Turds in the Punch Bowl (A Story of No Ordinary Friendship)

by Jen Ashton

  My exit wasn’t so simple. I didn’t end up with a penis in hand and in fact had to file a restraining order. Sleestack was a stalker. He was filled with delusions of grandeur that we were to be married and have babies. The thought of children with tails and unblinking eyes didn’t appeal to me so I politely declined. Then he cried. A lot. So much so I thought he might dry up. He would’ve given his right arm to get me back; which wouldn’t have been a big deal since he could probably regenerate his limbs anyway. After two months of dealing with his pathetic pleading, I consulted Joe.

  “Do you want me to talk to him?” Joe asked after hearing the entire story.

  “Please.”

  “Alright, but it won’t be pretty.”

  “I know, Joe. Just do your thing.”

  A few days later Joe told me that Sleestack wouldn’t be bothering me anymore. He had given the level nine let-down speech and basically told him to beat it. “Jen’s suffering from a chronic illness and only has months to live,” he told him. “She doesn’t tell anyone, but her dying wish is to find the biggest penis. You were just a test and you didn’t pass. She thanks you for your time and wanted me to give you this parting gift.”

  I asked Joe what he gave him and he said it was the phone number to an eyelash extension parlor just down the hill from Sleestack’s home. Joe had done a good job. I was proud of my best friend for handling my dirty work once again. Though I have since required him to remove the death wish from his speech. It took months to stop receiving Get Well Soon cards and flowers in the mail.

  T-Rev

  (T-Rev’s name was Trevor. We called him T-Rev for short.)

  Joe and I decided to hit the town one night in search of our Mr. and Mrs. Right. I had a feeling he was out there and waiting for me to arrive. We drove across town to the Red Rock Casino. Their new nightclub was opening that night and the place was sure to be filled with locals since it was off the Strip. I had an affinity for imports (men from out of state) and thought I would try my hand at meeting someone I could have sex with more often. I was tired of being a weekend lover.

  We arrived too early. There is a magic hour in Vegas for the full nightclub experience and we clearly missed the mark. The place was dead and the fat girls were hanging around the dance floor waiting to get dibs on the first hot guy that entered the joint. Joe was in luck. After an hour of diverting the gunt twins (Gunt is a blended word referring to the lower abdominal area of a female’s anatomy. When her gut and vagina could both benefit from a diet, it’s called a gunt), we found ourselves outside near the tiki torches and lap pool. Joe had a good view of the door to evaluate each potential mate as she walked in the club. I had an eye on the bar to see what the men were drinking.

  Joe crashed and burned a few times with his typical insert-foot-in-mouth approach. Apparently a man who is recently divorced from a stripper who left him for a bouncer isn’t a good opener. We tried a few others, but the blood always rushed to his cheeks, made him feel faint and resulted in rapid speech. It was like speed dating with a lobster. I suggested we take a breather and sit down at one of the cabanas. That’s when I saw him.

  “Oh my God, Joe. Look!”

  “What? Where?”

  “9 o’clock, at the bar. Polo shirt and cigar. I want him.”

  Joe turned to witness my newly found crush. He was tall, dark hair and devastatingly handsome. He looked like he just stepped out of a GQ magazine ad. I was sold. I was willing to buy the clothes to get the man. He was standing at the bar, sipping a cognac and smoking a stogie. He looked too young to pull off the cigar so I figured he probably played golf with an older crowd and picked it up from them. The polo shirt gave it away.

  “Go get him for me,” I whispered.

  “What?” I had never asked Joe to lasso in a man for me. I was completely capable of landing my men, it was discarding them that I had trouble with. “I wouldn’t even know what to say.” He looked more nervous than me.

  “Don’t get all shaky knees on me, Joe. He’s not blonde and he doesn’t have tits. You can breathe. Just go over and tell him you have someone who would like to meet him.”

