The First Time I Ever Didn't Kill An Uncircumsised Unconcealing Floppy Boner Having Pants Pisser.

2. Who was your first roommate?

I moved out of my house when I was a wee lad of 19 years old because I was raised in a gigantic cult called The Mormon Church and since I was a wee wee wee lad of 0 years old they had me singing (chanting) a song (brainwashing mantra) called "I Hope The Call Me On a Mission". I didn't really hope it and it wouldn't matter if I did because EVERY 19 year old Mormon boy is called (commanded to go) on a mission. So I went on a mission -- to Brazil.

My first real roommates were three dudes at The Missionary Training Center in Provo Utah. Two fat ones and one skinny zitty one who went to the shower every morning with a floppy boner he refused to conceal (fag). I spent 2 months there learning rudimentary Portuguese in a fashion which I would be able to convince poverty stricken Brazilians to come unto Jesus for no particular reason, there were crillions of other dumb dudes there too learnin the same line of bull so it didn't really seem like they were really roommates. So, that's just a long way of saying, fuck those dudes, they don't count.

It was when I arrived in Brazil that I had my first real roommate experience. He was a somewhat greasy, pigeon-like fuckwad named Elder Osmario. It was my own fucking fault I got stuck with him because when I arrived in Brazil and had my initial interview with the mission president he asked me what type of companion I'd like.

"Just put me with anyone, even if nobody likes him. I'm good with people, I can usually crack even the unlikeable ones." I boasted.

This wasn't the first nor the last time my Savior Complex ever fucked me over.

The mission president heard me loud and clear. He put me with the most unlikeable dickhead of all time. There are five billion examples even though we were only together for three weeks, but this one pretty much sums it up.

One day, while walking home over quite a long distance, he kept complaining that he needed to pee.

"Let's stop at this little grocery store and you can use their toilet." I told him.

"Servants of the lord don't use strange toilets" (exact translation) he replied.

More walking, more whining about needing to pee. He even cried.

Did I mention he was a total fucking pussy?

Yeah well on the way home we had to cross what was essentially a freeway. I got across in no time flat, he had to wait for a space the size of Canada before he'd cross. After two centuries he finally made it halfway across and was standing up on the median in the middle of the freeway looking like a cuntbag babyhole fag, Something glorious happened. He was wearing Khaki pants, a perfect model of dickheadery.

Yes, you guessed it, he peed his pants right there in the middle of the freeway.

I watched the dark spot grow and grow and make it's way all the way down his leg and into ---- drumroll please, ------- MY SOCKS!! Yes, the fucking pants pisser begged me to loan him some of my awesome thick American socks that day instead of his stupid thin brazilian kind and like an idiot I did even though I hated his fucking guts. When we finally got home he refused to rinse the socks out, instead he put them in a plastic bag to give to the laundry lady which we would only see THE FOLLOWING WEEK.

Seriously, why didn't I kill him in his sleep?

wow. boring.

the end

Now here are some more pictures of Emily from New Years Eve.

That's all for now.
Don't get caught flicking boogers at the elderly.
Your Sweet Sweet Sweet Little Boy,
Gummo