Confessions of a Quidditch Wannabe

I was walking to class when I noticed people running without any clear pattern in the middle of the Quad. As I got closer, it became evident that these people were on different teams. One wore orange and one wore white. Brooms. Brooms with shafts disproportionate to their stubby bristles. Shafts wagging like a happy dog who is seizing, nestled cozily in these Quad-goers crotches. In fact, happy and seizing is the only way I can describe their expressions. I checked Twitter only to find out that there had been a flash mob organized.

Quidditch is the name of the game and these players looked like damn fools.

I can't express how badly I want to be one of those damn fools.

As I walked past the 'pitch' my heart started a little. My eyes couldn't be torn away from the beautiful work of kinetic art before me. Desperate girls wearing leggings under gym shorts grunted as they hurled red rubber dodge balls at the unsuspecting opposition. In a desperate attempt to keep the awkward broom between their legs (is this subliminal training?), many lost their footing and tumbled to a glorious mud-covered defeat, head bouncing in recoil from the shock. The more mud, the harder she goes.

As if resolving to start a new chapter in life, she gets up with the fervor of a freshly whipped stallion and charges onward toward the iconic three-ring goal posts..

I'm serious, I wanted to be on that pitch. I feel so British when I say pitch. I know I would be good. I'm stealthy and lanky. I could avoid the clusterfuck of 6 different men swatting at one ball while clenching their legs together to keep the broom from falling. Inevitably their bent knees and jutting-out assess make it look like they're taking a group shit. Beautiful.

The keeper, with his striped knee-high socks and bouncy, curly locks (that's some Dr. Seuss rhyme shit) angrily swats away the opposition. His teeth bared in a hard grimace, he defends his poorly constructed three ring posts like a boss. I've never seen such dedication as he runs from his end of the pitch all the way to the other, untouched by groping hands along the way, and spikes the shit out of a rubber ball, missing.

Quidditch is, no doubt, going to be the next great American sport. The blood that runs through these broom-straddler's veins is unrivaled by that of football players, marathoners, gymnasts, bull riders, midget tossers and the like. Their sweat and tears will forever stain the quad.

I can only hope, one day, that my own perspiration will make its mark on Quidditch fields around the world. That one day I will run furiously with a rigid broom between my legs and scream in glory at my successes but later go home to apply vast amounts of baby powder to my raw, chafed crotch. That'll be the day when I can call myself a true champion.

Lav. is a Battlefield

Nobody likes to shit in public. It's awkward and terrifying especially when you're already nervous about it and it happens to play out like this:

You're prairie dogging, turtle heading, checking the scene, whatever. You ALL know what I'm talking about. Not only is the animal inside of you ready to jump out, feral and bearing its claws and wild eyes. You also don't know how much longer you can keep the sure-to-be inundating waterfall of urine from leaking out and creating some sort of self-incriminating Rorshach test on your crotch that people will only interpret in one way: he pissed himself.

Frantically, (but coolly, too, so people don't know your struggle) you walk into the bathroom. The next step can be the determining factor of whether your life ends there in a less-than-epic blaze of glory or whether you get to continue your mission. You check to see if anyone is at the urinal. If yes, you immediately turn around, walk out and hopefully find some trash can that you can empty your vengeful bowels into as opposed to in your pants and keep some semblance of dignity.

If you see no one at the urinals, proceed. If you see feet dangling, indicating someone else has just completed the same mission, proceed. This often comes with a sense of comradery... or heightened angst and discomfort as nobody enjoys hearing the cacophony of someone else's asshole.

Finally, with great relief, you enter the stall... ONLY TO FIND IT HORRIBLY DEFILED:

Who would do such a thing to the porcelain throne?? If this happens, end your journey. Don't you ever try to mend this situation. It will only lead to regret, discomfort, and pink eye.

