Once upon a time, I had a roommate named

Once upon a time, I had a roommate named Sol, and he had a behemoth trousersnake. I was no twink, I never wanted to see it, but that was never my choice to make. One night, he

was whipping it back and forth like Willow Smith, when suddenly it hit me. Sure, I never wanted the stories of how I first met my roommate and my first face full of boner to be the

most painful boston pimp slap which left a mushroom-like pink mark on my face that caused girls in classes to come on to me, just so they could get to know my well-endowed roommate

too many can drive a man to golf and drink. At least that's what my Dad used to say as he tipped his pilot's hat and slung his quiver of arrows over his back as he

waved good-bye. That was the last time I saw my dad. He was in an archery hot-air balloon duel with his nemisis Paul Von Hindenburg. I vowed to honor his name.

So I created a balloon performance art piece. I’d fashion an audience suggestion into a balloon creation, then shoot it with arrows while playing “My Balloon” by Men Without Pants.

I went to eat a sandwich after, and found a pubic hair in it. It was quite disgusting, so I threw up all over the table. It was quite embarrassing, so I started turning red & shook

my head and shrugged, as if to say "Not again... Oh well, what's for desert?" My repugnancy for pubic hair comes from when I was 8 and saw a naked old man for the first time at

the desert. And that's why to this very day I am deathly afraid of finding gray pubic hair in my dessert. What...what is this? Ice cream? There's...NO! NO! It can't be! NO!