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Naked It: What is going on? (She’s not naked. It’s a base)
Naked It: What is going on? (She’s not naked. It’s a base)

What is going on? (She’s not naked. It’s a base)

Naked It: 5,936 of 6,214 people found the following review helpful My Dinner With Andrea By Farva21 on November 21, 2013 I'm pretty sure Andrea ('ll call her) agreed to have dinner at my apartment only because I always spoke to her using nothing but my two-years-of-high-school German. Her English was perfect Probably better than mine. But the fact that I could only ask her directions to the Autobahn or inquire about the health of her non-existent Tante Amelia, seemed to make me appealing to her in a sweet and non-threatening way My intentions, however, were considerably less child-like. Which is why the shopping that night was done at one of those upscale groceries with an international flair. Moules Marinieres is as much of a panty-peeler as anything I can cook, and isn't that hard to pull off. But still, was busy tracking the recipe in my head when I found myself in the sweets aisle. And that, to my great chagrin, is why I didn't immediately notice the difference between Haribo Normal Gummi Bears (which are designed for human enjoyment) and Haribo Sugarless Gummi Bears (which are designed for use in maximum security prisons as a way to punish uncooperative inmates) I shan't make that mistake again. (notice you can't spell SHANT without SHAT.) Prior to Andrea's arrival, I sat in my living room, creating a playlist of make-out music and nervously binging on the Gummi Bears I had placed in a decorative bowl because I am fancy The doorbell rang, and within minutes we were standing in the kitchen, drinking beers and both of us probably worrying that we were about to exhaust my ability to communicate in her native tongue. But soon that would be the least of my worries. In the middle of trying to ask Andrea if she likes to dance to young people's music, I felt a flutter in my midsection, accompanied by a guttural pronouncement so loud it threatened to drown out my own voice Maybe it was because l was mentally refreshing my language lessons, but it suddenly struck me how much pre-diarrheal grumblings sound like German words "ENTSCHULDIGUNG" was the next thing uttered by my rapidly clenching stomach. Appropriately, Andrea looked up in response "Sind Sie Kaffee machen?" she asked Am I making coffee? I thought I must have mistranslated her at first, then finally I realized that yes, the loud, ominous gurgling coming from my gut could easily be mistaken for the percolating of some bachelor's crappy coffeemaker. It's remarkable how quickly one knows that one is about to have a traumatic pottymaking experience. Maybe that's the body's way of buying you the precious seconds you need. I was already calculating the number of steps to the bathroom, speculating on whether I would have time to lift the lid to the toilet, when my own voice cried out loudly in my head She's going to hear EVERYTHING! Thanks to an acoustical idiosyncrasy in my building, the hallway outside the bathroom works as an amplifier pointed straight at my living room-slash-kitchen. So that somehow even the gentlest tinkle sounds like I'm pouring lemonade out of a bucket With only half an idea of what I was doing, I grabbed Andrea's hand and pulled her roughly down onto my sofa. I must have looked like a madman as I booted up my iTunes playlist, plugged in the gigantic new headphones I had just bought to keep me looking young and hip, and clamped them down over her ears. (the sweat forming on my brow and upper lip couldn't have helped.) In response to her nervous expression, I kept shouting "You'll love this! You'll love this!" l spun her around so that she was looking out the window. My "plan" was that she'd be so distracted by the modest 4th floor view, that it would allow me to pull my pants off while sprinted down the hall, silently singing the praises of the noise-reducing quality of my new headphones. (this story will be reprinted in its entirety as a 5 star review on the Sony Beats Audio Amazon page.) As I slammed the bathroom door shut, already half naked, it occurred to me that I had not been shouting "You'll love this!" at Andrea. I don't even know how to say that in German. In my desperation I had been saying "Ich Leibe Dich!" Repeatedly professing my love for her in a shaky and frantic voice. But maybe that was a good thing, because as I threw myself at the toilet, l figured the best I could hope for is that she would be so creeped-out that she would sneak out of the apartment, blissfully unaware of the carnage taking place in the next room What can I say about the ensuing white-knuckle bowel movement that hasn't been expressed in other reviews on this page? I'm pretty sure I havent seen the adjective "Kafkaesque" used an By the end of Act One of this private little torture-porn movie, I was confessing to every unsolved crime in history. Praying I would stumble upon the one that would satisfy my invisible captors Quickly I realized that I had more than Andrea about. We o get even the faintest whiff of the weapons-grade