GBD archive at Functionally ReTodded

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Mar

Possibly TMI?

Categories: Blog, Functionally ReTodded, GBD, Humor, Penis and Urologist

Gather ’round kiddies. FRT’s gonna tell you a story.

A long time ago, way back in the last millenium, FRT was a young man in his early 20’s that was about four months away from walking down the aisle and marrying the love of his life. And so you don’t get confused, it was GBD.

It was a Saturday afternoon. GBD was somewhere other than home, and FRT was enjoying a nap on the couch.

That nap was interrupted however, when I fell off the couch and heard / felt a tearing sensation in my nether region.

Apparently I had what doctors refer to as a boner during my nap, and when I fell of the couch, I landed on it. The boner.

That’s right. The sensation I heard / felt was me slamming my erect penis into the floor under the entirety of my weight.

After I stopped shaking, I had a peek and everything looked normal. I convinced myself that everything was fine.

Fast forward to Monday morning. GBD and I are waking up and about to get ready for work. She’s in the shower and I’m watching television in bed. I decide to have another peek at the old twig and berries.

Oh. My. God.

There was my junk. BLACK. That’s right. From stem to stern, top to bottom, over and under. BLACK. And swollen. Disfigured even.

I fought the urges to both pass out and scream.

The shower stopped. I covered up and tried to act calm and cool. The wife got dressed, kissed me goodbye and went to work.

I had to make a plan.

At this point, I hadn’t told my wife. I hadn’t told anyone. But I had to consult someone. So I did what any boy would do if he got hurt or was scared, or both.

I called my mommy.

That’s right. What a great memory. It went like this.

Her: Hello?

Me: Hey.

Her: What’s wrong.

Me: I broke my penis.

Her: Silence.

So after a brief chat and advice to go see a urologist, I showered, got dressed and went to work, prepared to get my insurance info out to make a doctor’s appointment.

Come to find out that I can’t just make an appointment with a urologist. I have to be referred. So now I have to show my mortally wounded goober to not just a urologist, but a general practitioner. Yay.

I went to my GP, described what happened and he said "Okay…let’s have a look."

So I pulled my drawers down. And before I even got them mid-thigh the GP gasped audibly and said "Okay, let’s get you that referral."

Great. My grievous cock injury was so grotesque that it made a physician gasp.

As there was now noticeable swelling and discomfort, I went home to change into some less binding clothes before heading to my urologist appointment. I chose a t-shirt and some of those tacky ass muscle workout pants (that were all the fashion rage back in the day). You know the ones. Gaudy print, two inch wide elastic waist, tapered sort of legs, ugh.

I walk into their office, get called back and the doctor has me describe again what happened, and he describes to me what’s about to happen and why.

Doctor: We need to see if you’ve ruptured the (whatever that thing was called) chamber that fills with blood when you get an erection.

Me: Um. Okay. How do we do that?

Doctor: So what we’ll do is give you an injection that will give you an erection.

Me: (deathly afraid of needles). Where?

Doctor: Where what?

Me: Where are you going to give me a shot?

Doctor: In your penis.

Me: I beg your pardon? Did you say you’re going to give me a shot in my penis?

Doctor: That’s right. And then we’re going to inject some dye into your penis, wait 30 minutes, take an x-ray and make sure that there’s no structural problem that might require surgery to repair.

Me: Excuse me. Let me get this straight. Did you just say you were going to give me a shot. In my penis. That shot will give me an erection. Then you’re going to give me another shot in my now erect penis, have me wander back out to the waiting area. WITH AN ERECTION. For thirty minutes?

Doctor: That’s right.

Me: Awesome.

So we head into the exam room where a very attractive (female) nurse asks me to lie down and pull down my pants.

Awesome.

I comply, and she gives me a shot in the penis.

I think I passed out. I’m not sure. Either way I pulled up my pants and waited. And what I realized next was that this shot was possibly the coolest thing in the world.