  It took him a few minutes to compose himself and muster up the courage to talk to a complete stranger, but Joe did mosey over to the bar and strike up a conversation. This also gave me the opportunity to measure T-Rev’s height before I met him; just in case he was standing on a stool behind the bar or something. It wasn’t long before Joe was pointing over at me and waving. I felt like an ass sitting there sipping on my straw and kicking my feet around. No wonder I usually make my own introductions. I waved back and smiled. Moments later, T-Rev, his side-kick and Joe were headed my way. I stood up to greet them.

  “Trevor, this is Monkey. Monkey, this is Trevor.”

  T-Rev and I instantly connected. He was goofy and his side-kick was short and eager like Joe. They made for a great team and we suggested they go make some rounds together while we got to know each other better. The conversation was entertaining and we were flirting like crazy. I wanted to hump him, but I thought it best to be a lady and play this one cool. He definitely had potential to be my Mr. Right. As the night came to an end, Trevor asked if Joe and I wanted to meet him and his wingman for a day at the pool the following afternoon. I readily accepted the invitation upon Joe’s behalf and made plans to spend more time in T-Rev’s company. I was smitten.

  The next day, the four of us found ourselves enjoying drinks and laughs in the middle of the Red Rock pool. The sun was blazing and the water was perfect. We were wading around in a circle, telling jokes and being dumb, in a cute, flirty kind of way. At one point, Joe took center stage and went on a comical rant. A few other pool patrons joined our circle and listened in. Everyone was in stitches. The crowd was growing and Joe’s story was taking on a life of its own. There was no stopping him. A few cute girls gathered nearby and I was positive Joe was getting laid later. He was on fire and I was taking Trevor home. We were in like Flynn again.

  But then he did it. Joe did what he does best. He went one step beyond an acceptable filter for a regular crowd. “And that’s nothing compared to the three piercing I’ve got in my penis!”

  As the words left his mouth, I cringed and watched his fans slowly disperse. The cute girls snarled at each other with disgust and turned their backs to leave. The couples dismissed Joe immediately and went back to their daybeds. T-Rev and his wingman froze solid and slinked backward uncomfortably.

  “Looks like the party’s over,” Trevor mentioned. “We’ll see you guys later.”

  Joe was definitely not getting laid that day and my Mr. Right obviously couldn’t take a penis joke. I wouldn’t be taking him home after all. In five short seconds, everyone had cleared and left Joe and I standing by ourselves in the middle of the pool, floating around like two tainted rejects that just crashed their party. We had just become the unequivocal turds in the punch bowl.

  Captain Cock-block and his tree branch:

  EPILOGUE

  Or

  TIGHT LIKE SPANDEX

  There is a moment in every friendship where you know that you will be friends forever. For me, it was when Joe and I discussed getting married for tax and insurance purposes. I realized at that moment that I was utterly repulsed by the thought of having sex with him and almost threw up in my mouth. But despite my gag reflex, I also knew that I loved him enough to be with him forever.

  Though we have since grown up a bit, in inches more so than maturity, and moved to different cities, we are still tighter than ever. Joe is the person I call when life gets hard and my man can’t. He is the friend I reach out to when I need to decide what book to write or what friend to write off. He is who I turn to when I am ready to plan my next big adventure or when I’ve already made my next big mistake. No matter the twists and turns or the distance between us, Joe is always there for me. He is the kind of friend that anyone would be lucky to have, but most aren’t lucky enough to find.

  I can only hope that by now you lov
e Joe as much as I do (men and women alike); whether you want to marry him, be him, be like him or just buy him a beer. He may be quirky. He may have a strange sense of humor. He may say all the wrong things at the right time. But, he is the best friend a girl could have and for that I am forever indebted and indefinitely dedicated to my search for his Mrs. Right, or at the very least, Mrs. Right Now. It is my duty as his Monkey to look out for both my broseph and his branch, always. So if you’re still reading this and you can picture yourself with Joe, without the acid reflux, please send your dating application to the following email address. Perhaps, you may be lucky enough to land him for a lifetime like me.

  iwannadatejoseph@gmail.com

  We wish you true friendship, lots of laughs, crazy monkey sex and wild nights without bleeding nipples or video cameras. And please be safe, there are plenty of jackasses out there!

