Bunny Rabbits: Hell-Hounds of Satan.

Bunnies are not cute.  I know they appear to be, but I learned differently when I was a child.  They are vicious, hateful rodents who wish nothing but your pain and misery.  While many people celebrate Easter, I do not because I know that Bunnies are not what they appear.

Growing up, our next-door neighbors raised rabbits. My sister, who I lovingly call Sister as a nickname,  thought that this was just delightful and actually asked my neighbors for a pet rabbit.  Our loving and friendly neighbors happily obliged, with a beautiful little bunny baby, thick white fur and a large brown/copper colored spot on its haunches.  Creatively, we named the rabbit with the copper spot on its back "Copperspot". 

We fed Copperspot massive amounts of food, and quickly let it grow from cute-li'l-bunny to giant-behemoth-rabbit. Sister took care of Copperspot pretty well, and aside from letting Copperspot grow gigantic, my sister was a great owner.  Because of Sister's care, within a few months of getting her Copperspot went from fits-in-one-hand size to dear-god-how-is-a-rabbit-this-heavy size.  We played with Copperspot for a few hours every day, but mostly she was left alone in our basement, honing her keen wild instincts.  Our childish ignorance and the foolish assumption that bunnies are all cute and cuddly allowed Copperspot to become a beast worthy of fearing.  Our bunny was terrible to behold, queen of all she surveyed. And she thirsted for blood.

One frightening fact I learned from that hell-hound of a rabbit was that rabbits can actually vocalize some pretty intense sounds.  I know they seem silent, but DID YOU KNOW RABBITS CAN BARK?  It's not loud, but that somehow makes it worse. It sounds almost like a dog that has its vocal chords injured, an almost airy sounding grunt.  It sounds vicious, and dirty, and a million other descriptors that simply add up to frightening. Copperspot taught me this by barking at me if I ever encroached on HER  basement, and soon I learned to fear that barking sound...it meant that the bunny-beast was near. 

Similarly, Copperspot also taught me that rabbits can bite! She seemed to find my fingers and toes particularly delectable. Copperspot would hop over to wherever I or my siblings were sitting, and stealthily approached, seeming cute.  Rabbits, like most nightmare creatures, are normally silent, and this lets them sneak up on you more easily. And when Copperspot would reach us, nose twitching and ears askew, she'd launch her vicious assault.  She'd jump to whatever she could find, and take a tiny but surprisingly painful nip at your limbs.  It hurt just enough to be scary, but never really broke the skin.  She seemed to know that if she didnt' cause us to bleed, we wouldn't retaliate, so Copperspot managed to find a strategy to maximize pain without facing judgment.  She was a genius, and her wicked mind was determined to hurt us in any way she could. From that beast, I learned that actually for rabbits, their bite is significantly worse than their bark.  And their bark is pretty scary to begin with.

I wasn't just some wimp who was afraid of that demonic bunny.  Even our pet dog was terrified of Copperspot. Jersey, our lovable golden retriever, was just as cowed by Copperspot as the rest of us, and Copperspot took advantage of this by chasing Jersey around whenever she went downstairs into the basement.  Copperspot jumped after Jersey, taunting the poor pooch. We never managed to see it, but on several occasions we'd hear a sudden squeal or howl from Jersey, and know that Copperspot liked to feast on more than human flesh...This evil Rabbit scared the whole of our family, and yet seemed immune to fear herself.  Copperspot was pure, unadulterated evil.

Due to our mismanagement of the pet, we eventually had to give Copperspot away.  I never really found out what happened after that, but I know she was passed from owner to own multiple times, always because of her scary attitude.  Copperspot soon passed out of my memory, and like the stories of the boogeyman from my early years, was remembered only in stories and nightmare, and the fear I felt in the dark of night.

Copperspot, the demon bunny, taught me that every animal on earth can be scary if given the chance. And so this Easter, as most people see hundreds of cute bunnies and adorable multicolored eggs, I see the world a bit differently.  I see the Easter Bunny as the pagan creature it was based on. I don't see cute hopping and nose-sniffling, I see terrible jumping death, and the nose-sniffing of a hunter, seeking prey.  So Happy Easter to everyone...and remember, the bunnies might seem cute, but that doesn't make them any less terrifying.

Happy Easter, foul beast!

Happy Easter to those who celebrate, and happy whatever holiday you celebrate or ignore to the rest!
From BB+B, I want to say thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!
-Brian

Homophobe-Phobia

Homophobia isn't really a phobia.  You see, a phobia is an irrational fear, by definition, whereas most people who are homophobic don't appear to fear gays but rather just detest them.  The average homophobe doesn't freeze up and run, screaming and waving their arms when a homosexual walks by.  Though, that would be pretty great, both because I would love to see them chased away, and because they tend to be really old, so they'd probably break a hip in fear.

