The 5 Reads Of Christmas
No. 5 - "Morning Time Surprise" By: Bunny Stardust
7 AM. Sunday morning. The sun peaks out from behind the clouds and hits your weary, bloodshot eyes. Your blanket is non-existent, having seemingly been kicked to the floor during your nighttime slumber, probably the unconscious survival response to the nightmare you had—it was a scary one. Your head throbs as you shiver helplessly. Your mouth, dry as a barren desert wasteland, tastes of old vomit. You dare not speak. As the sun begins its merciless pummeling of your useless form through your invisible window shades, you know that, hard as it may be, you need to make a move. A glass of water, an adjustment of the blanket, a quick 1-2 push on the can after you realize an incredible and untamable growling from down under. Anything. You finally make the easiest move of the options at hand. And you pull the blankets back on top of you, your only defense against the bastard sun.
But this move is paired with consequences. And negative consequences, at that. As you cuddle yourself in the attempt at a few more hours of sleep, you realize that the blanket, your friend, your pal, your buddy, had apparently played a dirty, dirty joke on you. It was wet. It was soaked. Yep, you know exactly what happened. The blanket peed itself. You can’t believe it. But as quick as you are to jump to that conclusion, you are equally quick to realize how absurd that notion is. Blankets can’t pee. It leaves you with only one, logical reasoning: your asshole friends took a huge, warm, golden piss all over you as you lay dead on the living room couch. My Sweet Lord. If there has ever been such a move of simple yet complex disgust, it was this. You think, write on me, smear whip cream on my face, chocolate down my pants, anything but pee. But it’s pee. It’s motherfucking pee.
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Your inner thoughts fire abruptly now, as the rage inside is at a boiling point: You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me. Some friends. Taking out their wieners and hosing me down like I was on fire. These guys suck. I can’t believe this. Fuck it. I’m taking a dump in the middle of their bedrooms. I’ll show them. Piss on me…goddammit.
As you get up to exact your revenge, your intuition acts up once again. And then you feel your crotch. It’s drenched. You reach down underneath your jeans to verify. Your undies—the same result. Did I? No. I couldn’t have. But, could I have…? The answer becomes as clear as the warm Caribbean Sea…
Your mind races in flashbacks, shooting in and out of certain parts of the night. The 2 Cobras beforehand. The 3-man blunt. The deliciously cold Bud Light aluminum bottles at the bar. Like 7 of them. The round of the bar’s finest, cheapest whiskey shots. It begins to haze out. You remember the bathroom, you on your knees in front of the toilet, giving the last piece of your large intestine to the porcelain throne. You remember the bartender punching you in the back of the head and dragging you out the door after you jump on the table and show the crowd what you really think of them by flashing your white, Irish, Catholic Johnson. The walk home is nothing. While you can’t remember the entire night, these little tidbits are clear indicators that the pee-culprit was you. Plainly, simply. You. You’re the one that peed in, on, and around your pants, soaking your blanket, your jeans, your undies, your undershirt, your Roger Waters 2010 shirt, your wallet, your cell phone, and the condom that you knew you weren’t going to use anyway.
Hours pass. You’ve showered, changed, and done laundry. As you watch American Psycho on demand, you wait until your other friends wake up to recall the evening. The fridge has a few lone soldiers left, so you enjoy a couple of easy drinking Busch Lights and laugh at the antics of Patrick Bateman. This movie is very well done, you say to yourself
As the other guys come down, one by one, you explain your plight. They laugh. You feel better about yourself. Various girls come into the conversation. You know you were unsuccessful so there’s not much that you can add in. Your buddy leans over to you and says “Ah, well. What can ya do, man? It could be worse. At least you didn’t shit your pants…”
Son of a bitch. I knew that stuff wasn’t chocolate.
-Bunny Stardust
As you get up to exact your revenge, your intuition acts up once again. And then you feel your crotch. It’s drenched. You reach down underneath your jeans to verify. Your undies—the same result. Did I? No. I couldn’t have. But, could I have…? The answer becomes as clear as the warm Caribbean Sea…
Your mind races in flashbacks, shooting in and out of certain parts of the night. The 2 Cobras beforehand. The 3-man blunt. The deliciously cold Bud Light aluminum bottles at the bar. Like 7 of them. The round of the bar’s finest, cheapest whiskey shots. It begins to haze out. You remember the bathroom, you on your knees in front of the toilet, giving the last piece of your large intestine to the porcelain throne. You remember the bartender punching you in the back of the head and dragging you out the door after you jump on the table and show the crowd what you really think of them by flashing your white, Irish, Catholic Johnson. The walk home is nothing. While you can’t remember the entire night, these little tidbits are clear indicators that the pee-culprit was you. Plainly, simply. You. You’re the one that peed in, on, and around your pants, soaking your blanket, your jeans, your undies, your undershirt, your Roger Waters 2010 shirt, your wallet, your cell phone, and the condom that you knew you weren’t going to use anyway.
Hours pass. You’ve showered, changed, and done laundry. As you watch American Psycho on demand, you wait until your other friends wake up to recall the evening. The fridge has a few lone soldiers left, so you enjoy a couple of easy drinking Busch Lights and laugh at the antics of Patrick Bateman. This movie is very well done, you say to yourself
As the other guys come down, one by one, you explain your plight. They laugh. You feel better about yourself. Various girls come into the conversation. You know you were unsuccessful so there’s not much that you can add in. Your buddy leans over to you and says “Ah, well. What can ya do, man? It could be worse. At least you didn’t shit your pants…”
Son of a bitch. I knew that stuff wasn’t chocolate.
-Bunny Stardust