my red, white and brown underpants

Lately the theme seems to be new things; the new year, the new awesome president of America, the newest, freshest magazine on the market. So in respect to this recent trend, here's something new for everyone. I can guarantee that no one has embarked on such a quest. Correct me if I'm wrong.

Once upon a time seems suiting. I was young an inexperienced at the time and was invited to a party that my friend's said would be "pretty rad". I wasn't much of the party attending type at the time but decided that given my current relationship status it really wouldn't hurt to get out and mingle with someone other than my "pretty rad" friends.

I can't recall which day it was exactly, let's say it was a Friday night, either way I ended up going to this "rad" party. Don't get me wrong, it was pretty awesome. The night went by splendidly, a bunch of drinks and a bunch of casual conversation. At the the end of the night I ended up being a little slurry, however, still in control and having the time of my life. The next hour is a little fuzzy when it comes to exact details but somehow I met a girl and ended up back at her place in her room. What came after will forever be engraved into the depths of my memoirs to the utmost detail.

This would be the first time I had sex.

Everything was going wonderfully, or so I imagined from all the stories I'd heard and movies I'd seen. The only things that threw me off was this girl's interest in me, and the layer of thin plastic covering the bed. Somewhere in the magic of it all, this girl, that I would later describe as nothing more than a freak, suggested that it would be pleasurable if she inserted a small dildo into my ass. So me being the guy who was still slightly under the influence and who had lost his virginity only moments earlier decided that this suggestion could only make the situation more stimulating than it already was. I think the response I used was "why not?". I may have even thrown an exclamation point in there at the time also. "Why not?", shit, if I had known what I was in for the last thing I would have been doing was dropping questions like that. I would have found my favorite underwear that were somewhere in that foul room, slipped them on, grabbed my pants and gotten the fuck out of there before the faux-pas-ness of putting my feet into my shoes without socks on even crossed my mind. Instead there I was with a smile on my face and something smooth in my ass.

This went on for sometime, but like I said, It was my first time. I'd like to think I was lucky for this because the embarrassment could have gone on for much longer had it been further into my sexual career. But then again, maybe if I was more experienced I would have known better than to get myself into the situation I was in.

Climax was nearing and I informed my "partner" of this. Just as I was doing what I went there to do, the freak decided to pop the dildo out of my ass at the same speed and pressure that could only be compared to the cork on a champagne bottle doing what it does best. This was a bad thing. I immediately found out that something being pulled out of your ass at such a speed does what an enema would do. I also found out what the plastic sheets were for.

Before I knew why the room smelled like last night's dinner there she was, this girl, the freak, rolling around and playing in my shit, an act I could only describe as "something I saw on the Discovery Channel last month".

--------------

Now, part of me would like to take credit for such a feat, but I can't. This sexual quest actually happened to a friend of a friend of mine. Sure it was a first on many fronts for this brave soul; his first time having sex, his first time having something slipped into his ass, his first time running out the door with only his underwear on and his first time having a life changing story to share with his friends. But what was really a first was the way I felt when he delivered the punch line. It was the first time I felt sick and puked a little bit in my mouth from someone telling me a story.


This story has been passed on to many people, probably changing each listener's life a little bit no matter how tough they think they are. But really, what we should all walk away from this with is that if ever you come upon plastic sheets, let that be sign enough to get out as fast as a cork exiting a bottle of champagne.














as for shit on the covers...

I see that everyone involved in the NUS Collective is very talented and has a lot to bring to the table. This excites me. I cannot wait to see what things come from all of this. It also convinces me that the NUS will never have anything close to shit on it's covers.



-DH

Paying is for suckers.

This summer myself and two friends embarked on a road trip from our town of Fernie, BC.

Destination: Pemberton, for the first ever Pemberton Music festival.
Whip: My 1988 Toyota Corolla, "SHE-RA" princess of power.

