I was free, and I waddled to the bathroom, knees clenched and I aimed at the toilet. When you’ve built up a massive bladderful of urine like this one, and it’s about to burst forth like the ZuiderZee after the dykes fail, your natural impulse is to guide the flow. So I reach down and I aim it so I’m not missing the toilet. I forget about the chain between my wrists and something gets caught. I know that this is only temporary, though, so I tough it out.
After what seems like ten minutes I’m done peeing, and I remove the chain from the area and the pinching has stopped. The whole ordeal is not yet over, though. I’m naked, I’m wearing handcuffs and the simple fact that I’m wearing handcuffs means I can’t put on a shirt, which means I can’t really go out. I put on my pants and do what any sensible, rational person would do in this situation. I make some coffee and mull over my options.
I’m on my third cup, with the futon neatly rearranged back on the floor in as quiet a manner as possible when I decide to call the police. I relate my situation to the local dispatcher (after getting the station number from directory assistance. Fuck the bitch, I ain’t using the yellow pages. She can pay the quarter) and explain why I think it’s a delicate matter, and could they send someone over at the earliest possible convenience?
It turns out that there’s a car a block away, and the officer walks over and knocks on the door. I open it and he looks at me funny. I assume it’s a situational thing.
“So the dispatcher explained, officer?”
“Yes, son, she did.” “And you can get me out of these cuffs?”
“Well, let me see here….” At this point he pulls out a couple of keys and tries them, and the second one works. I’m elated.
“Sorry about the inconvenience, officer. I bet you don’t see this every day, huh?”
“Not for a couple of weeks.” At this point he looks at me funny again. It’s a small town, and I figure they think this kind of thing is perverted. For once I agree with the cops.
“It happens that often?”
“It does here.” He looks around indicating the apartment building. “Third floor, right?”
“Uh… yeah.” Suddenly the gears start moving in my head.
“Last time the guy just used the phone next to the bed.” He must have seen my visage degenerate into total confusion. “Well… You, uh. You have a good day, son.”
Now, you have to understand that I’m a little creeped out at this point in the story, as I had assumed that it was a rather unique situation. It explained a number of things, though. Why there was no longer a phone in her room, why the downstairs neighbours were pissy about being woken up early on Saturdays. I went back upstairs to get my shirt and couldn’t help but look at the other end of the futon frame. There were dents a lot like the ones I had made while attempting to cut through the slat with the chain on the cuffs. There were also red specks on the wood.
It was official. She was a sexually insatiable sociopath ex dominatrix and she was cheating on me. I wasn’t about to let the latter part of that sentence slide. It was over between us.
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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The Comedy Goldmine examines the funniest and most creative threads from the Something Awful Forums. Although the Comedy Goldmine has changed authors many times over the years, its focus on the Something Awful Forums is still the same. Includes hilarious Photoshops, amusing work stories, parodies, and other types of oddball humor.