I first me P.Dirty on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. He said he'd dropped a piece of paper with a phone number on it and wondered if I would help him look for it. Since I still had an hour before my rectal bleaching appointment at a nearby day spa, I agreed to lend a hand. The second I looked down, P.Dirty hit me over the head with something.

I woke up three days later in the back of a pick-up truck headed across the Mexican/California border into Tijuana. P.Dirty was in the passenger seat of the truck. A Mexican was driving. When P.Dirty saw that I was awake he smiled and told me whatever happened I shouldn't scream when the Customs agents searched me. He also told me the shortness of breath I was experiencing wad due to every free inch of my lower intestines being packed with balloons filled with cocaine. Balloons and one small tupperware container they were forced to use once they ran out of balloons. I immediately threw up. P.Dirty looked at my vomit, concerned that there might be a broken balloon in it. Luckily it was just bile and Frosted Flakes.

We made it across the border without incident and I spent the next 72 hours in a filthy bathroom in the back of some cantina crapping out brightly colored mylar. I felt like one of those crappy vending machines in the entrance of a K-Mart. Every once in a while P.Dirty would come into the bathroom and dig for treasure. He'd also come in and wake me up every time I'd pass out from strain and exhaustion. Once I was finally empty, P.Dirty gave me a coke and messed up my hair a little. "You did good he said. You should eat more fiber, though." This entire process happened three more times in the coming months. Looking back, that was the best summer of my life.


yeah men's weekend california/mexico!!!!  


ahhh, the 80's!

thanks big guy.  


You're welcome, Dirty.

For anyone actually interested, Dirty's birthday was actually yesterday. And I suck.  


genetics  


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