(this story was written in September 2007 when I worked for a recruiting firm in central Orange County)

We have two different rooms in the office. The front room is the reception area and also where the middle-to-higher management level people sit, including the CEO/Owner/my boss (who I will refer to as "SoccerDadBoss"). My boss's mother also works in the office as the office manager. There is an Argentinian guy who has been there for a few years that does high-end recruiting, pulling in most of the revenue for the company. The person that sits behind him is a guy that is in charge of company operations and IT management, and has also been buddies with my sexually-enticing-yet-married boss for about ten years. We call this section of the office "The Geezer Group." SoccerDadBoss has this lovely habit of stealthily emerging from the front office and sneaking up behind me without notice whenever he wants me to do something for him. It usually scares the shit out of me, especially when I have my iPod headphones on - and I never notice him through peripheral vision because I've got the corner cubicle, obviously facing the wall.

Our section of the office, the back room, consists of what we call "The Young Bucks": myself, "JG," "Cowboy," "NotSoMuslim," and "HotBlonde." Our ages are 21, 29, 25, 23, and 37 respectively. Aside from the office manager, I am the only female in the office. JG, Cowboy, and NotSoMuslim handle lower-level placements for the candidates and clients we already have in banking/finance, health care, and sales. HotBlonde, who is a mortgage loan officer during the day, does headhunting on the candidate side while I do headhunting on the client side because I am adept at finding big names (or so my boss tells me - if only I were good at finding other big things, too). In the back office, we're all friends with each other meaning we talk about more-than-personal-outside-of-work subjects (i.e., who we banged last week and who we're going out with later and other miscellaneous dirty details) in the office. We all hang out for lunch and talk about the same things, sans HotBlonde as he is a part-timer and doesn't come in until some time after we finish lunch, making him the one person in the back room out of the loop with everything that goes on.

One week during lunch, we talk about who in the building (not in our actual office per se) we'd like to do and I said that there were a few hipster looking guys who looked like they needed their dolphins flogged. I then let it slip that I hadn't been with anyone since the last guy I dated (who broke up with me a month prior and went crazy - another story in itself) and that it was becoming increasingly frustrating. I also let it be known that I'd hit it with SoccerDadBoss if he wasn't married and that I had some kind of odd soccer dad fetish.

Cowboy: HotBlonde is single. He just broke up with his girlfriend. What about him?
Me: Well, actually . . . I've been thinking about asking him out for the last few days.
JG: Haha, REALLY? Why?
Me: I think he's gorgeous. He seriously fits my type to a T. Bigger build, blonde, big hands.
NotSoMuslim: Ah, so you like white guys.
Me: Yeah, pretty much . . . and Israelis. Anyway, ever since I first saw HotBlonde, I've been wanting to ask him out. Not really feeling the vibe from him though.
JG and NotSoMuslim: That's BUUUULLSHIT.
Me: Haha, what! I don't think he's interested.
JG: Man, all boys be interested. They just playin' it cool. Believe me, I know fo' SHO' he wants to go out witchu.

JG is a suave, debonair black man from southeast San Diego. He keeps it real.

I eventually worked up the courage to ask HotBlonde out for a drink the other afternoon after everyone was leaving the office. He asked if the following night was OK and we agreed on a time and place to meet. The next day at work, The Young Bucks (sans HotBlonde) asked me if I had asked HotBlonde out yet and I said yes - and in unison: "GIVE US THE DETAILS TOMORROW!"

The long and short of it, I drove down to Santa Ana to meet HotBlonde near his apartment and from our meeting place, we adjourned to a bar on the Tustin/Santa Ana border. We ordered some drinks, played pool, smoked cigarettes, and threw sexual innuendoes at each other (more him than me, because I'm aloof or something) and "mysteriously" ended up back at his place, going at it no sooner than ten minutes in the door. The sex was ten times more amazing than I expected it to be. The duration of the first round, collectively, was about an hour and a half while the proceeding rounds were no shorter than 30 minutes - and we had 4 or 5 rounds total. I wound up spending the night at his place and driving straight to work the following morning. I was completely giddy and couldn't stop smiling. HotBlonde did amazingly well for 37.

As soon as I walk into the office, I'm greeted by Cowboy, who grins and points his index finger at me. "You're SMILING!" I walk into the back room and get seated at my desk. JG and NotSoMuslim greet me with a smile.

JG: Hey, I like your dress! So . . . what happened?
NotSoMuslim: You're glowing!

Cowboy walks in as I am going into detail about everything. They all ooh and aaah! at HotBlonde's amazing performance and stamina.

