Marijuanathan

Marijuanathan, during a recent interview detailing his meteoric rise to the posh heights of the Host position at Dino’s Supper Club, let one slip.  One, being a loud, wet fart, the genesis of which began the night before in the hat-check room of the club where Marijuanathan and the Dining Steward, Bennie, ingested large piles of blowcane and rifled the customers pockets looking for loose change, cell phones, condoms, sanitary napkins, small bottles of lubricant, and other meaningless curios.  Marijuanathan said to Bennie, “Dude, hurry the fuck up, I’m losing my boner.”  You see, he gets cheap thrills going through other people’s stuff, especially with Bennie, who happens to be Marijuanathan’s roommate and gay lover.  “These people are all fucking deadbeats.  We need to get with Marty (the valet parking attendant) so we don’t come up totally empty tonight.  This is bullshit.”  “It’s not going to be a total wash.  This is that fat dude’s blazer from that 8-top at table 27.  Check this out.”  said Bennie.  He pulled out a small baggie which contained a few nuggets of hydroponic dope.  “Perfect, make me a snow-cap, you fucking fag, I’m dying over here.” said Marijuanathan.  Bennie stuffed a bunch of the dope into his chillum and dusted it with blow and then pulled out his “Pocket Torch” and held it up for Marijuanathan, who began to take deep drags from the pipe.  After exhausting the contents of the chillum, Bennie fixed himself a treat and got chiefed.  “I have to get back to the podium before Dino realizes that I’m not just taking a dump.”  said Marijuanathan, as he brushed the white crumbs from his goatee.  He put his Brixton Brood cabbie hat back on and strode out into the dining room where Dino was waiting at the host’s station.  “Where the hell were you, MJ?  I just came back from downstairs, so don’t tell me you were in the can!” screeched Dino to a haggard looking MJ.  “I popped out for a smoke, man.  I seated the Boober party and didn’t see anyone else come in, so I took a small break.”  said MJ.  “Well, you might as well stay on break because, I’m sorry to announce, you’re fired.  You’ve been nothing short of a total embarrassment to this restaurant.  You can keep the tuxedo.  It has so many burn holes that it looks like a damned moth eaten rag.”  MJ burst into tears and said, “How can you do this to me?  This place is all that I have.  I’ve given you everything!”  “Like hell you have.  I shouldn’t have to list the voluminous reasons, but here goes:  you take twenty smoke breaks every six hour shift; you take at least three dumps every shift; I’ve busted you butt-fucking Bennie four times in the store room and twice in the back of customers cars; you constantly reek of essential oils and patchouli; you’ve been written up for stealing strip steaks, pork loins, lamb chops and chicken gizzards; you humiliated the Town Alderman by making a pass at his brother; you’ve been tossed from the bar too many times to count for drunkenness, and the list goes on.”  said a red-faced Dino.  “Get the hell out of here!”  MJ lost his cool and pushed Dino aside and then upended the podium which sent a jar of mints and a UNICEF donation box flying.  “Eat shit, Dino!  You always hated me because I’m gay!”  MJ ran out of the restaurant.  He decided to go to the Boom Box male strip club to decompress after such a monstrous blow, but he went home first to go poo.  He walked into his duplex and booted his Chihuahua, Antonio, who flew into the wall above the gaming chair and there died on impact.  His corpse fell down and landed in a bowl of Hot Cheetos that MJ was binging on the night before during his World of Warcraft session.  “Dammit.  At least that solves the litter box problem.  Oh well.  I always hated that fucking dog.”  He walked upstairs to the master bath and sat down on the excrement laminated commode.  He brushed aside a dog-eared pile of Black Inches magazines and bared-down to try and void the massive pile of goop that was about to turn his large intestine into a pastry sleeve.  As expected, the first guest to arrive at the party was a blapping succession of machine-gun-like farts that stirred the water in the bowl.  I can’t stress to you enough the magnitude of his fart.  It was truly a stiff breeze.  Next, as MJ grunted, dingleberry sized chunks started to cascade into the roiling seas beneath his fat, hairy butt cheeks and puckered anus.  Finally, the coup-de-grace, the dump proper jettisoned his arse with the force of a potato cannon and sent the excreta infused toilet water cascading up onto his buttocks and out the sides of the toilet bowl beneath the seat, spraying the shower curtain, Black Inches magazines, piles of jizz stained towels, and dog bowl with a ropy splat of poop.  MJ tried to mop up the goo on his back-side, but couldn’t get it all, and so resigned himself to the fact that what remained would be absorbed into his boxer briefs and then would be subsequently forgotten just like the jizm stains on his bead spread.  Now, off to the club!  He hailed a cab and was ushered to the Boom Box where Jimmy the bouncer groped his bum as he went in the door.  He waltzed up to the bar and said, “Hey, Pete.  I’m going back into the champagne room.  Send Eric back, will you?”  “Sure thing, MJ, he’ll be back momentarily.  Do you want to add whip-cream service, or do you just want it straight?”  said Pete.  “No whip-cream, and, believe me, there’ll be nothing STRAIGHT about what’s going to happen!”  MJ chuckled.  “You always get me on that one, you fag!”  piped Pete.  “That’s because you’re a fucking moron.” said MJ.  He went through the black curtain which separated the main club from the champagne room and found a booth in the back corner of the room.  There was a lava lamp on the table and an assortment of prophylactics and lubricants.  The Pet Shop Boys were blasting out of the sound system and there was a pornographic film playing on the massive flat screen TV.  The movie featured a man fucking a bull-mastiff in the anus.  “Jesus, I’ve seen this four times already.” MJ said as he looked toward the curtain.  What he saw made his miniscule penis jump in his shit-stained briefs.  Eric was coming toward the table wearing his Egyptian costume, screaming “Heeeyyyy-eeeeeyyyyy!”  He sat down next to MJ and said, “What’s up, lover man?  You missed me I see.  It looks like you’re in camping mode.  That’s quite the tent that you’ve put up!”  “Shut up and go to work.  I’ve had a hard day.” said MJ.  “Hard indeed, big boy!”  said Eric as he pulled down MJ’s tuxedo pants and removed his cummerbund which he tossed aside.  He then took MJ’s hot-dog-like penis into his gaping mouth and began to handle his ball sack like chiming stress balls.  Within two minutes he heard MJ gasp, so he pulled his dick out of his mouth and started pumping it like a jack-hammer, at which point MJ blasted a load into Eric’s scowling face.  “The makeup, the makeup!” shrieked Eric.  “UUUGGGGGHHHHH-AAAHHHHHHH!” moaned MJ as he grabbed the back of Eric’s head and rammed it into his groin area which smeared jizz all over his face.  He then turned around very quickly like a ballet dancer and ripped a high-pitched fart into Eric’s surprised face.  “That’s just what the doctor ordered.” croaked a smiling MJ.  “You bastard!  Don’t ever come here again!” said a weeping Eric.  The makeup on his face, mixed with the hot load gave him the look of having been sprayed with jesso mixed with oil paints.  The curtain parted and Pete came into the room carrying a bazooka, which he promptly pointed to the corner where Eric and MJ were located.  The man had apparently gone nuts because he tilted his head back and yelled, “GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH” and fired the rocket at the two stunned fags.  The RPG impacted the wall next to MJ’s head and detonated, vaporizing the two gay dudes and most of the room.  Pete turned around and left the room to call the fire department.  He had a thing for one of the brutes that worked there and couldn’t wait to eat his creamy load later on that horrible evening.