There are some GENUINE homophobes, individuals who are absolutely and completely terrified of gays (See: Fred Phelps or his hate group, the Westboro Baptist Church).  Still, even they tend to combine their fear with some degree of malice, unlike most phobias.  Arachnophobes flee from spiders, but they don't try to limit their civil rights or claim them to be cursed by God. 

Unlike most homophobes, however, I am genuinely afraid: Afraid of homophobes. You might think I'm being sarcastic, but I'm not.  You see...I fear what they do, and what they think. I fear their outdated hate speech, and I fear their desperate clinging to scripture as an excuse for their own prejudices.  Frankly, I'm surprised more people aren't afraid of them.

While normal people respond to logic, homophobes don't.  While a normal person feels shame and a need to share camaraderie with other humans, homophobes don't.  The most basic principles of humanity, such as community, kindness, and love seem lost on them.  That's why I've concluded they're actually secretly monsters. Like the werewolf, zombie, and vampires of legend, they plague humanity from the shadows.  And I have proof.

Consider the following:
Like zombies, homophobes cannot be reasoned with.  Logic and communication falls on their closed ears equally as well as it would fall on the mindless undead. They seem to be what is left of humanity once we lose our sense of kindness, kinship, and of course, brains. They rise up from our nightmares, and spread their sickness wherever they go, attacking seemingly at random. I direct your attention again to Fred Phelps: He genuinely appears to both act and look like a zombie, if zombies smell of mothballs and bigotry.

He certainly seems to need some brains...and skin cream...and human decency.

Like lycanthropes (werewolves), homophobes can appear human most of the time.  That is, until their insides boil, and their inner beast (or in this case, inner asshole) bursts out, spreading pain and social awkwardness as they rage and rampage.  Homophobes don't care about destruction, and seem to take pleasure from tearing down gays wherever they go.  Like wolf-men, they seek normal people who just want to live their lives, and then pounce on them.  Instead of teeth, they have hateful pamphlets, and instead of claws they have hateful speech, but they leave scars and pain just the same. And like werewolves, they spread their disease to their children, who aren't able to yet think for themselves, and struggle to find their own cure through their whole lives.

I genuinely pity that child.  The adult?
Silvered bullets come to mind, though I generally discourage gun violence.

Like vampires, homophobes suck. I probably should have more to say, like how they never take a look at themselves in the mirror, and how they see only darkness and fear the warmth and sun that comes with kindness, but mostly they just suck. And just like vampires, their obsession with crosses is downright frightening. Oh, and don't forget that ever since the Twilight series was published, we've become pretty much convinced most of them are secretly gay, but unwilling to admit it.

"Interview With a Vampire" didn't help their case much either....

 So, when you see someone standing on the street waving a 'God hates fags' poster, or preaching about how God loves everyone (as long as they're straight), give them space.  Step aside, and maybe avoid eye contact.  After all, you don't know what it might take to let their sick thoughts infect you.  A Zombie apocalypse is pretty damned scary, but a world full of homophobes...
Well, that's just downright frightening.

Thanks for reading, and I hope this message spreads far and wide.
-Brian

The Fanciest Fist Fight Ever

Most people equate fighting with masculinity:  It's about causing someone else pain while proving your own physical superiority, with both brute force and skill, and more often than not, success is due to your ability to take punishment rather than your ability to dole it out.  That's why all of our favorite film action heroes feel the need to engage in copious hand-to-hand combat in every film, no matter how unlikely it would really be.  I mean, serious...they have guns, knives, grenades, even tanks and helicopters in the movies, but it always ends the same: John McClane from the "Die Hard" franchise beats the crap out of someone with his bare hands while covered in blood, or the brutish male archetype of Stallone in "Rocky" and "Rambo" spends most of the movie slugging it out hand-to-hand. People just tend to see fighting as manly, and it doesn't seem like that's going to change in the near future.

Notice their guns.  Then watch the film.  Hand-to-hand combat is JUST as important as their weapons, if not more important...

And movies do more than make us LOVE fist fights, they trick us into believing that any time two people fight, especially if they're guys, it'll be a blood bath.  We expect bloody cheeks, black eyes, split-knuckles and needlessly exposed abs, fighting in a display so over-the-top masculine you have to assume that the combatants have at least 2 y chromosomes. Every big name man-movie  involves a few scenes of guys brawling, the heavy smack of fist hitting flesh cracking filling the theater while adoring fans swoon or cringe, depending on the film. Even in monster movies, or robot movies, it somehow comes down to slugging it out.  Seriously, "Transformers", you're ultra-high tech sentient robots, but you have to resort to fisticuffs to make your point?