JG: Daaaayuuum, SUPAAAHOTBLONDE! Super-super HotBlonde. Tha's dope though.
NotSoMuslim: For real. HotBlonde's the man!
JG: Man, look atchu. And here you were tellin' us he probably wasn't interested. 'ey, I'll tell you what - I already knew he wanted to go out witchu 'cause he told us a while back that he thinks you're a cool cat.
Cowboy: Aha, that's funny. But hey, seriously guys . . . we probably shouldn't say anything when HotBlonde comes around because he might become uncomfortable.
Me: Yeah, he doesn't know that you guys know . . . so please, keep it on the DL.
JG and Muslim: Fo' sho'.
Cowboy: Is our friend coming in today? Mr. Lover Boy?
Me: Nah, I don't think so.

We do a few hours of work, go to lunch together, and come back into the office. I like to listen to my iPod while I do data entry work and on occasion, Cowboy, who sits in the cubicle next to mine, will not realize it and start bombarding me with questions. I turned my iPod off when I realized he was trying to ask me something as I stared at my computer screen, typing names in. My headphones were still in my ears, so I couldn't hear minimal noises such as footsteps or doors being opened.

Cowboy: So, is he a good kisser?
Me: Yeah, he IS good . . . he's good at EVERYthing. Heh heh.

At that moment, I turned around in my chair.

SoccerDadBoss was standing there.

RIGHT behind me.

With a shit-eating grin on his face.

He heard the whole two-sentence dialog between me and Cowboy and through suppressed laughter, asked me to enter something into the database. I gasped in horror and I hid my beet red face out of shame as he walked away chuckling, and all I could hear was Cowboy laughing his ass off. As I do when I become suddenly nervous, I grabbed a cigarette and sprinted out of the office. I finished smoking and came back to my desk and everyone in the back office was still laughing their asses off - and before I could sit down, SoccerDadBoss walks in again with more tasks for me, this time with an even bigger grin on his face as he knew I was standing in a completely awkward moment. After handing me a stack of papers, SoccerDadBoss returned to his office.

Cowboy: Well, at least he doesn't know who we're talking about.
Me: Thank fucking God.

Moral of the story? Don't fish off of the company pier, if you can help it.

My sister and I were coming from Los Angeles to San Diego and stopped at a San Clemente Wal-Mart one night so she could purchase a pregnancy test kit as she was 6 days late for her period -- no symptoms of pregnancy or PMS or anything -- her vagina simply refused to bleed.

So we're scanning the personal hygiene section when we finally come across the contraceptives and as my sister is scanning pregnancy test kits, I'm thinking about wire coathangers, steel-toed boots (for swift uterus kicking), concrete stairs, and other alternatives forms of free contraception until a shiny red box captures my attention. "TROJAN" was printed in big bold letters on the front of the box and right under it "VIBRATIONS" was printed in tiny form. I decided that $6 for a single condom that probably wasn't going to work (considering it was Trojan) and a tiny elastic vibrating ring that probably wasn't going to get me off was a logical purchase in my 20 year old mind. My sister picked her test of choice and off we went to the checkstands to complete our purchases.

A gorgeous, but probably young and dumb Marine stood at our checkstand of choice -- with that in mind and considering my sister's choice of purchase, she insisted that I go first. The trailer park female clerk rang up my purchase as my sister placed her test on the conveyor belt. "Well, who is THIS for?" she asked jokingly. My sister smiled awkwardly. The clerk took one good look at both of our items and said to me, "You probably should've bought that [pointing at vibrating condom box] for your friend there a week ago." My sister laughs and I smirk as I swipe my debit MasterCard between the crevice of the card machine. The clerk then proceeds to prattle on about her sex life, her numerous pregnancy scares, and probably something else utterly unimportant and uninteresting relating to trailer park STDs in Arkansas or wherever the hell she was from, with blatant disregard to the male customer behind us. She then asked my sister a question she seems to get asked quite frequently.

Clerk: Do you have any kids?
Sister: No.
Clerk [looking at me]: Do YOU have any kids?
Me [reading register total]: Not unless you want to count the one I canceled at Planned Parenthood.
*dead silence*
Clerk [handing me receipt]: ...sign here, please.

(a story I wrote in November 2007) 

Craigslist was successful, for once, last night! I finally got that European itch scratched! He tore my shit up. Seriously. I don't think I'll be able to have any type of sexual contact for a few weeks. I'm pretty sure I was a few thrusts short of having to get labial stitches.

I had a pretty great night with this guy (who I will refer to as "The Bavarian Guy"). He was the funniest German I had ever met in my life, considering most of the Germans I've met had almost no sense of humor whatsoever. His impersonation of Romanians, Swiss, and Berliners kept the evening alive and so did the coffee, alcohol, and cigarettes.