Within minutes I had an erection. And not just any erection. I’m pretty sure I could have pounded a spike into a railroad tie. Seriously. This thing was bulletproof. I went from embarrassed that a nurse saw my penis to wanting to run around the lobby showing it to everyone.

She then said "Okay. Now we’ll inject the dye. This might sting a bit."

She couldn’t have been more wrong. Let me say that getting a needle stuck into the side of your rock hard penis is one of the five most painful things that has ever happened to me. And then I looked down.

And saw blood. Coming out of the side of my penis.

This time, I KNOW I fainted.

I awoke to the nurse helping me to a chair in the lobby where my boner and I would wait until it was time for the x-ray. I was doing that thing you did in high school when you’d get a boner in sweat pants. You pull down your shirt, slouch a little and try to wait for it to go away, only this one wasn’t going anywhere.

Fast forward thru 30 VERY uncomfortable minutes in the lobby, and I get called back for the x-ray.

Ten minutes after they took the x-rays I get called back again. There’s bad news.

Doctor: There’s a problem.

Me: Oh Jesus no. You’re going to have to operate on my penis. Or cut it off! Oh My God! I’m getting married in three months!

Doctor: Oh no. I don’t have any results yet. But apparently the dye was absorbed back into your bladder so the scan of your penis didn’t work. We need to do it again.

Me: I’m sorry. Did you say that somehow, after giving me not one but two injections into my god damned penis that you or someone here fucked up and waited too long to do the x-rays, and now you have to give me ANOTHER shot in the dick?

Doctor: That’s correct.

Me: (Silently does the walk of shame back to the room where nurse Heidi would punish my pee pee again).

Another excruciating injection into my now extra rock hard and quite frankly painful penis and it was back to the lobby, but this time, no attempt to conceal my boner was made. I was tired of this now. The novelty had worn off. I was angry and in pain: from the injections, the boner and the original injury.

Back into x-ray and the long wait to find out what permanent damage was done, if any, and what the treatment would be.

Doctor: The good news is that there’s no permanent damage or anything that requires surgery to repair. Everything is and will be fine. The swelling and bruising will go away after a few days.

Me: So I’ll be okay? I get to keep my penis?

Doctor: Yes. Everything will be fine. You’ll want to forgo any masturbating or sexual activity for a few weeks until everything is back to normal. And for what it’s worth, this isn’t a terribly uncommon injury. I see it fairly frequently as the result of vigorous intercourse.

Me: No way.

Doctor: Oh yes indeed.

Me: So you’re telling me that you see guys that are jackhammering the old lady so hard that they break their dick? Really? And you glibly refer to that as "vigorous sex?" That doesn’t sound like the kind of sex I would enjoy having. That sounds like a sex crime. Or maybe that you should be charged with vagina abuse.

Doctor: I didn’t say vaginal exclusively. It happens during anal sex too.

Me: (now in shocked silence. On a regular day, this would have made my penis go limp and retract into my body like a turtle’s head returns to his shell).

Doctor. Nevertheless, you’re free to go. And one last thing.

Me: Yes?

Doctor: If that erection lasts more than four hours, you need to go to the hospital.

Me: What? Did you say this could last four hours? Or more? And that if it does that I need to go to the emergency room? And tell them what exactly? "Excuse me ma’am / doctor / nurse / orderly, but I have had this boner for five hours and need to see a doctor?"

Doctor: Just go to the hospital if it lasts longer than that.

So I do the boner-perp walk thru the lobby again, but now I’m kind of happy. Like I’m on cloud five or something. I’m going to be okay. Everything will return to normal. No permanent harm or disfigurement was done. Everything’s gonna be fine. And even though my wedding tackle was bruised, black and a bit swollen, I was now very anxious to show it to GBD.

That happiness was short-lived.

By the time I got home I was in agony. By the time SHE got home I couldn’t stand up straight. It was like some alien was trying to escape my body by way of my penis and that in doing so, was stretching every inch of my skin to the nth degree.