The first time I saw a real fight, a genuine adult brawl as opposed to a schoolyard tussle, was when I was in high school.  I was in my late teens, and spent most of my afternoons sitting around the school building.  On this particular day I was waiting with a few friends for our play practice to begin. I was sitting on the steps of the auditorium, doing whatever it is that teenage me used to do (I genuinely don't remember, but it's safe to assume it was juvenile and nerdy) when suddenly a cluster of people gathered at the other end of the room, and broke out in gasps and cheers.  Being the easily entertained and very curious young man that I was, I ran across the auditorium stage to see what the fuss was about. I pushed through the circle of onlookers to see what may be one of the most confusingly dressed fights ever witnessed.

There were two seniors shoving each other, both wearing their costumes for the play we were putting on.  That particular year it was a show called "The Scarlet Pimpernel", which meant the costumes involved flowing French garments, and in these two particular guys' cases, tights. As I was just pushing into the circle, another sort of cheer and gasp rang out, as Percy (the name we'll use for the taller, tougher seeming guy) shoved LeFou (the name we'll use for the scrawnier tights-wearing combatant) to the ground.

They both basically looked like this, except paler, and with more acne.

Percy shouted, "I didn't miss the note!  I fucking hit it!  Don't bullshit me, I hit it!"  From the context and Percy's legendary tendency to sing slightly off-key, I guessed that he was probably defending his musical skills. Percy was determined, it seemed, to prove he was a tough guy. After all, there's nothing more masculine than defending your honor about hitting that high note by shoving someone half your size around.

LeFou, the better singer, yelled back, "YOU WERE FLAT, BRO.  FLAT!"  He then proceeded to stand back up and shove Percy in retaliation. That's when someone in the gathered crowd decided to fulfill every possible high-school stereotype and rhythmically chanted, "Fight! Fight! Fight!" while pumping their fist in the air. Aside from feeling like I was in a poorly crafted Disney film, I wasn't moved to join in the chanting because the fight was so clearly one-sided.  Percy was tall, broad-shouldered, and generally tougher.  But, the rest of the crowd seemed enthralled and kept chanting, demanding action. Soon, the rest of the crowd had gathered in completely, and the gathered circle spread out quickly to make a space for the oncoming brawl. They gave Percy and LeFou plenty of room, and it looked like the fight was about to start.

Percy held up his hand for a moment, to stop LeFou as he started forward, fists raised.  "Wait," said Percy, "I don't want to ruin my costume."  He dropped his top layer of fancy costumed coats to the ground, and pulled the ruffles from his collar and wrists, tossing the frilly clothes to the side. He then unbuttoned his second layer of waist-coats, dropped the brightly colored garments to the floor, and took off his several fake gold rings that were part of the costume.  Now standing only in french pantaloons and an old fashioned collared shirt (much more manly without the ruffles and jewelry), Percy put up his fists in his best imitation of an intimidating fighting stance.  Lefou tossed his own ruffles and waist-coats to the side and put up his own fists.

The crowd quieted as the two fighters circled each other.  There was an uncomfortable silence in the air as Percy lunged forward and threw his fist at LeFou's face, as hard as he could.  It missed by inches, and percy was leaning forward with his punch, his face almost touching LeFou's.  The air was still and the crowd waited to see how LeFou would take advantage of Percy's missed attack...

And LeFou kicked Percy straight in the gonads, bitch-slapping his face as Percy fell to the ground from the kick in the crotch.

Except, he also got bitch slapped, and they were wearing tights.  So, even worse.

LeFou, the victor, stood over Percy, and picked up his ruffles and waist-coats.  He slid the coats back on, the crowd watching in total silence, and proceeded to re-button his frilly ruffles back onto his costume. Percy rolled about on the ground for a moment, and managed to squeeze out a muffled groan, and the phrase, "Cheap...shot...bitch.  LeFou, properly dressed in his fanciest costume again then declared, "This isn't a movie, jackass. It's a fight." Lefou then turned around and with his dignified costume in place sauntered away.

And that, dear friends, is how I discovered that movie fights are almost all painfully fake.  I took Tae-Kwon-Do classes for years, sparred literally hundreds of times against dozens of opponents, and brawled nearly daily with my twin brother for most of my young life, and yet it took a man in ruffles, tights, and brightly colored french waist-coats to teach me that in real life, fights don't aren't nearly as cool as they seem on film.And kicking someone in the crotch might not be cool, but it's pretty damn effective.


Hope you enjoyed the story!  Leave a comment below, share on Facebook or Twitter, or comment on the Facebook BB+B page to leave me feedback!  BB+B depends on your input to get better.
There are plenty more fun  stories to come, so check BB+B frequently for updates.
Thanks to you all for sharing and reading!
-Brian, the Author Guy.