Yesterday, he responded to my ad that I posted a few days ago for Europeans and Brits on CL.

"Hey there,

Fun in Long Beach sounds great to me.
People always asking me if I was british but I'm german, who living here in LA now for 4 years.

I'm working for a german media company as a manager. I'm single 6 foot tall blonde. I'm a little bored with my life right now and I'm not sure if it's time to move on and go somewhere else. So a blind date in Long Beach Sounds great to me .... so just let me know that I qualify....:-)

[The Bavarian Guy]"

He attached two photos, which were tiny, but looked good and he didn't seem like a pompous ass, so I decided he would be the victor out of all the contenders sitting in my inbox.

We arranged to meet at the Starbucks down the street from my house at 9:00. I ended up arriving about fifteen minutes late and when I got there, I ended up walking right past him as neither of us could recognize each other (he only saw unidentifiable photographs of me on the ad I posted). We ended up hanging out at Starbucks for a couple of hours, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and talking about Europe and random German accents.

TBG: Zee Swiss-German accent eez pretty funny. Zey sound like zis: HHHAWKINDA EINE TOUSAND HAWKAHWNAKDSNJDS

He proceeded to make guttural throat noises for 30 seconds with subtle laughter in between. It was both amusing and sexy.

Me: Wow, that's a real word in Schweizerdeutsch! And in Arabic too! *HAWK* That means something.
TBG: Ja! And zee Romanians? Oh, zey ah so funny. I vent to Romania vunce to meet vis some vork peoples and vee ver een Transylvania. All I heard vas HARRR HARRR HARRR HARRR HARRR. Zat ees how zey talk!

I cracked up the entire time due to a combination of being able to relate to his feelings regarding the Romanian accent (I've hung out with a few Romanian people and that is EXACTLY how they sound) and some relief that there are Germans in America with a sense of humor. After we finished with the coffee, we got into his Volvo to find a bar to get some drinks.

Me: What type of venue are you looking for? Something quiet? Something noisy? Music?
TBG: Oh, just any kind of place vis good drinks.

In European yuppie-speak, "good drinks" translates into "expensive drinks," so I directed him towards the Yard House at Shoreline Village where we imbibed on Lambic, Hefeweizen, and St. Paul-something-or-other-German-beer-I-couldn't-quite-catch-because-he-speaks-very-fast-with-a-heavy-accent. We delved into the sports we were into, the type of movies we like, teenage stories, and his current living and job situation while smoking cigarettes on the patio up until closing time. Once it was time to leave, we got back into his car where he let it be known that he received a breathalyzer as a birthday gift this past July. After seven beers or so, he blew a .08 while I blew a .02 after four drinks. Being a lightweight drinker, I was thoroughly impressed with myself.

After driving around for a while trying to figure out where to go, my mind finally snapped awake and suggested we could hang out at the beach since everything else was closed (drinking and post-drinking is not a good time to ask me questions). We arrived, grabbed a large beach towel out of his trunk, and headed towards the sandy shores of Long Beach where we laid the blanket down in a seemingly remote section of the beach. Not even 30 seconds after sitting down, we were already digging our nails into each other's skin, biting at the lips, and digging into each other's baby-makers. He climbed on top of me as we continued to grope each other when all of a sudden, it got really cheesy.

TBG [making eye contact, thick German accent]: You are so beautiful. You haf amazing eyes. [insert additional myriad of cheesy, pre-coital compliments]
Me: Right. Tell me in German.
TBG: Vat?
Me: You read my ad, man. Tell me in German.
TBG [most seductive voice possible]: Du bist so heiss, sehr herrlich. BLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAH [insert German dirty talk]
Me: YES!!!

And away we went at it. For like, two hours. On that fucking gritty Long Beach sand. The guy wouldn't climax to save his life and I got sore about 45 minutes into it, which is extremely unusual for me as my sexual endurance and stamina is typically top-notch. I tried to keep it as quiet as possible, but with his guttural German shouting and me climaxing every five minutes with a sore vagina, we ended up gaining a 3 AM audience. There were about five different people watching us at different times and we were fairly certain one of them was taking pictures. The friction of our movement and bodyweight combined ended up digging us a hole about 3 - 5 inches into the sand and it eventually got very, very uncomfortable for us to continue having sex when sand started to get into our teeth, eyes, and eventually, crotch. I, literally, had sand in my clit.