Morning of departure, i ask my supposed co-pilot, the only other friend with a license:
"so, uh Dan. You know how to drive standard, right?"
"No."
"Oh. God Damn."

13 hours of driving later($85 gas split 3 ways) we made it to Hongcouver. Stayed with some friends (case of beer) for a couple days and then drove up to Pemberton.

This festival, lauded as being another Sasquatch, Coachella or Glastonbury, had a $300 price tag, along with fees+taxes+$60 a head for camping. Being the ski-bum-broke-asses that we were(are) we volunteered for the festival, meaning we didn't pay anything.($0).

40,000 people arrived in a town of 1500 over the course of one day. Wait times to check in were upwards of 5 hours. They searched every car for outside booze, so that cheap Alberta beer you brought had to be polished before you even got inside. Masses of people were pissed, both with anger and lots and lots of alcohol. Because of our volunteer status, we got in right away and they didnt search my car and find the cheap booze we bought in Montana the weekend prior. Lesson? Booze in BC is expensive. Once inside, it was $ 7 PER BEER. The first night, there were riots. It was mayhem at its finest.

We showed up to volunteer, and no one knew what to do with us. We kept getting sent around to various people, all of whom had no idea what we were even talking about. After a (semi)honest effort of TRYING to volunteer, we said fuck it, and with our festival wristbands already provided, we snaked the festival hard.

Mayhem aside, 4 days of live music tucked in the majestic mountains with 40,000 other people was a party never seen before in Canada. There were some bad reviews regarding the sheer disorganization of the festival, and maybe i too would be soured if i had actually paid all that money to go.

But i didnt. So it was awesome.

legs

I Wear These X's On My Hand Like You Wear Those Herpes On Your Lips

Not many people know but I used to be straight edge. I didn't drink, smoke or fuck anything that walked past me. Hardcore was a lifestyle for me. The people, the music and the morals. Then I made friends that weren't as geeky as I am and discovered the immaculate taste of Lucky Lager and Olde English.

I was seventeen the first time I got drunk. A keg party in St. Eustache, free hotdogs and all the drink tickets I wanted. Nobody told me how dangerous people get when they drink, I had to find out first hand. I vaguely remember the events of the night but I recall dancing on a stage and some super slutty looking girl pushed me off. So I got right the fuck back on and face pushed her off. Bad idea. The next thing I know I'm getting pulled by my brand new Boston Celtics jersey onto the hard ground. When I looked up at who pulled me all I could see was burly muscles covered with tribal art and a wife beater. This guy was a real fucking meathead. "Yo what the fuck is your problem buddy?!" Keep in mind I completely ignore my morals and don't care what happens when I'm drunk. So I replied with "Go back to Shapes, cocksucker" The surprise in his eyes that I wasn't going to back down was completely taken over with hatred as red as the flame decals on his Dodge Ram. At this point I see my friend Brad dive off of the stage head first into this guy. He was down and the standoff was over. I would have had the living hell beaten out of me that night if it weren't for Brad. There's no doubt in my mind I would have woken up in the trunk of a car in Morden. But instead I woke up in the back of a truck with a gorgeous girl I didn't know. Her wearing my new Celtics Jersey and me in nothing but my Asics and underwear.

-Turbo Jones

Note: I don't know if this is long enough. But it's the only good first I can remember.

I wish i was a Master Baiter.

First; an insincere apology to people who like bass master video games. The follwing is the opinion of someone who is probably cooler than you are.

If there is a first time for everything, i'm still waiting for the first time i see someone actually catch a fish in Bass Masters. or any other video fishing for that matter. So here is my beef. I have absolutely nothing against either fishing of video games, but put it together and it sucks. Let me explain

Every time me and my cousin Den would get together, he would insist on renting Bass Masters for super nintendo. i would try to play it, get bored, watch him play it (even more boring but with the opportunity to munch the chips meanwhile), and if it was really late and i couldn't get to sleep i would pick up the controller again. But never have i seen someone catch a fish. and i was reminded of this a little while ago, sitting in my livingroom playing bass fishing on PS2. Everytime a fish would get on the line, and we seemed to be making progress, it would wiggle off, mocking our pitiful efforts. And i was thinking not much has changed from the days of super nintendo.