that my anus was angrily shouting into the soun I would have to change my name and move to another city hed. And hed. And an And then l ing happened have never looked down into a bro oilet with more horror in my entire life. And I once stopped up George Cloone for another time e and my heart seized when I saw it on the floor, broken in two and covered in what looked like teeth marks. Apparently I had used the wooden handle reached for the plunger, but my hand keep from biting my tongue off and had chewed clean through it. When did that happen? It seems my mind had already started the process of repressing this entire event Amid the feverish, fruit dance I did bathroom floor, it dawned on me that it had been more than a min y last soul-wrenching anal tantrum. Dear Lord, is it over? I across my ked, quite possibly aloud I may have been light-headed and vomiting in terror, then supposed I could pull up my trousers and make a cavalier exit. As long as I could get her off premises and as far away from this post-apocalyptic commode possible. Assuming that the Diarrhis sional, but I began to imagine a non-ignominious resolution to this ordeal. I just needed to get her the hell out of here. If Andrea hadn't fled the building eated to the temporarily, maybe I could even whisk Andrea away to a candlelight dinner at Bernardo's. How impulsive! s back toward the living room were tentative. And not just because my sphincter felt rawa slow approach to the Moment of Truth when I saw her ill planted on my sofa. I knew any look on Andrea's face other than her mouth agape would constitute a miraculous victory. And when she smiled at me, the wash of relief that engulfed me was more glorious than any throes of ecstasy I might have wished for at the beginning of the night And then I saw it The decorative bowl sittin t the last few s s Gummi bea t Haribo! o me. Accompanied by a fied smile. A big, beaming Hansel and Gretel smile, that slightly turned down in one corner at the sound we both suddenly heard. A lovw rumble from deep within her Gl tract that sounded like Gefahrrrrr. The German word for Danger. hot past min efocused on the bathroom door just down the hal behind me earthma 0 Comments Was this review helpful to you? Was there second da Yes No A Mess In Progress — Haribo Sugarless Gummi Bears and their effects ...
Naked It: 5,936 of 6,214 people found the following review helpful
 My Dinner With Andrea
 By Farva21 on November 21, 2013
 I'm pretty sure Andrea ('ll call her) agreed to have dinner at my apartment only because I always spoke to her using nothing but my two-years-of-high-school German. Her English was perfect
 Probably better than mine. But the fact that I could only ask her directions to the Autobahn or inquire about the health of her non-existent Tante Amelia, seemed to make me appealing to her in a
 sweet and non-threatening way
 My intentions, however, were considerably less child-like. Which is why the shopping that night was done at one of those upscale groceries with an international flair. Moules Marinieres is as
 much of a panty-peeler as anything I can cook, and isn't that hard to pull off. But still, was busy tracking the recipe in my head when I found myself in the sweets aisle. And that, to my great
 chagrin, is why I didn't immediately notice the difference between Haribo Normal Gummi Bears (which are designed for human enjoyment) and Haribo Sugarless Gummi Bears (which are designed
 for use in maximum security prisons as a way to punish uncooperative inmates)
 I shan't make that mistake again. (notice you can't spell SHANT without SHAT.)
 Prior to Andrea's arrival, I sat in my living room, creating a playlist of make-out music and nervously binging on the Gummi Bears I had placed in a decorative bowl because I am fancy
 The doorbell rang, and within minutes we were standing in the kitchen, drinking beers and both of us probably worrying that we were about to exhaust my ability to communicate in her native
 tongue. But soon that would be the least of my worries. In the middle of trying to ask Andrea if she likes to dance to young people's music, I felt a flutter in my midsection, accompanied by a
 guttural pronouncement so loud it threatened to drown out my own voice
 Maybe it was because l was mentally refreshing my language lessons, but it suddenly struck me how much pre-diarrheal grumblings sound like German words
 "ENTSCHULDIGUNG" was the next thing uttered by my rapidly clenching stomach. Appropriately, Andrea looked up in response
 "Sind Sie Kaffee machen?" she asked
 Am I making coffee?
 I thought I must have mistranslated her at first, then finally I realized that yes, the loud, ominous gurgling coming from my gut could easily be mistaken for the percolating of some bachelor's
 crappy coffeemaker.
 It's remarkable how quickly one knows that one is about to have a traumatic pottymaking experience. Maybe that's the body's way of buying you the precious seconds you need. I was already
 calculating the number of steps to the bathroom, speculating on whether I would have time to lift the lid to the toilet, when my own voice cried out loudly in my head
 She's going to hear EVERYTHING!
