I�ll tell you why, cause I get a strange little kick out of the shock value oft telling these things. Plus when it comes down to it they can be very humorous stories as long as you come prepared with a hurl bucket next to your desk.

With that out of the way let me explain to you the very likely chance that if my penis literally had its own brain, it would have the good sense to loath me with a fiery hatred best reserved for moments of presidential election smear campaigns. Really I�ve not been kind to my penis which is probably a direct reason, in my fucked up belief, why my penis has not been kind to me.

Sure it started off innocently enough. By time I was old enough to walk on my own and tear off my diaper for some good old fashion naked time the abuse began. Though being very young and not yet cursed with long bouts of freakishly bad luck, my �abuse� of what I lovingly call �the captain� began simple.

See it�s taken me a few decades to realize how spaghetti is supposed to be properly eaten. From around the age of six tell the age of ten. Or as I refer to them �the year�s innocence died a long and horrible death by the hands of my older brother.� I began developing a �phobia� for noodles, especially those of the long, thin, and squirmy kind.

Truly I have no need of psychiatric help to figure out the basis behind this phobia, where it all began. For I know quite well how, when, and where it did and I know its all my damn brother�s fault.

I was around the age of seven, I think, when me and my brother where carted off to a friend of our mother�s to be baby sat all day long. I had been exceptional sick and was finding it hard to keep down any form of solid food. It didn�t help that tell sometime past high school I had a gag reflex that could beat current land speed records. My mother�s friend felt bad for me and wanted to find something for me to eat so she decided to go out and get me chicken soup which to me sounded good.

Naturally to me I knew I wasn�t a fan of the noodle, never truly was. So I assumed she would get the broth like chicken soup with tiny chunks of chicken floating through it. Why not, that�s what mommy always gave me I just assumed that�s how it goes. Well she didn�t know this �golden rule� and got me some of the most noodle infested chicken soup on the face of the planet. To this day I have not come across another bowl of chicken soup ever with that high of a noodle to water ratio.

So she serves me up this big bowl of noodles with a little bit of chicken broth covering it and I just stare at her like she grew horns and told me I was the son of the devil. But not being one to rock the boat at that age, I quietly thanked her and did my best to eat the soup. She gave me a sweet little smile then went off to take care of some cleaning in another part of the apartment.

That�s when the every day mental terrorism aka big brother antics began. As soon as I got a mouth full of noodles my brother would lean into me and whisper into my ear, �the noodles turn into worms when they are in your mouth.� Having a gag reflex that would impress even the most die hard anorexic and a wild imagination, I was easily susceptible to suggestions like this. And my brother new this for fact oh to well and used it any chance he could get.

Within seconds I�m spewing big loads of mushy, partially chewed noodles and, judging by the amount there was, every ounce of food I had digest in my seven years of life.

Up tell a few years ago I couldn�t make myself eat a spaghetti noodle if my life depended on it. To this day I can only eat small amounts of them and I have to thoroughly cut them up before munching away.

Anyways, I�m seriously off track here.

As I was trying to get around, that was the beginning of my �phobia� about noodles, but not the beginning of my hatred for the straight noodle. Photographic evidence has proven that even as a wee lad I could not abide shoveling that shit down my throat. So instead I would strip bare ass then proceed to smear all the spaghetti all over my body like some strange kiddy dark ritual. In the pictures, which have been lost in move after move, you can see me standing there with a big grin on my face. Spaghetti sauce smeared all over my body, arms raised triumphantly, little baby wanger saluting to the camera.

Now you�re probably wondering what this has to do with the title of my entry. Hold on, I�m getting to that. I�m just easily distracted by random nostalgic pieces of my history and long time readers know I�m good for going completely off on a tangent.

So as I said, the abuse to �the captain� begins innocently enough, an innocent victim in my insistence to not eat spaghetti like any other normal child.

Since then it�s all just gown down hill for me and my penis.

Leap to about when I was eleven years old. I don�t really know where this started at, but for some reason I would wait to the very last second I could before heading to the bathroom. My best guess where this stems from would probably be from the house we first lived in as a kid. Two story house, four bedrooms, formal dinning room, cloak closet, walk in pantry. The whole deal with an older, but very nicely designed house. One of its biggest complications, other then it was severally run down, is that there was only one bathroom in the entire house. Large bathroom on the second floor, end of the hallway.

This was more then a complication as a little kid with a quick gag reflex and a difficulty climbing the steep set of stars. Add on top of it they only control I had over the television is if I sat right in front of it with my hand firmly clutching the channel knob. All these factors yielded a child who hated finally going to the bathroom and my best guess is it carried over into my adult life.

