With a Heavy Heart Comes the Change of My Nom de Plume and URL

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Bitch+Killer&defid=2784285

The name bitch is not very offensive. The name killer is common parlance. However, the combination of the two, bitch killer, seems like an anti-woman epithet, and as a result, with a very heavy heart and a very conflicted conscience, weighing the personal meaning of the moniker against the public face I reveal to the world, I am once again changing my cyber nom de plume. I will call myself now "Max Rampage." There is brand of shoes called Rampage, and I am naming myself after these. Adieu, sweet Bitch Killer, with other abandoned pseudonyms you will go.

The Handshake: Living a Private Life in the Public Sphere

I once had a cyber girlfriend. She was a cutie. She looked like a chunky version of one of the Mary Kate or Ashley Olson twins. I called her Joi and she called me Mr. ReadPorn. I thought that was a really classy moniker, one that not only revealed my proclivity, but my intellect. Mr ReadPorn. I imagined sitting down on a light blue velvet chair, wearing a chiffon robe, book perched between knees, going at it. Like Masterpiece Theatre with Ron Jeremy.

I don't read much anymore. No, the days are short and my work is long. I'm lucky to catch five thirty-second glimpses of some kinda Korean sorority backdoor lovefest come school days. Fortunately, during midterms, I found myself with some time on my hands, the time to gratify and edify.

During these exam weeks, I make sure to put away the time to indulge, and indulge I did. I dawdled, enjoying those reader submitted stories, I teased. This was no rushed double vaginal double anal shot from a cellphone in the back of a school bus; this was fantasy land. And I roamed. Imagination.

Four pages and three minutes later, (my hands are slowed by having to click "next page") I had finished. I stood up to go to the bathroom, wash my hands, and look at my sixpack, when instead I stumbled upon Ayaas and his girlfriend in the living room. I said hello and began to shift back toward the bathroom.

"Max, how have you been, man?" said Ayaas, fresh from work, and extended his hand to me.

I winced. I looked furtively at Phil. I shot his girlfriend a tragic glance and then looked down at my hand, then his. He has dark, thick, Paki skin. (He's from India.)

Yes, I thought, here's the solution: I turned my hand into the pound and went to pound Ayaas'.

He stood there bright-eyed and put his hand out further, fingers outstretched, wrist firm.

My fingers uncoiled. I clasped his hand and then quickly withdrew.

"How are you?" I asked Ayaas' girlfriend.

"Good, you?" she said.

"Herm, I'm okay." I said. I watched as she then squinted at my pants and then suddenly averted her eyes. I slowly turned away.

I stepped into the kitchen, shuddered from the experience, and then looked down. My fly hung open. Red boxers peaked from black jeans. A darker red poked through because my boxers were damp.

I stood there for a moment and then asked Phil if he wanted to play a game of thumbwars.

How to Deal at 40,000 Feet: Dilemmas of Public Flatulence

After years of constant soy milk ingestion, my body adapted. My
innards became more efficient. My breasts became more tender. And of most importance: my physiology stopped producing lactose. Usually a plight of non-Europeans, I found myself in the company of most blacks, woefully lactose intolerant, much to the chagrin of anyone with a sense of smell.

It is said 98% of earth's population can smell.


I try to surround myself with the other two percent, but I do not
always get to choose my company. My friend Dan Crane's moustache filters the worst of it when I am with him, but my classmates are chosen seemingly at random; T Riders seem not have much choice about their lot; And sometimes the airline company forces me to sit with complete strangers, strangers who are at my mercy.

Aviation has revolutionized travel for the world, but with innovation
came set backs. Restrooms, unrealistically small and far away, are only at the tip of the iceberg. Those cramped seats force me to hunch over, concentrating my weight on my gut, creating undue pressures for lengthy periods on bowels.

Inevitably, nature seeks osmosis and my
embottled methanes and carbons try to escape. I try to hold it in. I
do try. But the ancient Romans knew-- it's just not healthy to hold it
in and I must relent.

The same air pressure systems that allows us to respirate normally
thousands of feet above the earth also imposes truly unique smells on your neighbors. They sustain the full plight of the chicken parmesans, the Chex Mix with 2%, the Cold Stone Birthday Remix. Those pressurizers not only surround your seatmates with those aromas, but also require them to suffer the odors time and time again as the finite air supply recycles in the overhead compartments, slow-filtered through your carry on back down on to your head via those little air blasting
nozzles.

Sudden temperature fluctuations can be observed soon after a
meal of fetticini alfredo is served on the flight from New York to
Singapore.

Orville Wright did not have the foresight to manipulate strange
smells, but take heed, you have options and the option lies beneath you. Yes, your seat cushion is the closest thing to a space station air
purifier you have if you're not an astronaut.

Step One: Simply brush the hand of that mother to be who looks like she is on the verge of puking into the seat pocket in front of her off the armrest, grab hold of the rest and dig in.

Put your center of mass into the
cushion and relax. Purified charcoal is a main constituent in those coach seats and they will actually absorb that chocolate malt you ingested in the gate terminal.

But wish good karma for the unfortunate soul who finds himself in the Gulf of Mexico using that very cushion as a flotation device,
grasping it tightly for his life as he takes his last fleeting gasp of
air and thinks: "Smells like 3:00 am Mexican and Danon yogurt. . ."

Miracles of the Human Body: The Phantom Shit

Yesterday, I felt a big one coming on. My daily exercise must have sped up my metabolism because I was shitting as if I were a rabbit, but with the volume of a rabbit my size, 160 lbs, and the exception that the shits were not little black spheres but instead long, orangebrown, streamlined cylinders.

After meditating on it a few moments, I went to the depository to have a go. I strained mildly, this felt like a small one, and I was able to release. *Plop*

I looked down beneath my legs to examine my Fresh Kill when to my wonder I found nothing at all. No, I saw nothing but unmarked white ceramic toilet bowl. I leaned over, gaining a more obtuse angle to vantage a glance into the receptacle but I could still see no remains.

I stepped off of the loo and crouched down, peering deeper into the plumbing, shifting from right to left. There was nothing there. Was my little Deceptacon able to eel itself down the hole?

Or is it possible I did not defecate at all?

Did I take a Phantom Shit?

I swore I could have felt my anus and intestines flow the little bugger out. And, I knew I had felt my the sphincter of my rectum allow the exit and then pinch the loaf. But, my deuce was no where to be seen.

The remarkable part is that this has happened to me before. The Phantom Shit has struck previously. No, it doesn't count when you sit too far back and high up on the crapper and end up shitting against the seat, your lower back, and down your crack. That's different. I have definitely found those, just not in the bowl. Strangely, my mother often found those escapees before I did and forced me to clean them manually. (I dare ask, what is a mother really for but not too clean her child's escapees?)

A day later I am still miffed. Was my body playing a foul trick on me? Or did another little bugger slip away?