 Thanks to an acoustical idiosyncrasy in my building, the hallway outside the bathroom works as an amplifier pointed straight at my living room-slash-kitchen. So that somehow even the gentlest
 tinkle sounds like I'm pouring lemonade out of a bucket
 With only half an idea of what I was doing, I grabbed Andrea's hand and pulled her roughly down onto my sofa. I must have looked like a madman as I booted up my iTunes playlist, plugged in the
 gigantic new headphones I had just bought to keep me looking young and hip, and clamped them down over her ears. (the sweat forming on my brow and upper lip couldn't have helped.) In
 response to her nervous expression, I kept shouting "You'll love this! You'll love this!"
 l spun her around so that she was looking out the window. My "plan" was that she'd be so distracted by the modest 4th floor view, that it would allow me to pull my pants off while sprinted down
 the hall, silently singing the praises of the noise-reducing quality of my new headphones. (this story will be reprinted in its entirety as a 5 star review on the Sony Beats Audio Amazon page.)
 As I slammed the bathroom door shut, already half naked, it occurred to me that I had not been shouting "You'll love this!" at Andrea. I don't even know how to say that in German. In my
 desperation I had been saying "Ich Leibe Dich!" Repeatedly professing my love for her in a shaky and frantic voice. But maybe that was a good thing, because as I threw myself at the toilet, l
 figured the best I could hope for is that she would be so creeped-out that she would sneak out of the apartment, blissfully unaware of the carnage taking place in the next room
 What can I say about the ensuing white-knuckle bowel movement that hasn't been expressed in other reviews on this page? I'm pretty sure I havent seen the adjective "Kafkaesque" used
 an
 By the end of Act One of this private little torture-porn movie, I was confessing to every unsolved crime in history. Praying I would stumble upon the one that would satisfy my invisible captors
 Quickly I realized that I had more than Andrea
 about. We
 o get even the faintest whiff of the weapons-grade
 that my anus was angrily shouting into the
 soun
 I would have to change my name and move to another city
 hed. And
 hed. And
 an
 And then l
 ing happened
 have never looked down into a bro
 oilet with more horror in my entire life. And I once stopped up George Cloone
 for another time
 e and my heart seized when I saw it on the floor, broken in two and covered in what looked like teeth marks. Apparently I had used the wooden handle
 reached for the plunger, but my hand
 keep from biting my tongue off and had chewed clean through it. When did that happen? It seems my mind had already started the process of repressing this entire event
 Amid the feverish, fruit
 dance I did
 bathroom floor, it dawned on me that it had been more than a min
 y last soul-wrenching anal tantrum. Dear Lord, is it over? I
 across my
 ked, quite possibly aloud
 I may have been light-headed and
 vomiting in terror, then supposed I could pull up my trousers and make a cavalier exit. As long as I could get her off premises and as far away from this post-apocalyptic commode
 possible. Assuming that the Diarrhis
 sional, but I began to imagine a non-ignominious resolution to this ordeal. I just needed to get her the hell out of here. If Andrea hadn't fled the building
 eated to the
 temporarily, maybe I could even whisk Andrea away to a candlelight dinner at Bernardo's. How impulsive!
 s back toward the living room were tentative. And not just because my sphincter felt rawa
 slow approach to the Moment of Truth
 when I saw her
 ill planted on my sofa. I knew any look on Andrea's face other than her mouth agape would constitute a miraculous victory. And when she smiled at me, the wash of relief that engulfed me
 was more glorious than any throes of ecstasy I might have wished for at the beginning of the night
 And then I saw it
 The decorative bowl sittin
 t the last few s
 s Gummi bea
 t Haribo!
 o me. Accompanied by a
 fied smile. A big, beaming Hansel and Gretel smile, that slightly turned down in one corner at the sound we both suddenly heard. A lovw
 rumble from deep within her Gl tract that sounded like Gefahrrrrr.
 The German word for Danger.
 hot past min
 efocused on the bathroom door just down the hal behind me
 earthma
 0 Comments
 Was this review helpful to you?
 Was there
 second da
 Yes
 No
A Mess In Progress — Haribo Sugarless Gummi Bears and their effects ...

A Mess In Progress — Haribo Sugarless Gummi Bears and their effects ...

