in my brain. Next thing I know, wannabe-murder-victim came outside to check on us. I stopped the fucker mid-sentence and demanded he pay for that beer. Obviously, I didn’t care about the money. I wanted to pick a fight! He politely apologized again and fed me some bullshit about being out of money, the fucking weasel! I was fixing to get laid that night, before the universe royally fucked me! The only possible outcome I would derive satisfaction from at this point was bloody, grizzly murder!
Freshly humped, drenched in sticky beer and covered in cigarette ash, young Mr. Hoodling was about to self-detonate!
As expected, I turned everyone against me. Suddenly, I found myself in a fight with all these people. I didn’t even get to the punching part, I just kept yelling until the guy walked up to me and bopped me on the forehead, causing me to lose balance and fall down in slow motion. This pathetic display of manhood was made infinitely worse by the fact that my friends showed up just in time to see it. Coincidentally, the Police had just arrived at the scene as well. You can see where this is going, right?
Yet again, I feel the need to set the scene. Already at this early point in life, for no particular reason, I hated the Police with a passion! Cops are nothing but state employed snitches, and that’s why nobody likes them! You can’t be friends with someone who gets off on bossing people around. To become a cop, you’d have to be a special brand of psychopath! The reason piggies stick together is because they can’t make friends with normal people. They’re not even human! They’re soulless, bipedal shit-containers with such an intense craving for authority they’ll gladly put themselves in a position where people hate their fucking guts! Yeah, I have a problem with cops.
I’ll be fair about this; the piggies gave me every chance to calm the fuck down and walk away, but I was in no frame of mind to heed their warnings. I wanted revenge, and some justice too, and no fucking way was I gonna be stopped by the piggies! As I stood there, arguing with one piggy, a sneaky piggy casually went behind my back and cuffed me–without effort I might add. I was so busy arguing with the other piggy that I didn’t realize it was happening! I didn’t even struggle! I was cuffed by a little, blond lady in uniform. What pisses me off the most is that if I–somehow–managed to travel back in time to kick my own ass, my younger self would have wiped the floor with me, if only he’d shut the fuck up and throw a punch! He was a beast, but that mouth just kept on going. He could have talked Muhammad Ali to sleep in the ring!
What pisses me off the most is that if I–somehow–managed to travel back in time to kick my own ass, my younger self would have wiped the floor with me, if only he’d shut the fuck up and throw a punch!
As protocol dictates, after troublemakers are cuffed, they’re promptly escorted into a mobile cage and transited to the nearest drunk tank. Well, first there’s processing. That’s the part where they take your wallet and shoes. “Why the shoes?” you may ask. I was told they confiscate shoes or shoelaces to prevent people from committing suicide. The jail cell was of the solitary confinement variety, with nothing but smooth, concrete surfaces and a hole to piss in. I was unable to devise any practical means of hanging myself in there. No hooks in the ceiling, obviously. Not even a door handle so I could hang myself by sitting down, if I was so inclined. Take my shoes, for fuck’s sake. Retards. In a futile effort to retain my shoes, I argued that there was no way to achieve death by shoelaces in that cell. That’s when piggy went off the rails and told me I could piss on the laces and strangle myself with them, because wet laces tighten real good! I don’t think it’s a far stretch to say that crazy piggy must have given this a lot of thought. An unreasonable amount of thought, one might say. I told you they’re all psychopaths! In what fucking world do you see me pissing on my hands and tying urine-soaked laces around my throat? I’d sooner kill myself!
That’s when piggy went off the rails and told me I could piss on the laces and strangle myself with them, because wet laces tighten real good!
Locked away and left with nothing but my brain, the heavy reality of my situation began to register. I had no idea how this might affect my life, but–as I tend to do–I assumed the worst! All I had to go on was a smattering of fictitious bullshit gleaned from Hollywood movies and TV shows, none of which bears any resemblance to the way things work in fucking Norway! My pea-sized brain convinced me that I’d never be able to get a job after this, so–in my warped mind–my life was over! I went from flat zero to one hundred percent raging suicidal in a fucking snap, and I cried like a little bitch! Yeah, I would’ve taken away my shoes too! In an effort to spare herself from having to listen to my incessant whining, crazy piggy elected to deescalate matters by informing me that none of this would have any lasting impact on my life… in any way, shape or form.
I went from flat zero to one hundred percent raging suicidal in a fucking snap, and I cried like a little bitch!
With the drama concluded, I found myself bored out of my delicate wits in no time, and I wasn’t about to sleep on a dirty, concrete floor and catch the cooties. That left me with only one option; I had to bust out! In the movies, they would play sick and fool the guards, so that’s was my plan! I was gonna play sick, go home and hit the sack. The middle part of the plan was somewhat underdeveloped, but I figured I’d just wing it. How hard could it be? I expertly laid the groundwork and faked an asthma attack, so fucking well–I might add–that they drove me to the hospital and left me in the care of doctors. Without saying a word, I got up and walked out the door, took the bus home and hit the sack. The piggies literally fell for the oldest trick in the book. This actually happened, believe it or not. Stupid, violent and unlikely events gravitate towards me like I’m the joke of the universe. I’m an atheist, but if there’s a God, we will have words!
If you’re wondering how this misbegotten disaster earned it’s place in my personal hall of fame, it’s because–for once in my life–I actually beat the man!