Thankfully, at about the three hour and fifty minute mark, my world class boner subsided and I was able to return to my normal masturbation routine after a couple of weeks.

Whew.

Oh, and with the exception of now being able to pee around corners at a 90 degree angle, everything is just the same as it was before that horrible day.

Happy napping everyone.

FRT

Mar

It was a coin toss

By Functionally ReTodded 3 Comments

Categories: GBD and Uncategorized

I had two ideas for a post today.

One was about thing three being up all night resulting in today’s near hallucenatory state for me and my lovely bride. Further, that I had scientific and empiracle evidence as to why he stayed up all night.

The second was about random things I hate. I think that came to mind because I’m sleep deprived and crabby.

I’ll give you a second to guess which one I chose. (You can hum the theme from "Jeopardy" here if you’d like).

In a close race, not sleeping thing three lost by a narrow margin to things I hate. So without further adieu…

Dreamcatchers, baby shoes, beads, cd’s, feathered roach clips and anything else people hang from their car mirrors.

Jesus people. You all drive bad enough as it is. I don’t wanna get in a wreck with you only to find out that you were blinded by the sun bouncing off your CD necklace or that you couldn’t see my car thru that faggoty dream catcher.

Another is those Rest In Peace decals with the person’s name, date of birth and date of death. Seriously, I’m sorry for your loss, but I don’t want to get more depressed than I already am while sitting in traffic reading about Jesus or somebody else that died at age 16. And let’s be honest, for every one of these memorials that are for someone that died of a disease, there are fifty more that died racing their cars, robbing a liquor store or dealing drugs.

I hate the SUV rear window stickers that are a stick figure representation of the driver’s family. This is the modern day version of that stupid ass "Baby on Board" window thing from 20 years ago.

I always wondered if people with those signs thought i would be more or less careful in my driving around them when I realized that they in fact had a young human on board? And now, when I see stick mommy and daddy, three kids a dog and a cat, I just want to veer sideways and put them into a bridge abutment.

Being the father of two young daughters, I completely hate, abhor and am disgusted that little girls, tweens and teens are allowed by their parents to traipse about with their shorts waistband rolled over four times to reveal most of their ass, as well as the printed text across the top of their asses. Further, they’re wearing wife beaters with their bras hanging out.

Seriously, I love seeing trampy over 18 girls dressed this way (also known as Facebook profile pictures) and encourage it. But seeing 12 year old girls strolling thru the food court dressed like that with their moms at their side makes me want to vomit. What kind of mixed message are we sending our kids? Treat women with respect even though they carry themselves like pieces of meat? Blech.

I hate (like yesterday) when I walk into the liquor store and, after looking and not finding any of the Woodpecker Cider, I asked the guy at the counter "Hey, do you carry Woodpecker Cider?"

He put Woodpecker Cider into the system, it came up, and he looked at me and replied "Did you not see any back there?"

Yes, Moo Goo Gai Pan. I saw it back there. But instead of grabbing some and bringing it up here and saving some time, I thought I’d waste a few minutes watching your meth-addled brain process a simple yes / no question and reply incorrectly. Awesome.

That’s all for now. I got stuff ta do.

Hugs,

FRT

p.s. Thanks to Coal Miner’s Granddaughter for reminding me of another thing I hate. It’s those "A House Divided" front license plates that have UGA on one side and Florida on the other. I hate the regular ones plenty. You know, the ones that say Auburn - Alabama or UGA-Tech or some other actual rivalry.

But the ones I hate are the retarded ones that make no sense. I mean, can Mississippi State - South Carolina be a house divided? They don’t even play each other I don’t think. I see them on every fifth car and 90% of them are stupid with stuff like Florida State - Virginia.

