You ever go to the movies? Sure you do, you’re just like me. What do you do when you have to take a piss though? I’ll tell you what I do. See, I won’t even go into a movie without at least three or four beers tucked away in my clothes, sometimes even entire six packs of tallboys. Those of you into terrorism know that you can smuggle enough weapons, conventional or otherwise, into a movie to kill everybody in the place, not to mention all the beer you’ll need to drink while doing it. Needless to say, I have to piss two or three times during even the shortest of films, much less Lord Of The Rings type epics. Problem is, I absolutely fucking hate to miss even a few seconds of a movie when I’m at the theatre, so here’s what I do.

I get up, go out the door just far enough to get to that first trashcan that’s always right outside, and grab myself a discarded drink cup. (I’m also too cheap to buy drinks or popcorn at a movie unless I’m with my kids, but that’s another story.) Then, I come right back into the viewing area, and walk along the diagonal wall until I can see over it, but the people on the other side can’t see me. I watch the movie from there while I piss in the cup and then go throw it back out in the trashcan when I’m done. In all, I have to turn my head away from the screen twice for a total of about four and a half seconds. The beauty of this is I can see anyone in the theatre coming my direction from a mile away. In addition to that, coo-coo-coo, my back is completely covered because of light that will spill in from the lobby if anyone opens the door behind me. By the time anyone gets close to me, I just turn inwards towards the wall a bit, and look like I’m just standing there holding a cup.

I used to take the cup back to my seat and just piss in it there, but there were a couple of problems. First of all, I’d always piss myself. Any guy who has ever pissed in a container while driving a car knows that this is a very effective way to save time, but you inevitably piss yourself, even if it’s just a little bit. Secondly, sometimes the movie theatre would be too crowded for me to piss at my seat without disturbing other people. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not unsympathetic towards the viewing pleasure of others. If you can stand me cracking open a beer every now and then (I usually wait until something blows up, or the music is really loud) then I’m not a bad guy to go to a movie with.

I know what you’re thinking. Chad, what about the people who have to take out the trash with your piss sloshing around in it? What about the little people, the ones working for a living while you entertain yourself day in and day out? Well, you know what? Fuck Them.

Or, perhaps you’re a girl. Perhaps my plan seems genius, but biology has conspired against you and it’s much harder for you to pee in a cup. What do you do then? I’ll tell you what you do. You give me a call at (512) 297-5423 and we’ll make our own little movie. You can piss in it all you want.

While on the subject of discarded drink cups, here’s something else I do. At any given time, there are empty cups from almost every fast food restaurant in town in the floorboard of my car. I keep them there not only because I’m a slob, but also because it saves me twenty or thirty dollars a week. I do lots of driving around and drinking soft drinks in my profession, so I’ll go into an establishment like a McDonald’s or a Schlotzkys’s that has self serve soda fountains and buy a cup (a small one mind you) and then keep it in my car for weeks, stopping and refilling it at corresponding locations around town, using the same cup over and over. Then, I walk out without buying a single fucking thing. Although immoral and cheap, I’m not even sure if this practice is illegal. After all, I pay for the cups initially, and the availability of unlimited refills is completely implied. I’ve never once seen any sign indicating a time limit on this service. The restaurants just assume I am going to be a typical American and not only eat at a fast food joint, but throw all my shit away after I’m finished using it just one time. Not only am I cutting down on pollution, but I’m also breaking a vicious cycle of consumerism that is tearing this country apart. I refer to my ruse as “franchising.”

Here’s something I did once that’s not quite so flattering. I was at the G&S Lounge over on South First and Oltorf and hooked up with these two Mexican chics. One of them was fine and the other was a fucking Fotomat. People kept trying to drop off their film in her pocket and shit ok, she was huge. I hung out with them for a while and it became obvious that Gorda had a thing for me. Though she wanted me bad, her strong Catholic upbringing had her cautious of going too far too fast. I knew I was going to need an extra thirty minutes or so to break her down. Although my car was in the G&S parking lot and I lived only about 300 yards away, I convinced them I was car-less, and that I lived right over by them on East Riverside. We hopped in their Mustang and headed out after the bar closed. Somewhere along the way, I had to fess up that I really lived back over by G&S and it was decided that I’d just need to get a cab from their apartment to come take me home, but I would have to call the cab immediately because they didn’t want any funny business.

what youll find inside
Scott Biram Feature
Room 710
Elysium/Red Eyed Fly
Lance Comix
Jared Connor Featured Artist
David Dickinson Rock 101
Chopping Block
Wendy's WWAD
Grub - Guide
Alamo Drafthouse Cinema
Usual Crew
Chump Change
Off the Street

I didn’t expect them to follow through with the calling the cab immediately thing because Gorda was putting out all the way home. Sure enough though, the minute we walk in their door Gorda herself calls a taxi to come to her apartments and get me because she’s “getting too worked up.” We could mess around, but only until the cab got there, those were the rules. I felt a bit defeated; knowing the cab company would be calling back any minute to tell us my cab was outside. Then Gorda and Flaca fucked up. They went out of the room for a moment, leaving me there alone with the cordless phone. I picked it up, opened up the back of it where the battery and shit is, and ripped out all the wires with my teeth. Needless to say, we were never interrupted by the call from the cab company.