"This Isn't What It Looks Like"

I'm not exactly what most people would consider to be 'hot' or a 'player'. More often than not, I'm found either talking about something nerdy, or focused on something science related.  That doesn't tend to correlate with being attractive, or particularly good at flirting. Add in the tragic fact that my looks aren't much to shake a stick at (unless of course it's an ugly stick, in which case perhaps there's been enough stick-shaking already) and you might think I'm doomed to be eternally single.  However, my personality and looks don't prevent me from occasionally finding myself a girlfriend.  Finding a girlfriend simply requires perfectly employing my charming smile, showcasing my adorable teddy-bear figure, and copious amounts of dumb luck. It also means that when I find a girlfriend I consider myself relatively lucky and try hard to avoid screwing the relationship up.

In 2008 I was dating a girl who was a great deal more attractive than me.  It's probably somewhat shallow to admit that I was dating someone mostly for their looks, but that was the case. On a scale of 1-10, out-of-my-league Girlfriend was at least a good 3-4points ahead of me, and I wasn't about to let that go to waste. She was gorgeous, intelligent enough to genuinely enjoy talking to, friendly, and she seemed unaware that she was completely out of my league.  To keep my fortunate pairing alive, I cooked us fancy and delectable dinners, I attended all her concerts and shows, I happily watched the most testicle-shrinking of chick-flicks, and even chopped my titanic full-faced beard down to a thin goatee at her recommendation (a mistake I have vowed never to make again). I was determined to keep her happy and never put myself in a situation where I would risk losing my relationship. And for a solid three months I was extremely successful.  After three months, however, tragedy struck. 

I attended a party at another fraternity.  This seemed relatively unlikely to be a problem because not only do I avoid most dancing, but I stay sober at these sorts of parties because I also avoid drinking beer bought by fraternities. Swilling beer that tastes similar to how I imagine curdled cow-urine tastes simply isn't particularly fun for me.  But I was at the party and needed to find something to do, so instead of enjoying the pleasant company of 100 inebriated jockish frat boys, I opted to at least go check out the dancing downstairs, against my better judgment.

I headed to the fraternity basement to have all of my senses assaulted.  My ears were quickly deafened by mindless pop music played at absurd volumes, my eyes were blinded by the visual of public dry-humping and simulated sex acts...by which I of course mean college dancing, and my senses of smell and taste shared the pleasure of the funky frat-basement smell/taste hanging in the air.
I was downstairs for somewhere around 30 seconds when it occurred to me that the basement was disgusting, and perhaps I wasn't ready to face the horrors of frat-party dancing.  I looked at the floor and saw liquid oozing up through the matted carpet.  I looked at the walls and saw graffiti and what appeared to be dried vomit.  Where the speakers were set up, I saw a trash can filled with beer cans and an unusually large number of condom wrappers.  This wasn't my kind of place, so even though I'd been downstairs for under a minute, I decided it was time to leave. 

I was halfway up the stairs out of the basement when an incredibly inebriated sorority girl sprinting down the stairs collided with me going as fast as her drunken high-heels could carry her.  She slammed me backwards, and I fell several stairs down on my back.  She landed on top of me, and her massive pointy earrings stabbed me in the face. I jerked my head back in response, and slammed the back of my skull against the stair below, dizzying and disorienting myself for a minute. I instinctively wrapped one arm around the sorority girl, both to prevent her from falling down the stairs any further, and because I was now dazed and confused. Apparently the girl was equally confused, because instead of standing up, or taking any logical or sober action, she took my protective arm as  flirting, and she gave me a beer-flavored sloppy kiss on the mouth.  Or, I guess more accurately, on the goatee, because I didn't open my mouth and kiss back.  For several seconds, this inebriated woman sloppily kissed my facial hair, while I tried to get the stars dancing above my head to stop.

I'd like to pause for a moment to say: If there's a single phrase that is guaranteed to sound suspicious, it has to be, "This isn't what it looks like!" Most of the time, "This isn't what it looks like" means, "I can't think of an excuse this quickly!" Sometimes, it means, "This is only sort of what it looks like", but generally, it's a filler phrase used when someone gets caught making a mistake or doing something stupid.  After all, it usually IS what it looks like. From time to time, however, it really isn't what it looks like.  And in those cases, saying "this isn't what it looks like" can just make the situation worse.