So thanks stupid house divided marketing people. I hate you too.
FRT

Mar

The FRT Tucker Max Tales, volume 2

By Functionally ReTodded 5 Comments

Categories: Blog, Functionally ReTodded, GBD, Humor, Tucker Max Tales and contests

I’ve decided almost immediately that these tales of nonsense need a better name. I don’t know what that will be yet, but this will be the last FRT TMT. Moving on…

At the urging of my wife and the guy that bought me the new Xbox 360, I’ve decided to regale you with another tale of youthful indiscretion.

It was way way back, many years ago. I don’t know when it was for sure, but I’ll go ahead and say it was around 1994 or so. I could be way wrong. Shit, I have no idea. We went to more weddings for five years than anyone I know. The date is irrelevant anyway.

My friend Neil, who was in my wedding, was getting married in Charlotte, NC. There were many events planned, and they started on Wednesday night. Being shit poor, the wife and I decided to do a ride share with Hoss (my Xbox 360 donor) and split a room for the weekend.

Why?

Because the block of rooms was at a fucking Marriot.

Let me go back a little. I got married just before my 24th birthday. My wife was about to be 22. We got married at the church she grew up in, which was four miles from our parents’ homes. Neil was in my wedding. He lived about 2 miles from the church and about 8 miles from the reception.

Total cost to him for lodging and transportation?

About eight fucking cents.

Fast forward to his wedding. I’m in it (tux rental), we have to drive to Charlotte (80 bucks in gas) and we’re staying at the god damned marriott (around 179 bucks a night).

So the math goes like this:

my wedding = free drunk + a 12 dollar cab ride to my bed.

his wedding = about a grand in room charges, gas, food, beer, etc.

I figure that fucker owes me about, I don’t know, two thousand dollars.

So we get up to Charlotte, and the first thing of importance we find out about is the hotel isn’t near the church or reception and there’s a golf outing Thursday.

Sweet.

We head to the bride’s father’s club and get setup for a morning round of golf. Hoss and I in one cart, Neil and his FIL to be in another, along with Neil’s dad, brother, soon to be BIL’s, etc.

We hit the first tee. Elevated tee box, fairway out in front of you, wet danger to the right short of the tee.

I don’t know where I hit mine, but Hoss hit his short and right.

Awesome.

We pull down opposite the cart path about 100 yards off the tee. Hoss gets out of the cart and starts walking into the junk. One step. Two steps.

And the third step he sunk to his fucking hips in mud.

I nearly shit the cart. I laughed so hard I thought I might vomit.

But the stubborn fucker that he is, he insisted on going on. We only had 17.8 holes and 125 strokes to go, and he had mud up to the back of his neck and he was squishing with every step, and with every step I laughed harder.

To his credit, he finished. To my detriment, I was finished on the first hole because I couldn’t stop laughing.

I don’t remember the rehearsal dinner or the wedding or anything else about the weekend.

Except the after party.

After the wedding, everyone (except the bride and groom I think) went back to the Marriott. It was just prior to 2am, and the hotel bar was about to close.

"Fuck that," I said to no one and everyone. "We need some fucking beers."

So I asked the bartender to set us up with two bus tubs full of beer and to bill it to my room. He hesitated for about, I don’t know, a bajillisecond, and brought us two cases of beer. For the record, I think the beers were $3.00 or $3.50 a piece. Super.

I can’t tell you who was there or for how long, but we drank all that damned beer and somehow made it back to our room.

How do I know? Because we woke up in our room, you dumbass. But wait, that’s not the story.

Let me set the stage for you in typical Marriott fashion.

Our room was like every Marriott with the TV entertainment thing on the right hand wall when you walked in, and the closet, bathroom, bed, nightstand, bed, table and chairs on the left.

The sleeping arrangements were as follows:

First bed on the left with GBD on the side closest to the bathroom wall and me on the other side. Then there was the end table, and the other HUGE bed was Hoss’ to himself.

Fast forward to Sunday morning. Everyone in the room wakes up (sort of), smokes a Marlboro and prays for death. I think we slept for about 47 minutes and I’m pretty sure we drank 287 beers. Each. I don’t know the rule, but if you have more beers in a day than the minutes you sleep in a night, you’re fucked.

