The “Death Metal Gatoraide” Story

If you ever see a bottle of Gatorade next to a box of tissues at my house, you should probably not inhale until you’ve left the room.

A few years ago, I had this fuck buddy who was way into death and black metal. Not pussy shit like The Faceless or Kataklysm, real fucking metal. She loved metal so much that she used to put it on when we fucked, which I had mixed feelings about, because YOU try keeping pelvic pace with the drummer from Emperor. Anyway, there was this one time I was nailing her bareback for reasons I can no longer justify as sensible, while The Black Dahlia Murder was playing on her stereo. Being that I was unprotected, I needed a target for my eventual pimp juice, and the girl’s face was in the wrong direction. Looking around, I grabbed the first thing I could get my hands on…

A Gatorade bottle.

I blew my nut into a half-full blue Gatorade bottle, and set it down on her bookshelf, because sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do. And half-full blue Gatorade bottles can’t get pregnant. But as I was soon to discover, they can do other things.

A week or so later, I was back at the girl’s place fulfilling my manly duties to her throat, and after we tidied up, I noticed that the Gatorade bottle was still on her bookshelf, right where I left it. What the hell kind of sloppy bitch was I screwing?

A bit of back story, I was planning on breaking it off with this girl after I realized a simple equation, the more Oxycontin she took, the worse she was in bed, and the bitch just kept anteing up. I had already lined up another, more rectally willing participant (that’s a whole ‘nutha story which I’ll get to in time), and I figured I would get one more nut off before I told the metalhead to kick rocks.

Sometimes, when presented with a handful of disjointed, unrelated stimuli, my brain has this uncanny ability to line them all up in place into some brilliant master plan that once realized, I wasn’t sure how I ever went through life NOT knowing whatever it was that had dawned on me. Merely looking at this Gatorade bottle unleashed a chain of events that grew to be something so much greater that even I realized it was going to be, and at the time, the limited scope of what I was to do was already blindingly masterful.

While metalhead was off making herself not look like a cumdumpster, I inspected my week-old handiwork. The never did put the cap back on that Gatorade bottle, and in the ensuing period of time, what I can only describe as a fluffy, flat white lump had formed on the surface of the liquid. Looking closer in disbelief, I noticed small curled hairs poking out from both sides of the lump, much like the hook side of a piece of Velcro. I could tell it was loosed from my semen and not some other poor schmuck she was banging because it had my eyes.

My plan formed quickly.

The two most effective ways to say “lose my number” that I have found are either a headbutt (more on that another time), and to ruthlessly fuck with a girl for no reason other than your enjoyment. I mean, most of the reason people keep bitches like that around in the first place is for their enjoyment right? You don’t actually appreciate her company, do you? I mean my balls appreciated her company, but the rest of me could give a fuck. So why not have a little run with my runaway genetics experiment?

The girl had this big fish tank in her living room, inside the tank she had four fish. I forget what kind they were because I never gave a shit, fish are stupid. But having the mental capacity of a brake pad, this girl was obsessed with her “pet” fish. So I took my bottle of cumgrowth and poured it into the top of her fish tank and left. I would have liked to have seen firsthand what the effects were of my devious concoction, but to stay around long enough for results was to risk being discovered. I got my shoes on and left without much further word.

I thought that was gonna be the end of it, I would get the mild satisfaction of pouring stale cum into metalhead’s fishbowl, chuckle about it for a bit, and then file it away as just another one of the shitbaggy things I’ve done in my life. I didn’t return her calls or texts, because I figured I had already made my intentions clear. But then after another week or so had gone by, the clouds parted, the light of Heaven shone upon my cell phone and bequeathed me a gift far more joyous than if Christmas had come early that year. I was dead asleep, and woke up to my phone ringing. Groggy and out of it, I answered without looking to see who it was.

It was metalhead. The moment I croaked something faintly resembling “hello?” into the phone, this bitch fucking LIGHTS. ME. UP. With shouts. No longer sleepy and realizing that I now had to answer for my sins, I sat up in bed and tried to process what she was shouting at me about.

Apparently, and I shit you not, one of her fish tried to eat the lump of Semenaide that was floating around in the tank. It died. The other fish in the tank tried eating the corpse of the dead fish, and it gave them the shits. They shit and shit and shit until the nasty, brackish water in the tank stunk up the whole room. When metalhead tried to clean the tank out, she accidentally knocked it over, and while it somehow didn’t break, the shitty cum water spilled onto the floor and got her rug, cat’s bed, and some other shit (I wasn’t paying full attention) wet. At some point after that, her cat had lain in the wet poobed, gotten the water in its hair, and then swallowed some of it while it was trying to groom itself. The cat was all sick and fucked up, so she took it to the vet and told him that her cat drank shitwater. The vet told her that her cat had either botulism, or most likely a giardia infection from drinking crap. Her fish were dead, her cat couldn’t stop vomiting, and it was one of the most unintentionally amazing things I had ever done to someone. I told the girl, in my best reassuring tone, that the best thing she can do is hope the cat had botulism, because that is what botox is made out of (no, really, it is, look it up), and she could use some to plump up the lips on her cock dock. I hung up and went back to sleep.

I thought it was so funny, I made it a point to drink Gatorade whenever I see Black Dahlia Murder in concert, it helps me reminisce fondly about all the good times I had at her expense. It wasn’t a total victory however, because I left my Terror shirt at her house and never got it back. What a selfish cunt.