MOST RECENT
Insert Your Favorite Weekend Joke Here....

The Iranian Nuclear Deal As Explained By Brea...

So Ernie, Where The Fuck Did You Go And Why N...

Insert Your Favorite Weekend Joke Here....

Insert Your Favorite Tax Weekend Joke Here....

... more ...

YOU MIGHT LIKE
funny pictures
free webcams
sexy videos

LATEST FEATURES


ERNIE CAM

E R N I E ' S   H O U S E   O F   W H O O P A S S

GO HOME BALL  -   articles - search - features - pictures - videos - tasteless - tits  -   WEBCAMS

jealous? click here to get your website on ehowa.com for as little as $5 per day
Ernie's House of Whoopass! March 7, 2013
March 7, 2013

Skidmarks, Walmart, And The Importance of Completing The Mission.

Last week John in Cheektowaga wrote in looking for a lead on some .22LR and I went through my usual schpeel on where to find (or in his case not find) some. But seeing how my supply is slowly dwindling over the last few months and could use a little pick me up, I decided to go out and try my hand at old-faithful: Walmart around 7am each morning when they restock the ammo shelves. But as my stomach was grumbling, I wanted to make myself a little breakfast before I hit the road. Two eggs, some toast and a hunk of smoked sausage later, and I was out the door just in time for the morning rush hour. Granted, the 'rush hour' down here in Cape Coral is nothing compared to that of the greater Boston area from back in the day, it was still a little frustrating and in between channel surfing and cursing at the guy in front of me, I first noticed the grumbling deep in my bowels. "Ha," I thought, "that damned sausage gets me every time." Over the course of the next few minutes the grumblings grew closer together, much like contractions before delivering a baby. And as the pressure knocking on my back door grew a little beyond my comfort zone, and I was on veteran's Parkway about halfway to Walmart when I leaned over to one side to see what couldn't be done about easing the situation a little bit.

I had barely shifted my weight when the warning klaxons began to sound from my anus: WARNING! OVERPRESSURE! WARNING! FLUID LEAK! WARNING! OVERPRESSURE! My response was immediate but not immediate enough. Following emergency protocol, my asshole automatically slammed shut but not before there was some sort of chemical spill was released into the environment, the extent of which was still unknown at this point. On the radio, Carly Rae Jepsen was suggesting that perhaps I should call her sometime, but I didn't care. I sat in stunned silence for a minute, trying to work the gas and clutch without pushing hard enough to lift my weight off the seat and cause my sphincter to lose its grip. With clenched teeth, I was able to cautiously shift my weight around and determine the immediate danger has passed, so now I focused my attention on -- quite literally -- ass'ercertaining (heehee) just how shitty the situation was.

And here I'd just like to point out one of life's little mysteries. Any time you're in a hurry and need to get somewhere quickly, you always manage to hit every fucking red light between you and your destination. Well the opposite holds true as well; any time you want to hit a red light so that you may accomplish a small task -- check to see if you've shit your pants, for example -- it's nothing but green lights all the way. Or even worse, it's red as you pull up and there's a glimmer of hope you'll be able to set upon the new task at hand, but just then the light turns green as if to say, "Fuck you, pal." But the sensors around my asshole assured me that yes, they were detecting heat and humidity so there had most certainly been some sort of a breach down there. Prevented from determining just how bad things were, I had to assume the worst and then began to make my way towards the right hand lane so I could turn off of Veteran's, make a u-turn and head back home. I would pull in my garage, shut the garage door behind me, gingerly climb out of my car, strip down and head into the house to shower and change. I simply had to accept that my ammo run had been a bust. There would no doubt be someone showing up right after I would have arrived at Walmart, and greeted with fully stocked shelves, that person would buy everything in sight and strip the shelves to the bare metal. No, there would be no ammunition for me today. I let off the gas and put my right blinker on.

And then from the deepest, darkest recesses of my mind came this quiet but somehow assuring voice, "It's only Walmart."