  THE END

  UPDATE 2013: To find out what happened when Joe finally found a girlfriend, check out this hilariously twisted illustrated sequel for only $0.99!

  Chasing Pussy

  A Story About a Cat or A Guide to Understanding Men

  (pen name: Jen Jackson)

  Also available now:

  Girls Don’t Poop

  By Jen Ashton

  (read on for an excerpt)

  I've wanted to be a model since I received my first compliment.

  “Aw, isn’t she precious,” my grandmother swooned.

  That’s all I needed to hear. It was in my blood. I was born to model and I was determined to get a head start on the other girls. So, it’s no surprise that photos exist of me posing in my crib naked with a mink throe. All I was missing was a little lipstick. I was such an amateur then. But flash forward six years and I would finally get my chance to go pro.

  One afternoon while I was reorganizing my Star Wars figures in my new Darth Vader case, my mom knocked on the bedroom door.

  “Jennie?” she asked sweetly. “How would you like to model tonight at my Tupperware party?”

  I almost pissed in my Dungarees. Maybe there was an innate desire to be a girl somewhere under my striped Izod polo and dark denim jeans after all. Or not. Looking back, my mom probably just wanted to get me into a dress, but to me, this was my chance to strut my stuff. I had fantasies of becoming a big time Christmas catalog model. Every December I would flip through the pages of the Sears Catalog, circling images of the latest boy’s fashion—Oshkosh overalls, Michael Jackson Thriller jacket, soccer cleats—you name it, I was all about putting in years of hard work at Tupperware parties, family functions, or neighborhood picnics to earn my way up the ranks to model it someday. And now, here was my chance. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

  My eyes lit up with excitement and I smiled bigger than ever before. Little did I know then, that this would be the beginning of a string of modeling assignments to earn my merits. And they would all start with, “Jennie, would you like to model for me tonight?” Those few words would soon take a strange toll—from sheer eagerness to pay my dues to absolute horror when I looked in the mirror—all for the sake of chasing my dreams to be a male model.

  “Come down to the kitchen once you’ve put your toys away,” my mom instructed. “I’ll show you what you’ll need to do.”

  I showed up a few minutes later wearing my best plaid shirt, still rocking my Dungarees. My mom pulled back my hair and asked me to sit on a chair in the middle of the room. She draped a cape over my shoulders and started to apply makeup to my face. It was the eighties, so she caked on the blue eye shadow and red lipstick; a trend she would repeat over and over and over again on my poor little face every time we went to Sears for family photos. And though I forced a smile for the sake of not getting grounded, I knew in my heart that the makeup was never going to increase my chances of being recognized by the photographer as the next face of “Boys: Size 8-10.”

  * To purchase Girls Don’t Poop now: click here.

  Thank you for supporting this author. Be sure to check these other Jen Ashton titles:

  By Jen Ashton:

  Girls Don’t Poop

  My Teenage Heart

  Whole in My Heart – Coming Soon!

  By Pen Name Jen Jackson:

  Chasing Pussy

  ABC for the Over-worked Under-appreciated Mom

  All I Really Need to Know I Learned on Dexter

  Forewords:

  Discovering Your Personal Power

  By Nikkos Zorbas

  What To Do Now That You’ve Been Laid Off

  By Kim Romaner

  About the Author

  Equal parts heart, soul and science, Jen Ashton is a professional artist and bestselling author who is primarily known for her tongue-in-cheek essay style memoirs. As she chronicles her lifelong journey of self-discovery and all-round nerdistry, she does so in humorous and often times very vulnerable ways. A single mother and free spirit, she’s just a woman trying to make her way in this world while sharing her stories with readers.

  Though she has written and published in many genres, Ashton's bestselling “nearly” fictional tales include:

  Girls Don't Poop

  Turds in the Punch Bowl

  For more information, please visit her website: http://www.jenashton.com/

  visit and like her Facebook fan page at http://www.facebook.com/jenashtonauthor

  or follow Jen Ashton on Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/jenashtonart