Let's say you make it. Your clammy swollen fingers fumble with the toilet paper as you attempt to rip the right amount to use as a seat cover - all the while fighting the urge to piss yourself. Pants down, cheek to toilet contact is about to occur when one of the pieces of toilet paper slips and falls in!! You silently - as to not disturb your bathroommate - curse the heavens and shake an angry fist. Once again you clumsily rip a piece of toilet paper, this time too short. Fuck it. You sit down.

Finally, it's happening. It's really happening and all of your dreams have come true! Your bathroommate ends his journey with a toilet-amplified fart and exits. Your body is able to relax and just when everything in the world seems right, you look up only to notice that there is another person there.

What the fuck?!? Your alarm that is the opening of the bathroom door never sounded. Bastard must have sneaked in while your bathroommate left. He approaches. Performing the most vile faux pas, he peers into your stall - for just a little bit too long.. An innocent maneuver of checking to see if the stall was occupied, you're sure, but you accuse him of more dastardly things. Eyes widened and mouth set in a stern line, you stoically continue.

Finally, the end. Your bend over to pull your pants up and at that moment, a noise sends chills up your spine. The noise of an automatic flush. A flush that is all too violent. Panicking, hands still on the waste band of your pants, still bent over, you shimmy away so that your ass doesn't get sprayed by the vortex. You've gone too far in attempting to avoid the maelstrom of shitty water and your bare, supple cheek bumps into the cool stone wall. Eyes widened in shock and face turned toward the toilet (who thought it would be a good idea to turn your face toward a toilet to protect your ass), one lone particle of water lands in your welcoming eye in dramatic slow motion, of course.

Nothing in your life has ever been more stressful. You even feel like you might need to wipe again...

You leave, a seasoned veteran of the unrelenting obstacles that go hand-in-hand with public restrooms. Strutting with a purpose and head held high, you feel confident in confronting the same challenge tomorrow.. but mostly you're scared shitless for your itchy eye.

Luxuirously Linguistic, Don't You Think?

We have have really sick senses of humor, as you'll come to understand with more and more posts.

What we want to deliver to you, so delicately peppered throughout our postings as they are sacred pieces of literature, is what we call our "scenarios." These types of stories are on-the-spot and happen to grow out of something as simple as a glance or a question. For some reason, they have always been text messaged back and forth in novel-like language.

In this case, this whole scenario is in response to the statement: "You should just rage slap her."

Bet you're biting your nails. Ready? Here you go:

Just picture me screaming with rage and barreling out of my chair, throwing it violently to the side. She turns in slight alarm flinching at my bright face. Eyes of fire. Mouth foaming white. 

Too late, I am upon her, ripping her from her chair. She yelps slightly in fear and pain. I growl something incomprehensible in my rage. I drag her to the center of the room as she scurries away.

I scream as if I’m a harpy clenching my hands into claws as I scratch at her back and trip her. She scrambles to her feet. Eyes watering. Face scrunched in confused fear. I bare my teeth my mouth still foaming and wind up, my whole body swinging. 

Thrusting my body upward as if I were hurling a shot put, I bring the force of my palm against her disgusting cheek. She screams in pain and her cheek flashes bright red in the shape of my angry palm. 

Simultaneously she involuntarily twists almost 180 degrees and falls to the ground... 

Panting, my body hunched over, I throw the door open and run haggardly away.

And We Have Liftoff

Blog is officially active. What is it about you ask? I'll tell ya.

Quimsical Audecdotes was created so that satiric commentary on life and personal experiences of the authors that are humiliating, hilarious, awkward or otherwise just plain story-worthy are able to be shared! Too often, I find myself laughing to the point of abdominal workout in the middle of a lecture, gaining quizzical glances in my direction, because of a text I have received that depicted my friend's recent misadventure.

All I want to do is share these stories so that maybe you'll be that kid in lecture laughing silently (but oh, so not silently) in response to something that no one else has the pleasure of sharing in.

I'm flapping my wings, trying to get this blog to fly. Hopefully, I end up better off than this dead bird.