Flicking the BeanSTALKED.

When I exited my mother and entered the world as a female, I knew there would be troubles, and setbacks. When I was growing up, my mom should've spent less time teaching me about abstinence and periods and more time on things like karate or jiu jitsu. Mostly because... GIRLS GET STALKED. It's fact, and depending on the level of intensity you might just find your self in a situation CRITICAL. Guys just have that lose wire in their brains telling them "yes send her that 90th text." No offense guys, i know femmes have their fair share of sex offender-dom. I'm not a feminist or anything, but I am all about "girl power" on account of the Spice World movie.

Okay, well it all began when our friend, let's call her Mary Magdalene, the mother of Jesus, decided to move out of her dirty, hippie, co-op place and move into our house. We were the only two people living there over the summer, so long story short, we decided to throw ourselves a nice housewarming rage cage/sacrificing of the virgins luau party. The DJ was super fire, so the back yard was fucking packed. Out of probably 400 people, we personally knew...30 of them. Maxi pad. That's all.

There were a million beaners and jabronis getting fucked OUT and shit, and all the homies were posted inside raging and watching hot drunk chicks puke and rally. The hobby of choice for all douchebagians.

The cops rolled up around 1 a.m. and were trying to give...the mother of Jesus... and I, all kinds of tickets. To extinguish the firecrotch of a situation, I went outside and started kicking people out. After I politely excused the majority of sausages at our party, this one guy refused to leave. He was like... mental...and was pushing 50. He came back around 230 a.m. and so I soberly said, "... like hey uh buddy, the party's over, sorry?"

He then grabbed me by my shoulders and started CRYING. Tears in Heaven. Eric Clapton. Showers of tears. I am not kidding you. All I could think to myself was, "Well shit. This retarded old man is drunk at my fucking house and crying because he has to leave..." I'm going to hell.

Sidenote: the street I lived on was 99% college kids except for one building 3 doors down (not the band). Across the street was this duplex filled with developmentally disabled adults so we were pretty sure that's where he came from.

SnapBack: I felt bad, right!? So I half-way consoled him, until I had to say, "Yeah, I'm sorry...... Yeah don't stain my shirt.... No don't be embarrassed!.....ok you still have to get the fuck out." On a scale of 1 to gay, I'd say it was like a Clay Aiken.

He left and came back the next morning at 6 a.m. I figured to apologize. But instead, asked me to go on a date with him to SUBWAY (real life). I cordially, formally, insert-bullshit-here, declined, and said, "No. sorry bro." Little did I know that declining his 5 dollar foot long was just the beginning.

For the next 10ish days, he came to my door every 2 hours. We were thinking about calling the cops, but didn't know if it was kosher to file a restraining order against a.... retarded person... Instead, I had 4 of my biggest man friends, including my friend "Jay-Z" (name disclosed for discretion. NIGGAS IN PARIS) who is 6'6", post up outside my door for an hour one day waiting for stalky to roll by.

Low and behold, he did. Jay-Z kinda threatened him and told him i was his "little sister" and he needed to stay away from my house for ever and eternity. The almost-sex-offending stalker-pants called him a "pussy fairy man." and, thank fuckin god, never came back.

That, my friends, is rich. We still laugh about it to this day. Remember to keep your friends close, and your stalkers.... Far as fuck.


We're watching you, Wazowski, always watching,
DK


(Send us your stalker stories so we can all bond over them at discountknowledge@gmail.com and keep an eye out for stalker stories round 2!)