“Not everything is a lesson. Sometimes you just fail.” – Dwight Schrute
Sometimes I feel that you have a calling in life. A so many people look up to me. Not in the sense of me being super influential, or a good role model, but because I am so tall. Most people literally have to look up to me. No one has ever said, “oh, Welton, you should write a self help book on all of your success in life.” No one. And I don’t need no one to tell me to do so. I make my own choices in life. I’m a grown ass man. I been through a lot and I have recently felt the calling to share my success story.
I mean, not everyone can say that they appear in a comic on the internet made by two fucked up dudes.
It was one morning that I was sitting back in my den – well, actually it is my neighbor’s den, but I use it when they are away – drinking an espresso and thinking about my day ahead. I sipped my espresso too soon and burnt the fuck out of my lips and tongue, and it hurt. It wasn’t fucking awesome. Not at all. As I worked my way to the bathroom to find some burn ointment to apply to tongue, which I soon found my neighbor had none. Fucking dick. Something dawned on me as I stood before the mirror, tongue stuck out.
“I need to share my journeys with the world. Maybe those that read it can learn how to be like me: Fucking Awesome!”
I took a shit and didn’t flush it. What the prick gets for not inviting me to his barbecue on Memorial Day.
The idea burning into my brain with a fierce sizzle. I quickly made my way to the kitchen and crawled out the window I always use, because he doesn’t keep it locked, and scurried through the yard back to my own place of living. By the time I got back to my apartment, I was winded. It was a ten-mile walk, after all. I grabbed a pen and a paper towel and sat on my floor. I don’t see the purpose of having any furniture other than my bed. That’s all you need. A bed to sleep on, fuck on, and masturbate on. Masturbation is important if you want to be fucking awesome, but we will touch on that more later.
Then it it dawned on me: How the fuck do I start this? When did I go, “bet! It’s time to change things up and be fucking awesome!”
After three weeks of thinking about it, calling my mom every single day and telling her I hate her, and then four years later, I knew where I needed to start.
From the part of my life that I was at absolutely rock bottom.
~My Uncle Traded Me For Drugs~
I was twenty-nine years old. It was my aunt’s birthday. She had been dead for ten-years at this point in time, and, I don’t want to say I forgot that, but I totally forgot that.
I showed up at her and my uncle’s house with a gift – a lovely scotch I stole from Davidlee’s house, half full, but good stuff. I even took the time to wrap is toilet paper and fashioned a bow out of a trash bag pull string. It looked great.
I knocked on the door and my uncle, still looking good for the ripe age of sixty-four and with a crippling cocaine habit, opened the door and says, “the fuck do you want?” He had those crazy cocaine eyes. Those eyes that say, “I am gonna kill you and snort cocaine off your dick.”
Happy to see him, I held my arms out with a goofy grin on my face. Last time I had saw him was my aunt’s funeral, which, I hadn’t recalled at the time, cause I forgot my aunt had passed away. I should also mention that by “passed away”, I mean that my uncle brutally murdered her. He stabbed her to death and then burnt her body in the backyard. Yes, he was fucked up on cocaine at the time and was pissed cause he found a sex toy in her dresser and he said that was cheating.
Anyway, I went in for the hug and he punches me in the face and accuses me of wanting his cocaine. Now, I don’t do drugs. So that was a silly accusation. Trying to calm the situation down, I hold out the present which he rips into and chugs down like it was water.
“I’m here for auntie’s birthday,” I say in my nicest, overly excited voice. Which I guess wasn’t as nice and excited sounding as I thought, cause he broke the scotch bottle on the door jamb and held it to my throat.
“Yah auntie is dead!”
That’s when I felt really stupid. Cause she was, in fact, dead.
Shit happens. Being fucking awesome doesn’t mean you remember everything. It just means that you are fucking awesome.
So as my uncle held the sharp, jagged, still smelling of scotch bottle to my throat, I noticed that I was terrified. This man has hated me for many years, especially after he found out how I used to make his coffee for him. You see, he likes his coffee with creamer and he was always a dick, so when I would stay with my auntie he would have me make his coffee. I hated him. So instead of creamer, I would jerk off into his coffee, giving him a nice helping of Welton Cum. I did this for about two-years before one day, I was having trouble getting to climax cause I had jerked off three times that morning, he walked into the kitchen. My erect did aimed directly into his coffee mug and a little pre-cum dribbling into it already.
Needless to say, he was not happy and he whooped my ass, drank the coffee, and then locked me in the attic. I was up there for a week before anyone noticed I was gone. Thankfully I had plenty of bugs to eat and J.C. Penny catalogs from the 80’s when good lingerie sections in them. Remember, masturbation is important.