But the games are much better. It looks nicer, and i'm sure there is an increased level of 'realism'. Now i'm sorry (no i'm not) but realism in fishing for me is the sunrise/sunset with a beer(s) at hand, and not much on your mind. But to someone who really cares, i'm sure you can 'really tell the difference'. Like the drag tension-o-meter is real time, or some garbage. Now who on earth would spend anytime out of their life to improve a fishing game? And especially a game that you can't, to my knowledge, actually catch fish in?

It must be the Japanese (who the Kids in the Hall taught are a country, not a company), or at least people pretending to be Japanese. This is why the Japanese would make a better Bass Masters. Because it is written somewhere in their forgiegn policy that they have to take boring Western culture and give it a shot of speed, heroin, and neon lights, all done with a Samurai precision. So we can soon expect DDR-type bass fishing, with projected 3D fireworks when you catch a fish, and lots of girls with crazy hair and short skirts. Maybe that's just wishful thinking.

But seriously, there are people out there as we speak, interview and collaborating with Bob Izumi (coincidence?) on how to make a better, more realistic fishing game.
It's amazing what lengths people will go to be appreciated. But who am i to judge, just because i can't catch a damn fish in these stupid games.

And to add insult to it, a couple of days later, while i wasn't around, my friends went and started winning trophies, landing master anglers, and otherwise kicking ass at the game. So i still haven't seen it happen. But i think if i do, the world will fall into itself and become bizzaro or something. So you can thank me later.

The First Time I Pushed My Girlfriend

It was the summer of 04, Shane was my “get HIGHHH” friend, and lived a couple blocks from our high school. Being a drug dealer I always had marijuana so every lunch we would stroll over to his crib and hit a couple bong rips before heading back to school. However it was Friday and Shane’s birthday so we decided to skip and get a 66 of rye.
We started slowly, sipping some bevies and catching sun rays on his porch. Afternoon came to evening and we were starting to get a little mellow. It was either take a nap or take something to keep us going…we opted for a gram of cocaine...The phone was ringing off the hook and people started to arrive for the birthday celebrations. Shane and I, both heavily intoxicated, kept knocking them back and ripping lines like no ones biz!!!
My sweetheart of a girlfriend came to take me home after calling several times and getting slurred words. Remember I’m telling this from what I remember so it’s a bit fuzzy…. I was up in Shane’s tiny room half conscious trying to mingle with the few around when Christie came to get me. Of course, not wanting to go and hating being told what to do by a woman was FURIOUS!!!!
After trying for several minutes to verbally get me to move/get up she resorted to gently pulling my arm… Being the sniffed out prick that I was, I forcefully shoved her, and she “smashed herself” on the door.
Of course, being the sweet innocent girl she was, this set off the water works…she of course left the room. My friends downstairs saw her crying and quickly acted on my drunk ass…ha ha….carrying me down the stairs and through the door to the porch where I insisted I could walk from their. The rain gently fell so only a couple escorted me to Christies car where of course I refused to get in and started walking home. I got half a block away before the car pulled up and two friends tricked/forced me into the car.
A word to anyone dealing with a rye-pied-cocaine high teen…they are no longer your friend, faces, voices, friendships don’t exist to these zombies. The only thing you can do is treat them like a three year old child and trick them into thinking they are in control when you are really in control.