Back in the story, I was lying mostly upside down on a fraternity staircase with an intoxicated sorority girl apparently trying to eat my facial hair while metaphorical birds circled my skull. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted out-of-my-league Girlfriend.  She was standing on the landing of the stairs above me, and once my addled brain recognized her, I panicked.  I'm ashamed to admit that in my panicked, head boggled state I took drunk-makeout sorority girl and rolled/tossed her off of me onto the stairs.  She was fine, but in her state of inebriation, she simply rolled and slid down the rest of the stairs, ending up sprawled out at the entrance to the basement.  She started to giggle, and I turned my attention back to my current predicament. And then, like an idiot, I shouted, "This isn't what it looks like!"

Out-of-my-league Girlfriend responded sarcastically with, "What, she fell on you?  She just happened to fall over onto each other, and started kissing?"

Because that was relatively close to the truth, I said, "Actually, yeah! But I wasn't kissing her back..."

There was an awkward pause, followed by out-of-my-league Girlfriend's angry scream. "DIDN'T KISS HER BACK?  Really?  Are you fucking KIDDING ME? You can't even TRY to make it sound convincing? I HATE YOU!" Then, out-of-my-league Girlfriend pointed down at the drunken speed-racer sorority chick and screamed, "AND YOU'RE A WHORE!" at the top of her lungs.   Apparently finished with her screams, she ran back up the stairs while I finally got up off the staircase. I slowly chased after her while nursing my now swelling head, and tried to explain myself but my story fell on deaf ears.  In short, we broke up within the week, and out-of-my-league Girlfriend happily told her friends that I was a cheating bastard for quite some time after that. I never managed to convince her that it really wasn't what it looked like.

That night, I learned two very important life lessons:
First, never go into a frat party basement.  Nothing good can come of it.  
And secondly, I learned that, "This isn't what it looks like" is the easiest way to guarantee that people will think "This is exactly what it looks like."

 
From Brian at BB+B, let me just say that I hope you enjoyed the story.  I’d love to hear your feedback, so: Feel free to leave a comment below, share this story with your friends on Facebook or Twitter, or comment on the Facebook BB+B page to let me know what you think.
Remember, there are always plenty more fun “Brian Allman is embarrassed/hurt/scared/acts stupid” stories to come, so check BB+B frequently for updates, and as always, thanks to all my readers for sharing and enjoying my posts and stories!
-Brian, the Author Guy.

The Spider Who Made Me Its Bitch

The summer of 2006 I was working as an aquatics counselor at the Boy Scouts of America camp “Ma-Ka-Ja-Wan.”  I loved my job, spending warm summer days teaching scouts how to swim, kayak, or sail.  The only real downside of the job (aside from the pay that we on the staff referred to as our ‘peanuts’) was the living accommodations. You see, when I wasn’t working I was likely spending time in my bungalow, affectionately referred to as “The Stump”. It was small, precariously set on cinder blocks, and the only minor nice aspect of the Stump was that it overlooked the camp lake. 

It would be 'charming' if it didn't look like the set of a B-list slasher film.

I shared the Stump with a roommate, meaning we each had approximately half the area of your average jail cell. My bunkmate and I shared bunk-beds held together with duct tape and rope, as you can see in the picture above. With two young men away from their parents living together, we also kept the space dirty and hard to navigate most of the time.  We also shared the single half-sized dresser, which meant that when we couldn’t figure out whose dirt-stained bundle of clothes was whose, we also unintentionally shared our clothing.

The lack of cleanliness combined with the terrible living space is what led me, upon waking up one chilly morning, to simply grab the nearest pair of clean socks, shorts, and boots. Like a fool, I didn’t look carefully at the boots as I stuffed my feet in their odiferous opening. 

As my foot plunged down into the dark recesses of the boot I felt a strange *squish*. Half a second later, the *squish* feeling changed to a new sensation, as whatever I was thrusting my foot against suddenly moved.

Immediately I jumped out of bed, threw the boot towards the doorway, and began desperately scraping my foot on the floor to clean it. Nothing was on my foot, so I looked nervously towards the thrown boot, lying against the door. Crawling out of the boot, slowly and menacingly, was a wolf spider the size of my fist.  

THIS DOES NOT BODE WELL

It was the largest spider I’d seen that didn’t live in a glass cage, and I was filled with such panic that I let out a terrified and embarrassingly high-pitched yelp, which woke my bunkmate. Looking down angrily from his upper-bunk bed, he stared at me for several seconds before angrily ordering, “Shut. Up. Now.”  

I tried to explain my terror by pointing at the boot and babbling, “But…but…with eight legs!  And fangs!  Because…the boots, on my feet and…amputate my foot!” I then held my foot up in the air for him to see, somehow thinking this would help clear up any lingering confusion. 