Me [on all fours, completely exhausted]: Do you uh, *huff* wanna uh, *huff* get a hotel instead? This is getting reeeeaaaaaaally uncomfortable.
TBG [on his knees, completely sore and almost bruised]: Ah, ja, vee get a uh, *huff* hotel room. Verr is zee nearest hotel?
Me: Uh, down uh, *huff* that way. Can we uh, get some lube first?
TBG: Some vat?
Me: Lu-bri-cation.
TBG: Ah, yes! Verr do zey haf at dees time of night?
Me: 7-11.

By the time we got to 7-11 on Pine Ave., my crotch was so sore I nearly collapsed in the feminine hygiene aisle -- the wonderful bits between my legs had turned into the fiery death of Dresden 1945. We grabbed a couple of bottles of water and some smokes and headed out the door with all of the equipment in a plastic bag and drove over to the Westin of Long Beach. We casually walked into the lobby of the hotel, completely covered in sand with a plastic bag full of water, cigarettes, and lubrication, breathing heavily through our mouths. My hair was a hot, sandy, ghetto mess. We didn't look suspicious at all.

Front Desk: Can I help you?
TBG: Vee vould like a room.
Front Desk: What?
Me: Do you have a vacancy?
Front Desk: Yes, we do, but all we have are two bedded suites at the rate of $300.
Me: Jesus!
TBG: That's fine. *drops credit card on the counter*
Me: Whoa.
Front Desk: Key to the mini-bar?
TBG: Yes, please.
Front Desk: Did you self park or was it valet?
TBG: Self-parking.
Front Desk: Would you like that attached to your hotel bill?
TBG: Please.

We checked in, DASHED to the elevator, and into the room where we wasted no time disrobing and deflowering the floor, the sink, the shower, and every other top surface in the hotel room. The initial hotel room penetration was almost cut short when I learned (the hard way) that the lube we had purchased was warming liquid lube. I about burst into tears while my sore vagina  and its sand-induced cuts about burst into flames and exploded when I let out a blood-curdling scream. I eventually got over the pain and we resumed our humanly activities. In between the loud "OH MY GOD!" "FUCK!" "JESUS!" and "SCHEISSE, SCHEISSE!," one of the guests on our floor ended up calling hotel security thinking someone was getting raped and/or murdered as the emergency loudspeaker blared some type of gibberish about staying in our rooms. We then heard walkie-talkies outside of our door, followed by a loud knock at the room across from ours, but we ignored it and continued with our recreational procreation. It was goddamned awesome.

Finally, after shower blowjobs, mirror sex, and what I assumed to be verbal Hitler Youth rallying in German, he climaxed around 5:00 AM. He finally. Fucking. Climaxed. I was relieved. After all of the sexual chaos, I finally knew why Poland fell to Germany in 1939. I was amazed... and sore. I must have climaxed about 15 times in that evening.

Blitzkrieg: 3; Poland / Czechoslovakia / Asia: 0 - losing a war never felt so great!

I fell into a pleasant sleep, only to be woken up at 7 AM by giant 30 year old Bavarian paws groping my naughty bits. We did it again for a half hour and fell asleep until noon, where he, once again, groped and ravaged me. Still entirely sore, I looked at the clock and told him we had to check out in a minute in hopes of his never-ending hard-on tucking itself away to no avail.

TGG: Vee still haf one more hour, zee clocks haf not changed in here yet.

Stupid Day Light Savings.

Once again, German dirty talk commenced while I prayed for an ambulance for a half hour. Once we were finished, he brewed coffee while we both got cleaned up, gathered all of our things, and got ready to check out. He dropped me off at the parking lot where I had parked my car the night before and I thanked him for a wonderful evening as he did the same. "We should do this again," I said as I grabbed the handle to open the door. He stopped me.

TBG: Vait.
Me: What?
TBG: Can I take a picture of you? You haf sucha beautiful face.
Me: On the condition that I can return the favor.
TBG: Of course! [pulls Blackberry out of his pocket, snaps a photo] Schatzi!

And as a woman of my word, I indeed returned the favor.

This is the "I just fucked a 21 year old Asian for several hours on the beach and in a $300 hotel room" look, circa this morning.

Gorgeous.

Sometimes, even perversion can be innocent...

This guy perhaps not so innocent!

Remember, if you like our article, DIGG US! 

Do you think she knows where the brake pedal is?

Two men dressed in Pilots' uniforms walk up the aisle of the plane.
Both are wearing dark glasses, one is using a guide dog and the other is tapping his way along the aisle with a cane.

Nervous laughter spreads through the cabin, but the men enter the cockpit, the door closes, and the engines start up.

The passengers begin glancing nervously around, searching for some sign that this is just a little practical joke. None is forthcoming.
The plane moves faster and faster down the runway and the people sitting in the window seats realize they're heading straight for the water at the edge of the airport.

