At some point in life, we've all found ourselves in one of those horrifying social situations where something occurs unexpectedly, and it's almost impossible to recover from the awkwardness that ensues. I'm talking about those rare scenarios so awkward, nobody has ever found a good way to deal with them. Lucky for you everything I do is awkward, so I'm able to look these moments square in the eye, and at the very least describe them for you ...
Now you know what he was thinking. Stench: The laws of the universe dictate that if you're embarrassed by the fetid, nearly tangible stank you've implanted into the very floor tiles, you will have no suitable means of covering it up, and someone will go to the washroom within a minute of you leaving. Accept that, and try to think up a reasonable excuse, like you ate bad Cambodian last night, or you have stomach leprosy. If someone does enter the bathroom after you, try to avoid eye contact. Odds are they won't say anything, they're just going to have that look on their face that says, âI know what it smells like about a foot inside of you and I'm not happy with that.â Don't acknowledge it. The Clog: Possibly the worst outcome of all and for good reason. Here's a true story: About a month ago, someone exploded in my bathroom. I literally had to clean shit off of the light switch. I should point out that my light switch is no where near the toilet bowl. It's on a wall. Just below shoulder height. There was shit on my floor, behind the toilet, on the mat and I boiled the hell out of my toothbrush, and then threw it away. The toilet itself has been blocked from my memory but I do seem to remember what, in my opinion, was a little less toilet paper than was probably necessary to deal with what I was viewing. I can't say for sure if the person who did that to my toilet felt bad about it after, but they should have. Because I did. Clogging a toilet is the ultimate lavatory faux pas and there's no graceful way to deal with it. The plumbing, which works in literally millions of other buildings around the world, choked on whatever hell you unleashed on it. The best thing you can hope for is to plunge it out yourself and hope no one hears the terrible racket you're making. At worst, you have to move at exceptional speeds away from the incoming tide of your insides and let someone else know the situation has escalated beyond the scope of your expertise. They will appreciate this later, or they will if they've ever had to clean poop off a light fixture.
The boner isn't seeing anyone right now, please leave. Dealing with this is trickier than you'd think thanks to a number of factors. Biologically, if you're some kind of half-horse who elected to wear soccer shorts the only real option you have is to swiftly and discretely lay your penis on a flat surface and punch it. Like seriously, kick its ass. That'll teach it. Alternately, if you're more on the average end of the scale and are wearing man clothes, you could always flip it up and tuck the tip under your waistband.
Hey, where the fuck are all the watermelons? Again, if you don't relish the glares from people who have just dropped their opinion of you down to somewhere above a hobo who's trying to use the heat from his own shit to cook a robin's egg, you need to act quick to deal with piss spots. If it's a minor infraction, grabbing a towel or a handful of toilet paper and just mercilessly squeezing the excess moisture from your pants may do the trick. If you really fucked up and left the better portion of a squirt in there, it's time to get crafty and blame faulty plumbing. Proceed as usual to the sink, because people who don't wash their hands after using the toilet are worse than hepatitis, and wash up. Then just dump a good handful or two across your shirt and pants, ensuring you totally obscure that piss spot. Now, feign indignity and exasperation, maybe work up a quip like âI just went to wash my hands and now it looks like I pissed myself.â Then you can laugh on the inside due to the irony of you actually pissing yourself.
Condoms? Fuck no, whatever you got, I want! The short answer to this is to simply say âno thanksâ and start the slow but wholly essential process of clenching. Clench everything you have. But as any woman can tell you, sometimes no isn't enough. The drunker or less infused with the proper medications someone is, the more likely they are to assume that ânoâ means they just haven't tried hard enough to seduce you, and perhaps more persistence or vulgarity is in order to get the job done. Quick thinking is always good in a situation like this. Can you vomit on command? This would be an opportune moment. Likewise, if you can take a few moments in your week to design a certificate that confirms yes, you do have gonorrhea, you may want to carry that around with you. Do they laminate those? Check into that and put one in your wallet.
R2 says that the chances of orgasm are 725 to 1. And even if you're one of those ultra-careful types who always knocks, in this modern age traumatic familial boning is more dangerous than ever. One unlabeled DVD or a mysterious folder on the computer when you're looking for pictures from last year's Christmas dinner could lead straight to a pillar of madness if you're confronted with digital evidence that your parents actually do know what teabagging is. Likewise, there are far more people than are willing to admit it out there who have, either innocently or while on the hunt for hidden gifts, cash or otherwise, gone rifling through a parent's drawers only to run afoul of full on dildos. Whose hands totally made real, physical contact with their own mother's rubber dong. They don't make soap that can wash that off.
Keep tryin'. Ain't gonna happen. By the time you're old enough to realize you shouldn't wander into your parent's room or go looking through their shit, it may be too late, but from then on your best weapon is your own scarcity. You can't be traumatized by trauma that happens when you're gone. Best to leave home early and schedule any return visits well in advance. Keep them brief and cordial, shake hands, wash up and leave before anything untoward happens.
How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.
Most rich kids just want to be pop stars.