My uncle threw me into the living room and slammed the door shut. I don’t remember much after that because he repeatedly stomped on my head until I lost consciousness. When I came to, I was in the basement tied up like a hog. Don’t know how long I was down there, but it had to have been for a while.
Every so often I would hear talking and movement upstairs. Eventually he came the stairs with this overweight, pail, creepy dude that looked like he still lived in his mom’s basement.
“Oh, he is nice,” the creepy dude said, looking down at me.
“Give me the coke and he is yours,” my uncle told him, kicking me in the stomach.
The creepy dude handed my uncle a bag of white powder and dragged me out of there.
~Entertainment For the Elite~
After my uncle traded me for cocaine, I got strung out hard on heroin. Not because I decided to do heroin, but because that creepy dude ran some crazy parties for the rich and famous. A lot of CEOs and what not. In some storage unit in Atlanta he kept me chained up and dosed up on heroin. Every weekend some burly duded would come and pick me up in a van, give me more heroin, and take me to one of these lush parties.
There, in one of the large bedrooms, on the most comfortable bed I have ever laid on, they would strap me down, give me more heroin, and let party goes come in and rail me. I would always leave there with my asshole dripping semen like a punctured jar of mayonnaise. Taken back to my storage unit and left there until it was party time again.
This went on for three-years of my life. I told everyone – until now – that I was a flight attendant. That was a lie. I was a sex doll for the rich and famous. The value of my asshole is pretty high, cause so many influential people have blown their loads in it.
The craziest night was once I was coming down off the heroin, and I guess they forgot to load me back up, but they didn’t. I was trying to figure out where I was and the large oak door to the bedroom opens up and, I got a little excited, Betty White walks in! Fucking Betty White!
“Help me,” I said weakly to her and all she did was smile, hike up her dress and revealed the biggest god damn strap-on I have ever laid eyes on. Now, not to brag, I can take a dick. I don’t like it, but I can take a dick like a champion. That strap on hurt. It hurt bad. And for a lady her age, let me tell you, she can thrust. When she was done boring my asshole you could have built a tunnel big enough for a train inside of it.
When I thought she was done, she made me lick the strap-on clean. She kissed me on the cheek, said, “thanks, big boy,” flicked my dick and left.
Finally, all the heroin caught up to me. My heart damn near stopped beating and when they came to pick me up they figured I was dead. Dropped my ass in a landfill.
I think I really was dead, too. I saw a bright light. Heard a voice that told me it wasn’t my time. Then I opened my eyes and found myself looking up at the starry sky. I was aching. My body was screaming for heroin. I was naked, just like the day I was born. I tried to walk, but I was too weak. I found a pack of green hot dogs with some fur on them and chowed down on them. Found a discarded couch, laid on it, and jerked the fuck off and took a nap.
When I woke up, I sat on that couch for a moment and thought. I thought about everything. Life, how when I took a shit it would just fall out due to my stretched asshole, and how I was gonna make a change. First thing, though, was I had to get home. Looking around the landfill I found an old sundress that I put on, and some flip-flops. Then all I had left to do was walk away.
On my journey home I found that plenty of people were willing to give me a lift, but after what I went through, I trusted no one. So I walked from Augusta all the way to Macon. Those flip-flops disintegrated, and the dress was stained with shit as I couldn’t not keep it in. It just fell out. I mean that. My shit was literally just plopping out. It went from that filling in your stomach to just falling on out.
~Deciding to be Fucking Awesome~
Having been stripped of everything on me, I had to break into my own house. Place was a mess, what with how long I was gone, and some dude was in there doing crack. I let him stay. I needed some company, but he had to do the crack on the back porch.
It was a gloomy Sunday morning where I was looking at myself in the mirror and I thought, “it’s time to make a dent in your world, bitch.”
That was when I knew I wanted to be fucking awesome. When I realized I wanted people to look at me and think how fucking awesome I am. The only way I knew how to start that was by doing something that needed to be done.
As I watched my uncle’s house burn I soon realized, what with the scream of a man, woman, and two children, that I had set fire to the wrong house. Which mean I had to go back to the gas station, fill my canister again, get some more matches, and then actually made sure I had the right address. I was only off by three streets.
As I watched my uncle’s house burn, I felt a sense of accomplishment. When he ran out the front door, in flames, and high on cocaine, I knew I had done the right thing.
Getting revenge on that fucker was my first step at becoming Fucking Awesome!