Geno’s Revenge

This story is for anyone who has been in prison, a hurricane, a knife fight, a grenade war, a male strip club, a goriilla cage during mating season, a fire, a trap house, a great white shark's stomach, with a dirty woman, shit on by a monkey, a dentist chair, an operating table, kicked in the testicles, curbed stomped, sat through an M. Night Shyamalan movie, or had sex with Alec Baldwin … sorry Kim Basinger. Because the events that you are about to read blow the things I mentioned above out of the fucking water. I’ve deciding to write this story in a five paragraph essay format. I did this for two reasons: 1. There will be three warnings fortelling my misfortunes which will serve as the body of this macabre tale. 2. My asshole English professors in college told me it was unprofessional to write in this format. Fuck those jerks.

It all starts in the beautiful City of Brotherly Love. Cody and I were visiting my awesome cousin Amanda and her Fiance Ryan. We were also doing some promoting for this God forsaken website. To start our journey we decided to see the sights like the tourists we were. The Liberty Bell first, then on to the Art Center steps where Rocky, the greatest movie ever, was filmed. Then we saw a bunch of other touristy bullshit but it was all great. Later in the afternoon, Cody and I became famished from screaming and hollering at bitches we saw while enjoying our extreme sight seeing extravaganza. I was a novice in the cheesesteak game but cody had yet to lose his hoagie hymen. So Amanda and Ryan took us to arguably the greatest cheesesteak joint in the solar system. Geno’s Steaks in South Philly. When we arrived Cody and I were advised that there was a certain lingo you had to use when ordering these amazing sandwiches. Since we did not know how, Ryan had to order for us. It sounded like he was speaking Korean mixed with Swahili and a bit o’ Canadian. When the steaks were ready we had to dress them with condiments. The condiment station had an array of peppers, pickles, mustard, ketchup and … hot sauce. On the hot sauce, written in big fat fucking capitalized letters was: ‘CAUTION: HOT SAUCE.” This advisory went unnoticed by Cody and I. We're from Atlanta … we were breast fed with Tabasco. We know hot, or so we thought. As we walked to the table, Ryan noticed our steaks were drenched in the forbidden liquid. Here comes the first warning. “YO!!! You homos didn’t put that hot sauce on your steaks did you?” We looked at him like he was a gay homeless man. “Of course we did. That’s the way we roll bro.” Giving us a I-Know-Something-You-Don’t-Know look he said, “Fine bitches have it your way. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” As Cody and I stuffed our beaks with 12 pound cheese steaks, we realized that we may have wondered down a bad road. This was the hottest substance we had ever stuck in our mouths. Pure devil’s piss. Little did we know, this just was the tip of a devastating iceberg.

Later that evening, after a full day of ripping Philly a new one and throwing dice and eating ice cream with inner city kids, it was time to relax. I decided to sit back and reflect on how awesome that cheesesteak was. It was then that I noticed my porn addicted comrade had disappeared. Cody is a very busy man talking with shitloads of famous people all the time, so I figured he was taking a phone call with his agent to discuss plans to be Brad Pitt’s penis double. You know, the usual stuff. About 37 minutes later Cody returned with a look on his face like someone just bit off his nuts. I guess he didn’t get the part because he would be too big to be a stand in. But this was not the first time he had been turned down for a part because of being hung like an Orca Whale. There was something else wrong. This my friends, was the second warning I so wrongly ignored. I didn’t bother asking him what was the matter. I’m not one to pry.

Dinner was finally ready. Amanda had slaved in the kitchen for twenty minutes over a wonderful meal of spaghetti. We all sat at the table merrily, just eating and drinking. It was a grand time. The dinner conversations were sporadic. We talked about music, wine, real state and bitches. The funniest conversation we had involved Geno’s. We thought it would be funny if someone was to replace the word Geno for the word shit. “Yo, your breath smells like Geno’s!!” said Cody. “I've got to take the biggest Geno right now!!!” yelled Ryan. We were laughing so hard we all practically Geno’d ourselves at the dinner table. These jokes would be the third and final warning I would disregard. As I think back now, I wish I would have listened closer.