Obviously not understanding my terror but trying to help me through my apparently random fear, my bunkmate threw his legs over the side of the bed and hopped down onto the floor. “Brian,” he more calmly reassured me, “there’s nothing there!”  I looked again and saw that just as he said, the spider was gone.  Far from feeling relieved, however, I was terrified. I ran out of the Stump and into the chill early morning air. Seeing that my bunkmate didn't follow, I realized he still didn’t understand the giant-spider problem, so I hissed through the screen in the door, “THERE WAS A SPIDER IN MY BOOTS!”

I heard him walk around for a moment before the door came swinging open, and my bunkmate came out holding the boot I’d thrown. “First,” he stated in a condescending, irritable tone, “this isn’t your boot.  It’s mine. And second, there’s no spider. And even if there was, it’s just a fucking spider!”

Hearing him explain it so calmly, I realized he was right. I tried to smile but ended up with a sheepish grin. I was about to admit my idiocy and apologize when I noticed that the boot he was holding, his fingers held on the inside lip of the shoe itself, seemed to move ever so slightly. Then, the same horrifying gigantic wolf spider from moments before again scurried out of the boot and onto his hand. 

Now it was his turn to let out a girlish scream as he flung the boot (and accompanying spider) high up into the air.  We scattered away from where it would land, and by the time the spider-boot hit the ground, we were on opposite sides of the Stump, cowering behind the edges of the walls. 

I called out to my bunkmate, “See?  SEE?  It’s a giant killer demon spider! It’s evil!  It’s going to kill and eat us!” Calmer than me, my bunkmate called back, “Shut up, I was just startled!  It’s just a spider.  Besides, a fall like that means it’s dead now! So…pick up the boot and check.”

I countered, telling him, “I’ll get the boot if you see where the spider landed.”  I waited for a response, but none came.  I stuck my head past the edge of the Stump and looked toward the boot again.  The spider was nowhere to be seen.  My bunkmate was likewise still hiding behind the Stump, and I saw his head peek over the corner, and we locked eyes.  Silently and in apparent unison, we decided now was the time to go back inside and get fully dressed before anyone else saw us and our embarrassing spider story was shared.  For all I cared, the boot was welcome to stay outside.

“Listen,” he said slowly, making direct eye contact with me, “I’m going to pick up the boot, and we can pretend this never happened.  You go back inside, and get dressed. The spider's outside now. Everything is fine.”

Nervously, I nodded, and crept around the edge of the building. My bunkmate crept carefully to where the boot was on the ground and carefully lifted the boot and looked inside.  Relieved, he held the lip of the boot open to show me it was empty.  Then, we both turned and faced back towards the Stump’s door, as I reached for the handle. Before my hand could touch the door, my bunkmate grabbed my wrist, and stopped me.  With another girlish shriek, he pointed at the handle where the same (and apparently malevolently haunting) spider now sat, its front two legs raised and waving menacingly in the air.  I pulled my hand back, and we both stared shocked at the tenacious spider and its conquest over our home.

My actual thoughts during all of this:  "Maybe if I cower in terror it will leave me alone?"

I didn’t know what to do so I jokingly stated, “Well, I didn’t like that stuff anyway.”

My bunkmate agreed, admitting, “Yeah, at least not enough to go back inside.  The Stump belongs to the spider now.”

I nodded and backed slowly away from the door, recognizing our defeat with a nervous chuckle. As we backed away, I sealed our defeat by nervously admitting, “Agreed! The Stump belongs to the spider now.”

And that, my dear readers, is how a spider made me (and my bunkmate) its bitch.
From Brian at BB+B, let me just say that I hope you enjoyed the story.  I’d love to hear your feedback, so: Feel free to leave a comment below, share this story with your friends on Facebook or Twitter, or comment on the Facebook BB+B page to let me know what you think.
Remember, there are always plenty more fun “Brian Allman is embarrassed/hurt/scared of nature” stories to come, so check BB+B frequently for updates, and as always, thanks to all my readers for sharing and enjoying my posts and stories!
-Brian, the Author Guy.

Naked Acapella

On the first day of spring break my sophomore year, my fraternity brothers and I were enjoying a relaxing morning:  The fridge and thus beer was cold, the breakfast we shared was luke-warm and poorly cooked, and everyone with a hangover was slowly recovering. It was a perfect Saturday. That's why I decided to take a nice long shower, trim my beard, and spend my weekend relishing in laziness, in proper frat-boy style.

The fraternity had 3 individual showers on the upper floors, separated by a curtain from the rest of the bathroom for even more privacy. So, as I headed into the bathroom I hung my bright green turtle themed towel on the hanger outside the shower and stepped into the furthest shower stall. Ignoring the fact that the shower next to me was occupied, I started to sing (because what's a showeer without music?), beginning with the always enjoyable, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” I kicked it off with a repeated “Ohi’mbube, ohi’mbube, ohi’mbube, ohi’mbube” bass line. And yes, I had to look up how google suggests I spell the lyrics.