The only bright side is that there’s a hotel buffet thingy. So we get up and start getting dressed.

And that’s when it happened.

Hoss, who got up on the far side of his bed, went to pick up his jeans that were hanging over the arm of the chair and across the seat of the chair, and they were wet.

Not water wet. Beer piss wet. Someone had pissed his pants. While he wasn’t in them. And since not a one of us remembered getting to the room, let alone going to bed, this was almost the perfect crime.

(I’d like to add here that it is alleged that I may or may not have peed in some not so inappropriate places in my life when beer was my date. I deny any and all charges).

Setting that urine-related irony aside, the accusations began.

"Who pissed on my pants?" he asked?

"How the fuck should I know?" said the wife and I together.

And then it began. The blame game.

I have never in my life seen three people come up with more reasons why it wasn’t them that pissed Hoss’ pants.

I was the first suspect. I felt confident in my defense:

"Hey assholes. Why would I get up, walk around the bed and piss on his pants when I’d much rather just piss the bed here at the Marriott?"

My arguement was strong.

Hoss said "Why would I piss on my own pants?"

I replied "Because they were on a chair right next to your bed."

A ha!!!!

Then he flung the blame back at GBD by saying "She’s a chick! She sits to pee! The part of my pants that are wet was the part that was across the seat."

GBD quickly rebutted. "I was the closest person to the bathroom with NO history of drive by pissings. Why WOULDN’T I use the bathroom instead of walking around two beds and pissing your pants on a chair.

Hoss’ defense was simple. "I never pee anywhere inappropriate. I would never piss my own pants on a chair. You guys had to have done it."

And there it was.

We spent the rest of the morning noodling out possibilities, proposing Zepruder-like theories about magic piss stream bullets, etc.

But thru our morning, midday and HORRIFIC drive home while dead fucking hungover, we continued to come up with theories about who pissed the pants.

I called the Hardy Boys AND Encyclopedia Brown to hire them, but they wanted money to solve the case. For that reason, I’m turning this over to you…my readers.

Who do YOU think pissed Hoss’ pants?

Mar

All hail the power of the internet

By Functionally ReTodded 1 Comment

Categories: GBD and Uncategorized

Last week I posted the terrible news involving the quick death of my XBox 360 console. I also gave you people, friends and strangers alike, the opportunity to contribute to the betterment of my life and my lifestyle. All you had to do to make that happen is make a small or large contribution to the Console Fund. In return you’d be rewarded with the following:

A photograph of me and the console.
Their name inscribed in Sharpie on the console. Said name will be visible in the photograph.
a hand-written thank you note from me and the console, as well as the right to have any message you choose inscribed on a side panel.
Naming rights to the console.
Full rights to message, sticker, and put photos on the console as well as any other decorations you choose.
a blog entry in your honor.
There will be a photo of you hung in my basement in the console area recognizing you as THE Platinum level donor.

In case you forgot, a Platinum level donation is $199.99 (I’ll pick up the sales tax).

And you’ll never believe what happened. Thru the magic of the internet, a donor came forward and agreed to be THE Platinum Level Donor.

Now, would you care to guess who it was?

It was me.

I mean, I guess you could say it was GBD. But I went to Wal-Mart and took out the card, so I’m calling myself the winner.

Now I’ll see about letting the kids cover it with Club Penguin decals and 1,086 Puffle Stickers…

Mar

Someone’s standing up!

By Functionally ReTodded 3 Comments

Categories: Blog, Food, Functionally ReTodded, GBD, Humor, News and Now I'm standing up

For those of you that tolerate my ass-hattery on Facebook, you have already read this article. Hell, if you don’t play on Facebook you’ve read about it. After I posted the link on Facebook I pushed it aside, but GBD sent the link to me and said I might want to blog about it.

And that made me start thinking about it again, and after about 30 seconds, I found myself standing up again.

