OFFENSIVE T-SHIRT CONTEST WINNERS

Speaking of t-shirts, we received a few dozen “offensive” stories from readers who wanted to win one of our custom-made, extremely vulgar cotton creations. To be honest, we weren’t all that impressed. Our intern Harry, the guy who finalized the entries, summed it up best when he said, “Damn, we have some stupid motherfuckers who read Vice.” There were lots of random anecdotes about shitting in the cars/homes/breakfast nooks of enemies, tales of collegiate mischief, deleting people from Facebook (are you people really this boring?), and recollections from degenerates with STDs who like to fuck people without protection or warning of their festering genitalia. What’s wrong with you guys? You never caused $75,000 worth of plumbing damage by flushing 50 pounds of quick-dry cement in your high school’s upstairs toilet because the vice principal had the campus ecstasy dealer arrested two nights before prom? Fucking amateurs. Anyway, we are humans of our word so here are the five stories we found the most offensive in no particular order. The winners will be emailed individually for their addresses and shirt preferences (and chided for their lameness).

ENTRY 1:

Yo, I lost my virginity to a married woman with two kids I met on the internet. She drove up from Georgia and stayed at a hotel near where I lived. I didn’t have the nerve to fuck her, so I had my of-age friend buy a half gallon of rum. I got pretty smashed, and eventually we did fuck, but I was so drunk I couldn’t bust my nut. Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was the fact that her kids (aged three and six) were sleeping in the other bed that was within arm’s reach.

Nothing like losing your virginity while simultaneously committing adultery with a complete stranger while her kids are dreaming of their daddy who is in Iraq fighting for our country and hearing their mom get rooted by some strange man.

The chick I fucked is now a lesbian meth addict. Her butchy lover has a better mustache than I do.

I swear on my life every detail of this story to be true. I dunno if I deserve a t-shirt or castration. I have no doubt if there is a hell, I’ll be there. Shit I might even help run the joint.

ENTRY 2:

Last time I was in Atlanta (on my way back to Florida from Gonerfest last year) I stopped at a friend’s house for (more) BBQ and beer, and a dip in the hot tub. Apparently talking about the rumors of a former sex partner’s HIV diagnosis while wearing a bikini bottom is some sort of hot tub faux pas, because that thing cleared out in a heartbeat.

Another time (also in Atlanta, at good ol’ Lenny’s Bar) my band dedicated a song to the recently deceased Pope John Paul II. I believe our exact words were, “This song goes out to the dead-ass pope.” Some skinhead dude tried to rush the stage and avenge his fallen spiritual leader but got hustled out by security.

I used to play a game with a co-worker when we worked at Trackside Tavern in Decatur, Georgia, to see how pissed off we could get drunken sorority girls by calling them “fella.”

New Years Eve 2003: I took some acid at a friend of a friend’s house, and asked the guy who invited me who the people in a framed photo on the wall were. He said he had no idea, so I laughed hysterically at what I thought was a picture frame with the stock photo still in it. Turns out it was the house’s owner’s dead children.

I also wanted to make a “Michael Vick Doggy Day Care” t-shirt, but people either wanted to charge out the ass to print it or flat out refused. (I know “I wanted to” doesn’t count for much.)

ENTRY 3:

Around the time I was 17 I got a call from a boy I met when I was 13. He was a total bad ass in my eyes, and I fell for him hard! I mean, he traveled cross-country by himself and slept on roofs—my dad wouldn’t’ even let me see a concert at the Huntridge before it closed! Of course, I was smitten. He was in town, and told me stories about how he made $500 for rubbing some guys leg while he masturbated in Philly and introduced me to obscure punk music. He was the one, no doubt. So we started hanging out, we snuck on roofs, and went skinny dipping in the middle of January at fancy casinos. Anyways, my boyfriend didn’t like this, not one bit. I was spending more time with this boy and my boyfriend could tell I liked him. So one night after hanging out all day I snuck him into my room and he gave me a stick-and-poke tattoo, we kind of fucked, and then in the morning we took a shower together, and fucked some more, but this time without a condom—I was in love and condoms restricted my love for this dude.

It must have been bad karma because I got this flu like none other. I got really fucking sick, and after a week I’m completely fine, but I start getting itchy and discharging and it hurts when I piss. I looked up the symptoms, I was sure I had herpes but didn’t want to believe till I got concrete results. So what did I do? I went to the only other guy who I liked fucking. We didn’t even have sex this time, though. I just straddled him naked in his car. A week later he’s like, “Whaaaat the fuck?! I have a pimple on my dick! Fuck!” So he goes to get tested but never picks up his results. I’ve never been so lost and confused in my life. I didn’t want to tell my parents because I’d have seemed like the dirty slut I was, so I kept it to myself.

Anyway, yeah, it sucked, but thank god it wasn’t bad. There have been no break outs since. I started dating again and I tried to be the moral chick by telling them some elaborate made-up story of how I got raped complete with hysterical crying. No matter how nice I was no guy wants to fuck you if you have a incurable disease (which I still wasn’t sure I had). I wanted to enjoy sex again so I started lying, or not saying shit because no one asked. I figure 1 in 5 people have some sort of strain of the virus anyway.

Recently I was dating this guy, and I fell hard. I still can’t date other people because I’m so hung up. We would have sex a couple times a week or if he was working a bunch at least once a week. So by the end of our fling we ran out of condoms and we had unprotected sex at least five or six times, almost getting me pregnant– thank god for Plan B—and then he dropped my ass! “Let’s just be friends.” Fuck you! And last time I saw him he was scratching his balls like a cat on scratching post.

ENTRY 4:

I got real messed up one night and cheated on my girlfriend without using protection. The next day she came over and gave me head before I’d had a chance to clean myself.

ENTRY 5:

I was in chemistry class junior year, and everything was going well till my teacher decided to be a little bitch and make us write an essay on chemical bonding. In retrospect it wasn’t that bad, but at that point it seemed like she was the devil herself. I got pissed and called her a total cunt out loud when I didn’t think she could hear me.

FALSE. She totes could, and needless to say she definitely didn’t enjoy my bluntness. She started being a bigger vag-bag than usual. I could go into detail but this bitch was psychotic and it would be a waste of time. I finally had enough of her shit after the first semester, and I dropped that class like a fat kid drops vegetables. To get my revenge for totally fucking up my year (dropping her class meant I had to take it in summer school), I did this:

It happened on one particularly hot and sunny day, the kind where you know what the last fast food you ate in your car was ’cause of the hot stench it emits for days–yeah, revenge is a dish best served hot—when it involves feces, that is. Vag-bag drives a black sedan with fabric seats in dark gray. Apparently she thought that leaving the sunroof open would keep her car cool. Sure, why not? That’s where I came in. I Bernie Mac’d some cigs and shit coffee from the cafeteria to speed things up. Then wham. In one fluid muscle contraction my bowels evacuated all over those toasty fabric seats.

Only one problem: Now I’ve got a shitty asshole. SOLUTION: her grade book. It made lovely toilet paper. I closed the sunroof then got the hell outta dodge. Boy, the look on her face was epic—a mix of confusion, disgust, and anger.

Priceless.

PS: Sorry about the shit grammar. I’m better at tellin’ stories in person. Also, the Eric suicide shirt is epic.

DARBY BUICK