Much to my surprise, after a few measures of the bass part the shower next to me suddenly chimed in with a high tenor voice, “Wee-hee-hee-hee dee-wee-hee-hee-hee-oh-wee uh-bum-buhway” to start off the song.  Trying to sing through my laughter, I continued the bass part and let this new voice add their harmony above mine.

As we reached the point where the lyrics and main melody start I prepared to switch from bass to melody, but instead the third shower kicked on and a third voice joined in singing the lyrics, “In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight…” Their sweet sounding baritone nicely fit into our now three part harmony and so I stayed on the bass part while the middle shower original singer stayed on the higher harmony part.  I was highly amused, but given my odd and musical fraternity brothers I wasn’t particularly surprised.  We finished the song, and there was a moment of quiet in the shower as we all contemplated whether or not to continue.

Of course, one song is never enough (after all, a 4 minute shower is hardly time to shampoo and clean a beard as massive and masculine as my own) so I decided to start another up just to see if my frat brothers would follow my lead. I sang out loudly the low acapella opening of Billy Joel’s ‘For The Longest Time’ with a drawn out “Whoaaaaa, for the longest time,” Immediately, my fraternity brothers in their showers joined in on their respective voice parts. We finished this second song while I shampooed my beard (which, when trying to sing at the same time resulted in my accidentally swallowing and choking on what felt like gallons of soapy water).  Still trying to finish my shower before finishing the music, the three of us concluded our musical morning showers with the always fun Beatles song ‘Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da.’ 

Feeling refreshed, highly entertained, and squeaky-clean I grabbed my turtle-themed towel from the hanger, toweled off in the privacy of my curtained shower stall, and wrapped it around my waist. When I stepped out, I was almost perfectly in time with the other 2 shower-goers exiting with their own towels wrapped around them for privacy.  We laughed at our synchronized timing (probably a result of our shared musical tendencies), and opened the curtain separating the showers from the rest of the bathroom.

As we stepped out we were extremely surprised to see half a dozen women all wearing matching sorority sweatshirts sitting in the fold-out chairs we normally kept in the TV lounge down the hall. For a brief moment the phrase, "Dear Penthouse" crossed my mind, followed by the realization that I was the one undressed, and not the other way around. My thoughts were interrupted, however, because upon seeing us sorority girls all began clapping, while one called loudly “Encore, encore!” Momentarily robbed of my words, it was my fraternity brother with the high tenor voice who demanded to know, “What in the hell?” to the women seated before us.  The apparent queen of the pack stood up from her chair and told us, “We were all down the hall to say hi to Mikey [one of our fraternity brothers], and we heard you guys putting on a concert, so we stepped in to enjoy it from front-row seats.” This statement was met with many giggles and smirks from the women, which caused me to blush an incredibly dark shade of red.

I babbled out a confused, “Oh…ummm….thanks?” The girls giggled at our obvious discomfort and lack of clothing, while the matriach of sorts approached me and laid her hand possessively on my shoulder. Squeezing my naked, damp shoulder and speaking in a mockingly comforting tone she teased, “I can honestly say that was the best time I’ve had with naked men in this house, hands down! Naked acapella, what a great way to start Spring Break Saturday!”  Then she turned around, grabbed her folding chair, and motioned her posse of women to follow. Gathering themselves quickly, they all took their matching sweatshirts and matching smiles with them into the hallway, and we heard them giggling and chittering among themselves as they walked away.

My fraternity brothers and I stood in stunned silence for a few moments longer. The tenor suddenly turned to face me and with a smile stated proudly, “Best time she's had with a naked guy?  I’ve decided to take that as a compliment...and a challenge.”  He then dropped his towel to the floor, flashed the remaining two of us a wicked grin (and more) and began singing, “I’m singing in the nude, just singing in the nude! What a glorious feeling: A pants-less-nude-dude!”  Mid-verse he threw open the door to the hallway and jumped out, following the women as they laughed and clapped, serenading them all wearing only his birthday suit.

I hope you enjoyed this tale of college craziness, coeds, and confusion.  Thanks for reading and check out other BB+B posts in the sidebar, or the facebook and twitter BB+B pages in the bar at the top of the blog.
Thanks for reading and feel free to share BB+B with your friends!
-Brian, the Author Guy.

"No Fondling During Exams!"

