A case of the Mondays
The Perfect Crime
Every single person in the world has one hilarious story about that one time they shit their pants. YOU have a hilarious story about that one time you shit your pants. If you claim you don’t, you’re lying. Sure the story might not be funny, but it exists, and other people would probably find it funny. Every single person has shit their pants at least once in their lifetime. There is no doubting this.
(Note: Of course everybody shit their pants as a baby, I am specifically talking about pants shitting as an adult or pants shitting after the cut-off of what is considered the normal age a person stop shitting their pants. Which is probably like... two or something?)
This is my story.
I was around ten years old and I had been off school with the flu. I remember taking Benadryl as a kid and it would totally knock me out and I would sleep for hours and hours having these crazy intense lucid dreams that I would constantly drift in and out of. One particular night I had taken some Benadryl to help with my cough and went to sleep.
I was in bed. It was around two in the morning and I was having a really, super realistic dream where I was at school. I was just walking about, talking to people, nothing out of the ordinary. All of a sudden, in the dream, I needed to take a dump. I went to the bathroom, but it was locked up. I went to all the other bathrooms but they were locked up too. Now, at the time this was all actually pretty intense. I can remember sweating like crazy in my bed too, worrying about what I was going to do. I was stressing out, running about my school looking for a bathroom. It was then that I entered a supplies cupboard in a classroom and found a frying pan of all things. I placed it on the ground, squatted over it and proceeded to take my dump. It felt so real. I could actually feel the cold metal against my cheeks.
It was then that the real world and my dream world collided. I was still shitting in my dream, at the same time realising that that I was dreaming, and that what I was feeling was not just simply the manifestation of the dream itself. The bad thing that I had done (in my pants), now rubbing between my pajamas and my thighs, was real enough to slowly wake me up.
Now completely awake and the effects of my dream now fully realised, I was completely horrified at what I had just done. How was I going to get out of this one? I started to plan my escape.
I had to get out of there... but with every little move of my body, the poo would cover further ground creating more and more brown soiled evidence. I first got the blankets off me by flicking my hands back and forth, slowly sliding the blankets off the bed without moving the rest of my body. Now, I could not roll over as that would be disastrous. I figured out a way to maneuver myself upwards using a windowsill so I was now standing up in bed. I jumped off my bed onto the floor, switched the light on, petrified at the thought of what was waiting for me.
Surprisingly enough, the bed itself was clean. My pajama pants were another story though. Fucking destroyed. Nobody could ever find out about this. My parents could never find out about this. My mum... the shame, the shame. And my dad, he is the type who would tell everybody about my misfortune. So I snuck out into the back yard and cleaned myself with paper towel from the kitchen and the garden hose. I then put all my mess into a garbage bag, jumped the back fence, and placed it all into otto bin of the people who lived behind us.
The perfect crime.
The Spank Bank
When the term “spank bank” is used, for the most part it’s referring to the imagery stored in ones brain for masturbatory purposes. For instance...
Example A
George: I saw Elaine naked today.
Jerry: Well there’s one for the spank bank.
Example B
Joey: I totally saw Rachel naked today!
Chandler: There’s one for the spank bank.
You get it.
However, sometimes a spank bank can be referring to an actual physical stash of jerk off material that people once upon a time kept hidden around the house. When I say “people” I am referring to males, more accurately young boys. Collections of pictures that are kept hidden from parents under beds, in the roof, in secret compartments under the carpet. It is unknown if girls also kept these.
The physical spank bank is a relic of days long gone. From a time when if you were a young male and wanted to find pornography, it was a huge deal. If kids these days wish to look at naked girls, all they need to do is type “tits” or “vag” into google and they’re done. Back in the day it was so much harder than that. It required effort and determination. You would need to rescue it from your friends recycling bin after their dad threw it out. You needed to steal it from the magazine stack at your local barber. You would need to hide it inside the roof of a nearby church for safe keeping until it was safe for you to bring it home. You needed to hang out behind the newsagency and search through dumpsters.
It was a hard life.
My first recollection of a spank bank is of one that belonged to my primary school friend Ben. I was in year two or thereabouts and was at Ben’s house after school one day. We went into his room and for some reason unknown to me at the time proceeded to lock the door behind him. Excitedly he says “Check this out!” He lifts up his mattress and pulls out a plastic sleeve, the kind that would normally contain sheets of paper in a high school students folder. He starts to pull out sheet after sheet, each a page pulled from magazines, featuring photographs of topless women. I remember it being the most impressive thing I had ever seen.