As it begins to look as though the plane will plough into the water, panicked screams fill the cabin.
Just at that moment, the plane lifts smoothly into the air. The passengers relax and laugh a little sheepishly, and soon all retreat into their magazines, secure in the knowledge that the plane is in good hands.

..... In the cockpit, one of the blind pilots turns to the other and says, "You know, Bob, one of these days, they're gonna scream too late and we're all gonna Phucken die."

Remember, if you like our article, DIGG US! 

Some people just need to get out more!

There are many reasons to NOT to take steroids.  Small penis, low sex drive, body zits etc.

If that is not enough, then how about just looking like a complete tool.  His wrist is as big as his head!

Children, don't take steroids.  Steroids are bad.

That's Phucked have been receiving A LOT of comments on our articles.
Almost 100 comments so far on the Video of US Marine Throwing Puppy Off Cliff
This makes the pages pretty damned long!

Therefore we have launched a new forum site dedicated to all the Phucked Up stuff we like to write about.
Now YOU can write about Phucked Up stuff.  Tell us your best stories!

Visit Our Forum at www.ThatsPhuckedUp.com

Remember, if you like our article, DIGG US! 

"Guido" (Gino in Canada) is a pejorative slang term for a young, lower class or working class, Italian-American or Italian-Canadian male from the urban Northeastern United States or urban Central Canada, most often New York and the surrounding area due to the large number of Italian-Americans living in the area.
The Guido stereotype is often portrayed as humorously and incorrigibly uncultured, with a thuggish and overtly macho attitude and an unyielding pride in his Italian ancestry. 

I think they might be Vampires...

How much of that tanning cream should I use? Ah hell, I'll use the whole thing!
Psycho Guido's

Remember, if you like our article, DIGG US! 

It seems that some of our readers have taken to recording themselves while watching some of our Top Rated Videos
Their "reaction videos" are now posted on YouTube for all to see!

Watch the YouTube Reaction Videos to That's Phucked

Shamus and Murphy fancied a pint or two but didn't have a lot of money between them, they could only raise the staggering sum of one Euro.
Murphy said "Hang on, I have an idea."   He went next door to the butcher's shop and came out with one large sausage.
Shamus said "Are you crazy?  Now we don't have any money left at all!"
Murphy replied, "Don't worry - just follow me."

He went into the pub where he immediately ordered two pints of Guinness and two glasses of Jamieson Whisky. Shamus said "Now you've lost it.
Do you know how much trouble we will be in?  We haven't got any money!!"
Murphy replied, with a smile.  "Don't worry, I have a plan , Cheers!  "
They downed their Drinks.  Murphy said, "OK, I'll stick the sausage through my zipper and you go on your knees and put it in your mouth."
The barman noticed them, went berserk, and threw them out.

They continued this, pub after pub, getting more and more drunk, all for free.

At the tenth pub Shamus said "Murphy - I don't think I can do any more of this.  I'm drunk and me knees are killin' me!"
Murphy said, "How do you think I feel?  I can't even remember which pub I lost the sausage in............

A Scotsman walking down the street sees a woman with perfect breasts.
He says to her, "Hey miss, would you let me bite your breasts for $100?
"Are you nuts?!!!" she replies, and keeps walking away.
He turns around, runs around the block and gets to the corner before she does.
"Would you let me bite your breasts for $1,000 dollars?" he asks again. 
"Listen you; I'm not that kind of woman! Got it?"
So the Scotsman runs around the next block and faces her again
"Would you let me bite your breasts just once for $10,000 dollars?"
She thinks about it for a while and says, "Hmmm, $10,000 dollars; Ok,
just once, but not here. Let's go to that dark alley over there ."
So they go into the alley, where she takes off her blouse to reveal the
most perfect breasts in the world. As soon as he sees them, he grabs them and
starts caressing them, fondling them slowly, kissing them,
licking them, burying his face in them, but not biting them.
The woman finally gets annoyed and asks, "Well? Are you gonna bite them or not?"
"Nah", says the Scotsman... "Costs too much..."

Mr. Phucked has the flu.  It sucks, it really does!
Typing while the sweat runs off me and I cough a lung out of my body.

Yes, Mr. Phucked is pretty Phucked!

Sometimes think your love making is like poetry or even art?
Well Tim Patch from Australia paints with his penis!

First thought that springs to mind is.  Does it not get sore?
Well...
"Painting on canvas for hours on end is not very kind to your skin. It's pretty tiring and it gets really sore … I use antiseptic, but I had to use my bum to paint in the background, because you have to have the occasional break," he said.

Now vagina painting, I'm waiting for that one!