As many of my readers know, I'm a teaching assistant in Alaska at the University of Alaska in Fairbanks. That means that I spend 20-30 hours a week doing various teaching related activities, such as teaching the 2 labs I run, or grading the work from my students.  I've been doing this job as a teaching assistant for several semesters now, and the job never fails to offer interesting and amusing tales that I can't, for the sake of student privacy, normally share on my blog. However, one tale comes to mind that is too strange, confusing, and socially awkward to pass up.

A few semesters back I was teaching a different class than I teach now, though it was another introductory level biology course.  It was filled with the normal mix of students, varying in ages from 17-35 or so, and it was mostly filled with hard-working and fun kids.  Frankly, that part of the class made it rather boring.  After all, when your students are hard-working and industrious it's rare to run across situations like my "Bro-bama Story" where a student decided to be my best buddy and repeatedly overstepped the teacher-student line. The only solace I had in the class of hard-working and studious students was that there was one couple that seemed to offer the rest of us plenty of idiocy to chat about.

This one couple was the stereotype we all dread becoming when we go out with our significant other in public:  They held hands in class, kissed and snuggled to the point of inducing nausea, and they showed up late to class with sex-hair on more than one occasion, including one time showing up with their shirts inside out...both students, shirts inside out, with sex-hair. As you might imagine, this couple (let's call them Thing 1 and Thing 2 for ease's sake) were inseparable, and obsessive, and extremely affectionate. 

Luckily for me, I rarely had to be involved with the lecture portion of the class where the most obvious and over-the-top making out and PDA seemed to occur. Mostly I spent my time focused on the laboratory work I had to handle, and that I taught the students each week, and this work usually involved activities that made constant kissing and groping less likely.  After all, no one wants to make out over a dissected salmon! The only time I really couldn't avoid attending the full lectures and interacting with Thing 1 and Thing 2 was during exams.

Like most college courses, the exams for the class were tough, a little bit longer than anyone ever seemed to expect, and of course you couldn't sit directly next to your significant other since there was a chance you might be more tempted to cheat. Or at least, that's how it's supposed to work.

One day in the middle of the semester we came up to our exam date, and I settled into the front of the class to help keep an eye out for cheating, or to answer any questions students had if the professor was busy answering someone else.  That meant that I was basically spending my time for the next hour carefully watching the students for suspicious activity, like repeatedly picking up water bottles (one student I caught had written answers on the lab and stuck it back onto the plastic bottle) or something else odd. On the exam day in question, no one seemed to notice that Thing 1 and Thing 2 were seated next to each other during this exam, and instead of having a space between them, they were snuggled up nice and close. even as I sat in the front of the room with the professor and another TA, we just didn't seem to realize that out of a nice, evenly spaced class of 80 or so students only 2 students were seated directly next to each other.

The exam was relatively tough, and I spent a lot of my time answering questions about the test instead of looking into the crowd.  That's probably why it was over half way into the exam when I suddenly noticed Thing 1 (the guy) looking oddly intensely at the ceiling.  And then I noticed that his lady-friend, Thing 2, was also looking oddly intently, but not at the ceiling.  She was staring at his crotch.  And as I continued to stare, still not quite realizing that they should be seated a space apart, Thing 1 and Thing 2 started giggling, and my eyes wandered from their faces to their bodies.  Thing 1 had his hand slipped behind Thing 2's back, and appeared to be cupping his girlfriend's butt.  Thing 2's hands were on the, let's just say, crotch region of her man-friend.  Against all odds, these two appeared to be trying to feel each other up in public...during an exam.

I didn't know what to do:  I didn't want to embarrass the students and clearly they weren't cheating.  At the same time, however, this clearly needed to be stopped so I stood up and started walking over to quietly tell them to stop.  As I walked in front of the desk where the professor sat, the professor held up a hand for me and stated, "I'll take care of this."  Apparently, he'd seen the same thing I had, likely at the same time I'd noticed it.

I expected him to quietly walk over and chew them out, or perhaps to make an innocuous announcement in order to remind the students they were in public. Instead, he stood up, cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled, "Oi!  Thing 1, Thing 2, I shouldn't have to say this, but no fondling during exams!" 

There was an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, followed by a myriad of half-suppressed giggles from the other students.  Mortified, Thing 1 and Thing 2 stopped their groping and returned to their tests, faces redder than beets. The professor, seeing he'd stopped the problem and noticing I was still standing stupidly in front of his desk, too stunned and confused to move back to my seat waved me closer.  I leaned in over his desk and he whispered, "Don't be so shocked!  They're college kids, they act stupid."  Chuckling as an afterthought, he added, "It could be worse. At least they aren't cheating!" 


Thanks for reading!  I hope you all enjoy, and have a good week.  check out more BB+B stories in the sidebar, or check us out on facebook for up to date notifications about new posts.
Again, thanks for reading!
Brian, the Author Guy