You are visitor 141862, a syphilis-carrying nude hacking cavorting beer
June 25, 2017

With exclusive fabriction rights and no semblance of accountability, ECG DOT COM and the Urinary Tract Infection Foundation proudly present

Yo, once I'm done this I'ma grab some o' these shorties.  And eat them, yo.


As I left the airport I was caught by the heady smell of chicken. The familar New York smell brought back all kinds of memories from my previous visits to the Big Apple. My evil heart was warmed, and I threw back my cape and plunged into the crowd.

The thing about the Big Apple is that there's so much to do. I hadn't been there for a while and couldn't decide on what I wanted to see first. So I decided to grab the first cab I saw and ask the driver about what he recommended.

The cabbie was typical of New York; he was a semi-retired breakdancing hippie. In between busting fly moves and folk songs he recommended a few places: the NBC museum, WWF New York, and Hitlerland. I was intruiged by this Hitlerland, as I had never heard of it before, and he explained that it was a new theme park where the theme was rocking horses. I thought it curious that a theme park named Hitlerland would center around rocking horses, however I did not press the matter, as the cabbie had a great deal of street cred and I did not wish to lose respect in his eyes. Instead, I elected to go to the NBC museum.

The museum was interesting. Did you know that for over 70 years the toilet seats in the NBC building have not been washed? It's meant to maintain the luck and good fortune of the decades of celebrity asses that have graced them. They call it their "Throne of Power" policy. I couldn't argue with that, as during my visit to one of NBC's magical toilets I could feel myself thinking a little more like Jerry Seinfeld.

After the toilet-tour we were able to watch a bit of rehearsal for Saturday Night Live. [CURRENT SNL CAST MEMBER] was there, and I could hardly contain myself. [CURRENT SNL CAST MEMBER] had to be one of my favourite people in the world, because he's a celebrity and I am not. From where I was he did not look like the kind of person who could break somebody's mind with his own mind, however I knew it to be true because he was [CURRENT SNL CAST MEMBER] and no one to be trifled with. [CURRENT SNL CAST MEMBER] looked in my direction for a bit, and I felt imbued with mystical powers of unknown origin, as his celebrity aura engulfed me.

I must have blacked out from all that [CURRENT SNL CAST MEMBER] power, because the next thing I knew I was face down in a gutter in Times Square. My hoodie reeked with the cloying New York smell of chicken, which made me hungry. Looking around I saw WWF New York and, remembering the helpful cabbie's advice, I headed in.

WWF New York certainly knows how to entertain. It was Thursday, so it was a SmackDown! night, and they pulled out all the stops. Former valets Missy Hyatt and Luna Vachon were on the stage, dancing for my amusement. Let me say this; those vetrans still have it. Rooowwr. In fact, watching them made me have perverted thoughts about my mother, which, now that I think about it, is the kind of thing somebody writing a first person story about me might put into my head to piss me off. Strange. Anyway, I grabbed a table, which happened to be made of former WWF Superstar Hercules. He was a really nice guy, and did a hell of a job keeping still while I ate. Still, I was extra carefull with my Yop, as I didn't want to spill any on the big guy and suffer the dreaded Full Nelson hold.

Thoroughly filled, I went for my wallet, only to find that it wasn't in my pocket. I did have my calculator, and quickly calculated that I was fucked. I must have left the wallet on the train from Canada. I tried to explain my situation, but Hercules would have none of it, and hovered ominously with his chain. The only thing that saved me was my quick tongue, as it struck a precision blow to his temple, knocking him out instantly. This caused a lot of commotion, and all the tables in the place started to get up. I bolted out the front door.

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Sprinting through Times Square I looked back to see old pro wrestlers streaming out of WWF New York to get me. Ordinarily I wouldn't have any problems avoiding them, but they were on the little carts that brought them to the ring at WrestleMania 6. Bobby Heenan spotted me from his vantage point, and King Kong Bundy motored after me. Knowing I had no chance of escaping those carts, I did some quick thinking and stole a Razor scooter. Having researched the Razor scooter at razor-scooter.com I know that "Everyday more than 5,000 people in J.D. Corporation are working in Taiwan and China on providing to thousands riders all over the world they favorite mean of transportation - Razor, the original kick scooter," so I had a shot at getting away.

Some deft maneuvering through the crowd put a huge distance between me and those behemoths, and soon I couldn't see them anymore. This pleased me. Still, I kept on the scooter for a few more blocks, just to be safe.

When I thought I was clear, a mob of former SuperStars suddenly turned the corner. I shrieked like an infant would before I ate it and wheeled away as fast as I could. This time I was not as lucky, however, and soon found myself trapped in a dead-end alley. Trapped like a rat, I turned to face the advancing horde of wrestlers. Tatanka had a look in his eyes like it was time for Papoose To Go, and I was the Papoose. I awaited my gloomy fate.

Suddenly, the floor fell away from under me, and, much to Jim Neidhardt's astonishment, I fell from view. I landed with a splash in sewers of New York City. A hooded figure quickly closed the trap door I had fallen though. Then the figure beckoned me to follow it.

The walk was long and the sewer reeked of chicken. I regetted not having my noseplugs, but, alas, I had left them on the yacht I took from Canada. Eventually we came to a ladder, and the figure gestured toward it. Hesitantly, I climbed up it and into a small room. It was dimly lit, however I could make out a man standing in front of a closed door. He eyed me for a moment. Then gestured toward the door.

"Welcome... to Hitlerworld."

As if that geriatric hippy homeboy had been leading me on a quest of discovery, I had come to Hitlerworld after all. I opened the door, to find another small room with a single rocking horse in the center with two burly men standing on either side. The one on the left smiled and gestured to the horse.

I mounted the contraption, and performed a few tentative rocks. I hadn't used a rocking horse since I was 13, but I found it was an easy skill to remember, and soon I was rocking merrily away.

There have been Three truely great rocking horse sessions in the history of time. Two of them were performed in France by Marie Antoinette. The third was executed by an American traveller in Africa as a desperate measure to escape a tribe of hungry cannibals. It was unsucessful. My rocking session was, in my opinion, the fifth greatest rocking session in history. The large man to the left shed a tear to be in the presence of such beauty.

When I was done, I tried to get up, only I found I had been glued to the seat! Worse, my hands were as well! I was helpless! The two men grimly took out wet rolled up newspapers and began beating me with them. The horror was unimaginable. The newspapers did not hurt too much, except for my feelings, which were getting the shit beat out of them. Eventually I started to lose conciousness, and knew no more.

On to day two