It was time to party. We all got dressed and ready to get shitty fucking drunk. We decided to attend the best drinking hole in all of Philly. The place is called McFaddens. Ryan was the house DJ and it was an excellent place to spread the word about our raunchy website. (Which will soon be your homepage whether you like it or not.) Anyhow, we ordered our first drinks and scoped on the premium wool flocking around the joint. That’s when the thunder struck. There was an explosion the size of Hiroshima in my stomach. I was about to begin an endevour that would test my willingness to survive. Even Bear Grylls wouldn’t want to be in the situation I was about to encounter. I made a frantic escape to the restroom. It was a race against time to keep myself from shitting my pants. I clawed and scraped my way pass clubbers and pop collared idiots. I was forced to push a McFaddens employee down a flight of stairs. Finally Salvation. I had made it to the stalls. I made my first push to release the hellish beast from my body. I wish it had been my last. It was a burning feeling that only the Devil himself could produce. It was the worst rim-fire any human had ever encountered. It was as if a white-hot flame was being held to my rat hole. I was cringing with pain. Tears dripped from my eyes. The worst part of the ordeal at hand was that I could not make a noise. I could not scream or yell. If I did I knew the bar would go into a panic and the authorities would be called. I was forced to bite down on my wallet to keep from yelling. I had beaten a bruise into my right thigh. As I kicked and punched anything I could to bear the pain, I felt the toilet seat moving under me. It was like riding a bull with a hot coal ripping through my asshole. I dare any professional bull rider to go eight seconds on the steer I was trying handle. Eight minutes later, which seemed like eight hours later, the storm just stopped. I stood up and assessed the damage. There was no blood and I had stopped crying. I buckled my belt and hobbled back upstairs. Cody was at the top frantically pacing back forth like a father awaiting his child’s birth. He noticed my watery eyes and look of fear on my face. He asked what was the matter. The thing I responded with was a question “Where were you for that half hour before dinner?” He knew he had to tell me. “Fighting for my life in the bathroom. I had the Geno's. I had the Geno's bad.” All the pieces started to fit. We had both been attacked by the Geno’s. I could not believe this was happening to us. I started to assess all the circumstances of the problem. It frightened and confused me. Then, right as I thought I had the answers, I realized it was just the eye of the storm. I looked to the DJ booth. Ryan was gone. A lion-like growl bellowed from within my lungs, “Cody you need to tell me the truth. Where is Ryan?!” Cody replied with fear in his voice, “I’m not sure man. He was here just a second ago.” I knew something wasn't right. I asked everyone where Ryan vanished to, but didn’t get a straight answer from any one. Finally, as if a rabid monkey was lifted from my back, Ryan came down the steps. “Where have you been?” I asked like a concerned parent. I got an answer that I never expected. He told me he was in the upstairs bathroom. He had just encountered something worse than a fire ant in the pee hole. GENO'S REVENGE. I was speechless. I frantically began searching for anything to calm my stomach. I came across some Imodium and swallowed it like a starved hyena. It didn‘t stand a chance. There was an antacid slaughter inside my small intestine. I felt the second wave of pain begin to creep toward my anus. I rushed to the bathroom faster than the first time. I made it to the stall and was almost thrown into cardiac arrest. The pain was ten fold what it was the first time. It was as if a thousand killer bee’s were stinging my inflamed crap hole. The lava ripped through my crevice without mercy. It was a mass exodus of my ass. I started to wonder if should call my parents to say goodbye. I wondered what my epitaph would read. “Here Lies Dante Pastore, Died of an Unholy Case of the Shits.” I began to question what I did to deserve this brutal punishment. Then it hit me harder than an unplanned teen pregnancy. I had mocked the cheesesteak gods at the dinner table that night. This was not a natural bowel movement. This was a curse. As my tears crashed to the pee soaked floor I made one final push. Suddenly … darkness. I blacked out. When I came to, the bathroom attendant stood over me slapping me in the face. “Yo dog. You aight?” I looked up at him and asked if I was in heaven. “Nah nigga, you blacked out while shittin' on yoself.” I was alive. But just Barely. I came to and stood up. Thankful to be standing. I tipped the bathroom attendant for keeping his mouth shut and not telling everyone he found a drunk white kid passed out with his pants around his ankles and his penis exposed to the world. I walked up the stairs and saw Cody at the top. He was crying. He thought he had lost me. I hugged him and said. “It’s ok brother, I am fine now.” We gathered our emotions and hoped no one saw our hetero sensitivity. The rest of the night was amazing. Girls, free booze, and Cody doing the robot. But I will never forget the events that almost claimed my young and fragile life on that hot summer night in Phillidelphia.

It's been a week and I'm doing fine. I am completely healed and back to my everyday activities. I still poop regularly and I enjoy every moment of it. If you, the reader, can learn anything from this story it is this: Don’t judge Geno’s from this story. It is a fine establishment with the best cheesesteaks in the nation. I highly recommend it. But please use caution when applying the hot sauce. It is nothing to fuck around with. If you think you can handle it or just want to be a straight fucking idiot, feel free to dabble in the horrific condiment. I would recommend shot gunning at least seven bottles of Pepto Bismol before doing so though. It may be just enough to hold back the tears. Also, if you're ever at Mcafadden’s visit the first stall on the left in the bathroom. It is there you will see the claw marks in the walls. Sign your name. Let us never forget the tragedy that took place on that awful night.

P.S. I know this is not a five paragraph essay. Like I give shit.

- The Gift