Anyway, I eventually end up fucking the Fotomat and she starts screaming like a mandrake. I’ve never heard anything like it. The whole time I was convinced that upon hearing the praises and prayers of her roommate, the fine girl would certainly want to bang as soon as we were done. (Incidentally, I’m always extremely cautious when I fuck Hispanic women, in light of their excessive fertility. You could jump into a swimming pool with five Mexican girls, and three of them would get pregnant.)

I finish up with chica, and go into the living room where the fine friend is asleep on the couch. Snuggling up with her, I started the whole sensual massage gone grope fest routine, and she starts mumbling to me unintelligibly. Something like “Oh baby, you’re so hot”, or “Stop please God leave me alone”, I couldn’t really tell which. Upon feeling how wet she was though, I had no doubt this girl was hot to trot, I mean she was sopping. I couldn’t believe it. At one point, we paused to readjust positions, and I happened to glance down at my hand. It was absolutely covered with blood. I just sat there in shock, holding it out in front of my face turning it over in the moonlight. I looked like a young Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now. All that was missing was a bottle of whisky and a broken mirror. I bowed out gracefully, waited until they were both sound asleep, and then took their car keys off the kitchen counter and drove the Mustang back to the G&S, ditching it in the parking lot and driving my car home.

You’re probably thinking that I’ll never get laid again after printing this little ditty. You’re wrong. My friend, let me tell you about a little thing I refer to as “Pussy Windfall.” Pussy Windfall is what you experience when you put yourself in a societal role that women are inevitably drawn towards, and then start reaping the benefits almost immediately, deservedly or not. Guys in bands, guys with even the slightest movie or T.V. recognition, and guys who sell drugs or are otherwise deemed “bad boys” by decent society are some of the most obvious recipients of PW. Having been in all these situations before, I can assure you that being a writer will bring down a windfall of pussy that rivals any of the aforementioned professions. Regardless of how disgusting and degrading the crap I print in this rag is, men and women alike are lining up to suck me off every night.

Why does he do it? Why won’t he stop? This is what you ask yourselves. The answer is simple my friends: The more I fuck, the more girls want to fuck me. The nastier, more disgusting my subject matter, the nastier and more disgusting they want to get, They know about me, and what a piece of shit I am. They even know about each other. And what do they do? They turn on each other like a pack of animals, just to have more of me to themselves. It’s disgusting, it really is. It’s only a matter of time before they start killing each other. Literally. That’s right, I’m the Joey Buttafucco of the New Millennium, and I can’t wait to fuck you all.

Longhorn stuff, really quick. Bull Reese is gone, and I’m looking forward to his replacement by a badass defensive coordinator. Problem is, I’m already hearing Mack Brown talking like there will be no more coaching changes. If he thinks for one minute that getting rid of Reese means that fans are just going to sit back and let him keep that pathetic fucking eunuch of an offensive coordinator Greg Davis for another year, he’s like Judas Priest- He’s got another thing coming. I for one SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD that I won’t go to a single game next year if Davis is the offensive coordinator again. (For those of you who know me, YES I mean that.) Listen to me, coaches are very professional people, so you would never hear one say something like this publicly, but I’ll be glad to say it myself. The real coaches around college football know that Mack Brown and his staff are a FUCKING JOKE. They know that, regardless of the caliber of players that Texas can field, any real staff can beat The Longhorns with even slightly comparable players. Mack, here’s the new rules. You get to fire BOTH your coordinators so that, in the interest of classiness, you have a chance to prove next year that they sucked and not you. You’re a great recruiter, but David Duke could recruit athletes to come to The University of Texas, so we’re not falling back on that shit anymore. Next year, you lose to Oklahoma for a fifth straight time, FUCK YOU, YOU’RE FIRED. You fail to go up to Arkansas and avenge that joke you put on this year, FUCK YOU, YOU’RE FIRED. You even think about losing to Texas Tech in Lubbock, FUCK YOU, YOU’RE FIRED. You let Ohio State expose us as a second tier institution, FUCK YOU, YOU’RE FIRED. No Big 12 Championship? FUCK YOU, YOU’RE FIRED. Typical bowl game outing? Guess what. FUCK YOU, YOU’RE FIRED. I’ll fuck you myself and I’ll come early, be loud, stay late, AND wear orange.



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