Someone's stolen my mountain

This stuff is supposed to be about firsts. Big deal. I mean that without sarcasm, it actually is a big deal, cause it's our first issue and being first is something. A specifically non-specific something. So i had some extra time on my hands and i was thinking, what exactly is the big deal?
For starters, the first time is usually never the best time; if it was, there would be no need for a second time, and if there was a second time it would be like an overweight ballerina; sad and funny, a rainbow of hopelessness. And they say one is the loneliest number. And they are never wrong.
I happened to be reading through a National Geographic recently about the 50th anniversary of the first summit of Everest. I'm not sure on how old the magazine actually is, and i'm far too busy (ie lazy) to find out, but the point was that it was an amazing accomplishment of human will and spirit, and there are all kinds of incredible stories that are apart of it. Sir Ed Hillary and Tenzing Norgay set foot on a place were no foot had ever been set, it was awe inspiring, and when they got back down, they said they couldn't conceive of anyone trying to do it again. Stupid mountain climbers.
There were other stories about other climbers that went through hell to get to Everest, but somehow they just weren't as interesting. Everyone remembers the first man on the moon, but can you name anyone else that went there? Didn't think so. ( If you can, stop watching discovery channel all day and get a girlfriend or a job or something). Lots of people keep on doing it, now there are plans to take tourist into space, and Everest is so packed with 'tourist' climbers that you have to bump shoulders on the way up. I'm not saying climbing a mountain is easy, and plenty have tried to go up 'the hard way' or be the first to climb it in like under an hour or something. so instead of being daring, people settle for different, and by different, you know, i mean "different". This will inevitably lead to things like the first gay couple to climb Everest wearing only organic fibres. Who cares? no one. Climb the mountain because it's there, but you can't climb it because you'd be the first in someway, it's been done. I'm sure the view is incredible, but it used to be that you had to earn that kind of thing.
We remember out firsts because they are that leap of faith into new experience, doing something that couldn't be done and doing it, coming down from the mountain and saying "We've done the bastard. When's tea?". Good or bad, it's a milestone in our lives, in our history, it's a point that we can no longer step back from. And it's a bunch of stupid people that have no sense of history or significance or the fact that there is nothing special in being the first to glue yourself to the Eiffel Tower. Just because it can go on YouTube, doesn't mean anyone will care.
The point is that firsts are special things, individual things, and if they are important historical things. So here's to our little bit of history. It may not be tour best, but it certainly is our first. Here's to popping my publishing cherry.

My First Headbutt

How was your twelfth birthday? Did you have cake? Pizza pops? Maybe you had a movie and a sleep over. Most people had things of that nature, unless they were born in a third world country and were just lucky enough to make it to their twelfth year of life. I’m sure most people feel genuinely sorry that those children don’t have the same luxuries that everyone has.

Well, my twelfth celebration of life consisted of all those things above mentioned, and then a little more. I cannot recall which movie we were watching, but I do remember a mix of hilarity as my friends and I talked of Baywatch girls like Yasmine Bleeth and the notorious Pamela Anderson. As I can recall in mid conversation there was a bellowing thunder of a bang that came from the basement door. Scared shitless would have been the expression all of us shared as we looked amongst our faces.

Now fifteen minutes earlier I decided it was a good idea to lock the basement door to keep my younger brother and his immature friend out of our homo erotic party. They had their fun while running in, laughing, and skipping out like a pedophile skips town. Obviously for a now mature twelve year old, this was un-acceptable to put my friends through, so fuck my brother and his friend, they can touch their dinks upstairs.

Obviously, I knew this was not the knock of my brother and his friend. And obviously, shitty, but obvious… this was my task to go and open the door. “Click” went the lock and before I even had the chance to place my hand on the knob, the door swung open with the force of a rhinoceros charging. Sidetrack: Have you ever seen Land Before Time? And if so, do you remember the fight between those two dinosaurs with the bone heads? That’s kind of what happened to me, only the flat part of my step father’s skull hit the bridge of my nose.

Blood shot everywhere, all over my shirt, the floor, obs the door. And my step dad stormed off as if he had no business to even knock on the basement door. I should have went to the hospital, but I toughed it out, I was twelve years old now. Fuck life. And more so, fuck those kids in Africa who don’t have to deal with this shit. I don’t feel sorry for them at all.