So there I am, eleven years old and having an unnatural hatred for going to the bathroom tell the last minute. Sitting in one of my class rooms when the moment comes, I can�t hold it back anymore, she�s going to blow! Of course this is the day the teacher has decided a hour long speech with no interruptions was the best way to teach us unruly kids. No matter how much I bounced in my seat, hand raised in the air, waving desperately for attention I couldn�t get him to recognize that I had to pee, badly.

I�m eleven, way past the age that its �acceptable� for a kid to piss himself in class, but still to young to have the freedom to go when I want. The embarrassment alone would have destroyed me for the rest of my schooling so I did the only thing left I could think of. My abdomen muscles weakening, on the verge of giving up on me so I could finally get that sweet, sweet release I was so desperately needing to do. So I reached into my pants pocket and just squeezed you know what.

Only this piss had the power of a typhoon, a simple pinching wasn�t going to hold this back. I can feel the little dribbles leaking out, threatening to soak the front of my pants in a very familiar way. Out of desperation I kept pinching harder and harder tell the only thing that was holding back the tidal wave was the mighty grip I had.

Finally class got let out; I covered up my hand playing pocket pool with my books and ran to the nearest bathroom. Stripping as quickly as I could I finally let go with all that my body had been aching to release for more then an hour.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhoooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!

Holy shit did that ever fucking hurt!

It seems in my desperation I managed to pinch so hard that I deeply bruised my urethra.

Let me try and explain this to the ill informed male readers how exactly this feels. Imagine someone attaching a set of vice grips to your little trooper and getting them on there nice and tight. Ok, you with me so far. Now imagine through the mysterious of science your urine has been transferred into liquid magma. Now imagine this molting rock shooting out from you with the occasional jagged rock with particularly sharp edges.

That about sums up the pain and misery I was going through for about a week. The first few times it was so intense I could barely stop myself from crying out; instead I would let out a soft whimper. After that first week it remained a dull ache for a few more weeks after that. To say I learned my lesson would be putting it mildly.

Fast forward to the age of fifteen, I�m at home with a few friends. I�m in the bathroom happily enjoying a good pee all by myself. Just as I�m about finished, I hear the bathroom door open up behind me. Seems not only did I not lock it, something I normally do, but the friend in question didn�t realize I was in there.

Have I mentioned this was a female friend I had somewhat of a thing for back then? Yeah, that�s kind of relevant to the story.

So I flip out when I hear the door open then hear her say oh in surprise of me standing there doing my business. In haste I quickly tucked back in, grabbed my zipper and did a quick yank up.

Yeah, you can see where this is going, but don�t jump ahead of me on this one.

The head caught right in the zipper and good too. It was kind of hard to keep the cry to a low, muffling, whimper, but I did my best and gave her a smile and nod. Though I�m sure she knew since my lips where so tight with tension they where pure white and tears where running down my face.

Ok so that was some major abuse to my little hand puppet in my pants, but it doesn�t end there. I knew the next time I would have to pee again it was going to hurt like a mofo. So I did my best to brace myself against this pain, to try and not be surprised by it. Oddly enough it didn�t really hurt. What turned out to be the big surprise is the fact I had a decent stream splashing into the bowl. And thirty degrees to my left there is a second stream shooting out.

WHAT THE FUCK!! IS THIS EVEN POSSIBLE!!

I just stared at my penis in complete surprised like it just did a magical trick or something. Then I remembered I wasn�t done pissing so I had to quickly reposition myself to try and keep from one stream shooting all over my floor. Unfortunately the streams where to far apart to get them both in the bowl so I was forced to compromise by pissing in my toilet and in my bath tub all at the same time.

Come on, how many other guys you know could actually say they�ve done that.

This particular ordeal I had to handle for about four or five days which I ended by thoroughly scrubbing my bath tub down with bleach. Though the end of my double stream also ended my dream of being the first offical double money shot porn star ever. The possibilities where endless, unfortunately the results of the accident where not.
Is it any surprise I choose to lower my pants down completely rather then unzip and pull out?

Well that�s it with my stories, of course I have more, but even I�m not that bold *or is it crass?* enough to go into those stories.

Sorry I messed with your head this morning. The check for you psychiatrist bill will be in the mail real soon.

It's about time - Wednesday, Jul. 07, 2004
An Honor for Chrome - Friday, Feb. 20, 2004
A great loss - Monday, Oct. 20, 2003
a terrible announcement. - Tuesday, Sept. 09, 2003
Chrome speaks: - Friday, Sept. 05, 2003