One time I was visiting interstate relatives with my family. I was around 10 years old, and was hanging out with a cousin of mine who was a few years younger than me. At some point he was proudly showing me his collection of scrapbooks that featured pictures of women in their underwear. The scrapbooks were exercise books that contained hundreds of pictures of women that had all been taken from Target catalogues and the like. He would acquire the catalogues, cut out all the pictures, and then paste them down into the books. He would then take to the books with textas leaving comments, where it was almost like he was reviewing the women. His commentary would say things like “MASSIVE TITS” and “I LIKE THE LEGS” scrawled in big colourful text, often with smiley faces. He was like 8 years old. He was a weird kid, but really pulled his socks up in high school and is now studying to become a doctor.
Another guy I knew used to go through the TV guide looking for late night movies that would feature sex scenes. At night he would sneak out into the living room, put in a tape, and record the movies. Then on days where his parents were working, he would slog through the movies, fast forwarding until he saw some flesh. The guy didn't stop there though. He would then dub that footage onto another video, which was his nude scene compilation tape. He had like six three hour tapes by the time he was 12, and about then he started claiming to have given it up. I still have my doubts, as that kind of obsessive behavior just doesn't disappear overnight.
Lost Property
I hate myself...because on the way to work today I lost my iPod. I didn’t really lose it, I just kinda left it sitting there, on a fucking train seat. I had boarded the train and fell right asleep as I had not slept the night before. At some point I was woken up by the transit officers wanting to check my ticket. My wallet was in my pocket and my iPod sitting on my lap. I took out my headphones, placed my iPod on the seat next to me while I pulled out my wallet. I showed the guy my ticket, put it back into my wallet, and then put my wallet back into my pocket. I was really tired so I kinda just went back to sleep again. Next thing that happened, I woke up abruptly realising that I was at my station. I rushed off the train, barely making it through the doors. Walking away, instantly I remembered that I had left my iPod sitting on the train… instantly I was feeling like a worthless piece of shit. It’s not really that big of a deal, as the player was on the way out. I was constantly needing to reset and reformat it. The loss of property isn’t that big of a deal, more the fact that I just hate being the type of person who loses things, as I’m not…
It also bums me out to know how lost I will be without an iPod. It bums me out because I was against this shit for so long. Up until around a year and a half ago I was still carrying around a discman. But I eventually bit the bullet, made the purchase, and it pretty much changed my life. The fact that you can listen to almost anything in your collection at any given time was the most awesome thing ever. Occasionally I would accidently leave my iPod home, and those days would always suck. Sure I always have music on my phone, and most of the time have a second pair of headphones in my bag, but I will always find myself wanting to listen to something that I don’t have on me. Like, I’ve got like twenty albums on my phone to choose from and that should absolutely be enough, but I really feel like listening to Prince’s Lovesexy. Or Licence To Ill. Or whatever else I don't happen to have on me. This is a fucking ridiculous problem to be facing. I'm an idiot. This is absurd. This is the stupidest shit ever and I’m a fucking idiot.
The first time I ever lost anything of importance was at a Sydney Blues baseball game. It was 1994, I was about 11 years old and I had been saving all my money for months and months so I could purchase a Joe Carter #29 official Toronto Blue Jays jersey. A guy at the games used to have a stand where he sold MLB merchandise, and at this particular game I was cashed up and ready to buy. I had been wanting a Blue Jays jersey for the longest time, and I finally had enough cash saved, and I was so freaking stoked. Right as I was walking up to the stand to make my purchase, I put my hand in my pocket and realised that my velcro NBA Jam wallet – that I had picked up in the NBA Jam show bag at the Royal Easter Show – was no longer there. I spent what must have been two hours retracing my steps to the car and back hoping to find my wallet, but I had no such luck. I never, ever got my official Toronto Blue Jays jersey.
My second loss was around 15 years later when I—again—lost my wallet (not a velcro NBA Jam wallet). I was getting off a bus outside my work. I checked my pockets, like I often do, and felt no wallet. I checked my other pockets and realised my wallet was not on me. I started running after the bus. I caught up to it, as it had stopped at the lights up the road. I was knocking on the door of the bus, asking the driver to let me on as my wallet was still on there. He was looking at me out the corner of his eyes, but refusing to let me on. See, there is a rule where bus drivers are not allowed to open their doors unless they’re at an actual bus stop. Some bus drivers don’t give a shit and play by their own rules, where others will strictly follow official guidelines. This dude was the latter. When the lights turned green, I tried to keep up, asking him to stop so I could get my wallet, but he took no notice of me. There was no bus stop for a while and there was no way I was keeping up with a bus, so I gave up. Straight away, I called up the bus depot giving them all the time of journey and route details, even the vehicles licence plate number (which I had taken down) so they could identify that shit and get the driver to grab my wallet. But apparently they’re not allowed to contact the drivers and I just had to wait to see if anybody handed it in. In the end, someone was awesome enough to hand it in, and I got my wallet back with nothing missing. Score!
fi angen at bori bysgota