Naked It: Thanks to an acoustical idiosyncrasy in my building, the hallway outside the bathroom works as an amplifier pointed straight at my living room-slash-kitchen. So that somehow even the gentlest tinkle sounds like With only half an idea of what I was doing, I grabbed Andrea's hand and pulled her roughly down onto my sofa. I must have looked like a madman as I booted up my iTunes playlist, plugged in the gigantic new headphones I had just bought to keep me looking young and hip, and clamped them down over her ears. (the sweat forming on my brow and upper lip couldn't have helped.) In response to her nervous expression, I kept shouting "You'll love this! You'll love this!" l spun her around so that she was looking out the window. My "plan" was that she'd be so distracted by the modest 4th floor view, that it would allow me to pull my pants off while I sprinted down the hall, silently singing the praises of the noise-reducing quality of my new headphones. (this story will be reprinted in its entirety as a 5 star review on the Sony Beats Audio Amazon page.) As I slammed the bathroom door shut, already half naked, it occurred to me that I had not been shouting "You'll love this!" at Andrea. I don't even know how to say that in German. In my desperation I had been saying "Ich Leibe Dich!" Repeatedly professing my love for her in a shaky and frantic voice. But maybe that was a good thing, because as I threw myself at the toilet, figured the best I could hope for is that she would be so creeped-out that she would sneak out of the apartment, blissfully unaware of the carnage taking place in the next room What can I say about the ensuing white-knuckle bowel movement that hasn't been expressed in other reviews on this page? I'm pretty sure I haven't seen the adjective "Kafkaesque" used anywhere else By the end of Act One of this private little torture-porn movie, I was confessing to every unsolved crime in history. Praying I would stumble upon the one that would satisfy my invisible captors Quickly I realized that I had more than Andrea's sense of sound to worry about. Were she to get even the faintest whiff of the weapons-grade sluice that my anus was angrily shouting into the porcelain, I would have to change my name and move to another city. And so I flushed. And flushed. And flushed and flushed. And then l flushed and nothing happened. I have never looked down into a broken toilet with more horror in my entire life. And I once stopped up George Clooney's crapper! (a true story for another time.) I reached for the plunger, but my hand froze and my heart seized when I saw it on the floor, broken in two and covered in what looked like teeth marks. Apparently I had used the wooden handle to keep from biting my tongue off and had chewed clean through it. When did that happen? It seems my mind had already started the process of repressing this entire event. Amid the feverish, fruitless dance I did across my tiny bathroom floor, it dawned on me that it had been more than a minute since my last soul-wrenching anal tantrum. Dear Lord, is it over? asked quite possibly aloud I'm pouring lemonade out of a bucket.
Naked It: Thanks to an acoustical idiosyncrasy in my building, the hallway outside the bathroom works as an
 amplifier pointed straight at my living room-slash-kitchen. So that somehow even the gentlest tinkle
 sounds like
 With only half an idea of what I was doing, I grabbed Andrea's hand and pulled her roughly down
 onto my sofa. I must have looked like a madman as I booted up my iTunes playlist, plugged in the
 gigantic new headphones I had just bought to keep me looking young and hip, and clamped them
 down over her ears. (the sweat forming on my brow and upper lip couldn't have helped.) In response
 to her nervous expression, I kept shouting "You'll love this! You'll love this!"
 l spun her around so that she was looking out the window. My "plan" was that she'd be so distracted
 by the modest 4th floor view, that it would allow me to pull my pants off while I sprinted down the
 hall, silently singing the praises of the noise-reducing quality of my new headphones. (this story will
 be reprinted in its entirety as a 5 star review on the Sony Beats Audio Amazon page.)
 As I slammed the bathroom door shut, already half naked, it occurred to me that I had not been
 shouting "You'll love this!" at Andrea. I don't even know how to say that in German. In my
 desperation I had been saying "Ich Leibe Dich!" Repeatedly professing my love for her in a shaky
 and frantic voice. But maybe that was a good thing, because as I threw myself at the toilet, figured
 the best I could hope for is that she would be so creeped-out that she would sneak out of the
 apartment, blissfully unaware of the carnage taking place in the next room
 What can I say about the ensuing white-knuckle bowel movement that hasn't been expressed in
 other reviews on this page? I'm pretty sure I haven't seen the adjective "Kafkaesque" used
 anywhere else
 By the end of Act One of this private little torture-porn movie, I was confessing to every unsolved
 crime in history. Praying I would stumble upon the one that would satisfy my invisible captors
 Quickly I realized that I had more than Andrea's sense of sound to worry about. Were she to get
 even the faintest whiff of the weapons-grade sluice that my anus was angrily shouting into the
 porcelain, I would have to change my name and move to another city.
 And so I flushed. And flushed. And flushed and flushed.
 And then l flushed and nothing happened.
 I have never looked down into a broken toilet with more horror in my entire life. And I once stopped
 up George Clooney's crapper! (a true story for another time.)
 I reached for the plunger, but my hand froze and my heart seized when I saw it on the floor, broken
 in two and covered in what looked like teeth marks. Apparently I had used the wooden handle to
 keep from biting my tongue off and had chewed clean through it. When did that happen? It seems
 my mind had already started the process of repressing this entire event.
 Amid the feverish, fruitless dance I did across my tiny bathroom floor, it dawned on me that it had
 been more than a minute since my last soul-wrenching anal tantrum. Dear Lord, is it over? asked
 quite possibly aloud
 I'm pouring lemonade out of a bucket.