Anyway, here’s the headline and a link to the story:

Florida woman calls 911 after McDonald’s runs out of McNuggets

I refuse to post the text of the story. It’s your responsibility to read the first three paragraphs before you snap like I did.

A woman (who doesn’t appear to be mentally incapacitated in any way) walked into a McDonald’s. She ordered a 10-piece McNuggets and paid for it. She was then told that they were out of McNuggets. She was told all sales were final. She was offered a McDouble instead. She wanted a refund. She was told that she couldn’t have a refund.

So she called 911.

Three. Times.

That’s right citizens of Fort Pierce, Florida. If you know anyone that died or was hurt because the police didn’t get to them in time, it’s because THIS shit for brains fucktard called 911 about McNuggets!

Now, I don’t know anything about Fort Pierce, Florida. Maybe they have a high crime rate. Maybe it was late at night. Maybe the cashiers aren’t authorized to remove money from the drawer.

Or maybe the loser at the register was just trying to be a dick. (Hey. It’s possible).

But where in your apparently brain-free cranium do you do the injustice and crime math and decide "Yep. McDonald’s has committed a heinous crime against me. A crime so heinous that I consider it an emergency and must now occupy dispatch and patrol officers’ time by calling 911. And I will not just call them once. Or twice. I will call them three times. It’s really that big of an emergency."

For the benefit of doing thorough research, I’ll listen to the three 911 calls now…

Oh goody. Here’s an exerpt from call number one: "She say she are the manager."

No more excerpts. She’s a moron.

Now I ask you. Where are we today as a society where, when we have a squabble about six bucks, we call 911? Not just the police, mind you. Nine. One. One.

Are we soooooo reliant on the government to take care of us that we can’t handle even an assinine disagreement like this without involving the po-po? Really?

Again, the manager (or whoever it was) was an asshole. Anytime a place like that can’t fill your order, they should refund your money. But as the consumer, this loon should have called the 1-800-lickmynuggets number posted next to the Happy Meal toy display and complained, and they would have gladly sent her a gift card or something.

McDonald’s tried to make it right after the fact. They offered her a refund and a free meal. Of course Latreasa declined the offer, as she has sought legal help and may sue McDonald’s.

(Left eye twitching)

Let me get this straight. You’re so god damned stupid that, in your brain, the only possible solution to the problem described above is to call 911 EMERGENCY? THREE TIMES???

And when you got arrested for abusing the 911 system for said problem instead of being sane and either going somewhere else or whatever, you’ve decided to hire Siler & Jonap, Attorneys at Law to represent you when you sue McDonald’s?

SUE THEM FOR WHAT? YOUR FUCKING CHANGE? A LIFETIME SUPPLY OF POLYNESIAN SAUCE? WHAT IN THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE OWED? YOU SHOULD THANK THEM FOR NOT SERVING YOU THE HEART ATTACK YOU ORDERED. MAYBE IT WAS GOD TELLING YOU TO EAT A FUCKING SALAD!

(Left eye twitching uncontrollably now)

If I’m McDonald’s corporate or the franchisee, here’s what I would do:

First, I apologize to all of the other patrons who were inconvenienced by your shit-assery.

Second, I apologize to any citizens in the area that received a slow response or no response from 911 for an actually emergency or life-threatening situation due to YOUR negligence and stupidity.

Third, I make you stand against a wall and I let saidr citizens throw your restitution at you in pennies from ten feet away. ($5 or so should do it).

Fourth, I announce that your pain and suffering settlement (I’m thinking $100 here considering that juries are retarded and might actually award you something for being what should essentially be called a failed abortion) has been mailed to a PO Box in Alaska. Pick it up whenever you’d like.

And lastly, I would tell you and the entire area that you are banned from my establishment forever. The profit on six bucks worth of deep-fried lips and assholes isn’t worth the trouble of dealing with the likes of you.

Of course, I guess I should be happy. At least the cop that picked her up wasn’t out writing bullshit tickets to soccer moms in subdivisions.

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