Seemingly with its own consciousness, my right foot began to push back down on the accelerator. "No," I said aloud to no one, "I can't be that guy." And then, "I'm not going to be that guy." My foot again lifted from the pedal and the nose of my car sank lower as it decelerated.

But The Quiet Voice came back. "It's 7am. It will be a ghost town. No one will notice. Besides. It's only Walmart."

My next thought came without any effort and there before me on my computer monitor were the words "People of Walmart" surrounding a nice smiling logo. No, I didn't want to end up there. But at the same time, I didn't want to waste an hour out of my day and besides, ammo is a pretty rare find these days, is it not? In the end, I'd like to tell you that I turned around. That I went home, cleaned myself, threw my clothes in the laundry and lived to seek ammunition another day. And well, technically I did. But I had just one thing to do first. And this time I willed my foot down onto the gas pedal and the engine vroomed as it sprung to life. "Fuck it," I said in agreement with The Quiet Voice, "is IS only Walmart." About five minutes later, my tires turned into the parking lot, found a vacant spot set way back from the store, and rolled to a halt. I set my parking brake, turned the key and listened to the engine quietly die, and swallowed hard. Despite my best intentions, it seemed that I was going to be that guy after all.

The next step in my quest was undoubtedly the most difficult. I needed a damage report. You see there was still a tiny part of me that held onto what dying scraps of humanity I had left. The part of me that said if things were too bad, then I could just start the car back up, drive home and be no worse for wear. And I was torn by this dichotomy; My Dying Humanity on one side, urging me to return to the light, and The Quiet Voice on the other, calling me further and further into the darkness. I reached over and pulled on the level that held the glovebox closed, and the door fell open, partially spilling its contents out onto the passenger floorboard: a tire pressure gauge, my registration, multi-bit screwdriver... and some napkins. And not just any napkins either, these were the brown ones made from recycled paper. "Fitting I thought," and with pinched fingers, pulled two napkins free from their stack and shook them open. "It's not too late," My Dying Humanity pleaded with tears in its eyes, "you can still just go home." I stared at the two napkins in my hand and nodded. Yes, yes I could still save myself. But then The Quiet Voice whispered. Whispered so low and so quiet that I couldn't make out the words. I turned to look up at the "WAL" and "MART" off in the distance, and then back at the napkins. The Quiet Voice spoke again, this time just as quiet but I understood it none the less. "It's only Walmart."

And then like ripping off a band-aid, I did it. Without any forethought, without steeling myself, without allowing any time for doubt, I did it. Looking up into the rear view mirror, my own shame filled eyes staring back at me, I allowed the top of the napkins to fold over the tips of my fingers and so help me God, shot my hand down the back of my shorts and performed The Check. A push. A swipe. A curl. A pull. And then, after quiet reflection upon what in life brought me to where I was sitting right then and there, tore my gaze away from the mirror for the look.

My eyes did not fall willingly upon the piece of defiled paper that now lay in my hands, I had to will them there. And even then, it was no easy task to bring them to bear. My eyes tumbled in stages towards their ultimate goal; mirror, dashboard, blower vent, seat warmer knob, radio, garage door opener, cup holder, elbow, wrist, palm, and finally with steeled breath on pursed lips, to poo paper. The results were, well, pleasant? There had indeed been a sphincter breach but the results where near ad bad as I had feared. For the most part, the crumpled napkin retained most of its light brown color, only the very top -- the part that had been pushed as close to my butthole as possible -- had taken on the darker shade that comes with you get something wet. But my worst fear had been averted: no trouser chili. I let out a small sigh of relief and moved the soiled napkin up and into the light. At this point, even My Dying Humanity shrugged, "Eh, it's only Walmart. Fuck it." Three napkins later I pushed the car door open and it swung to its fullest extend before bouncing back to be caught my my extended arm. being conscious of the environment, I'd like to tell you those napkins made their way into a trash can, but they didn't. To my knowledge they are still sitting on the edge of my parking space, but I took comfort in knowing that as I said earlier, they were made from recycled paper.

I had one more small task to complete before pushing on with my mission. As there had indeed been a leak, I had to check and see just how far things had progressed. Before marching off into Walmart, I had to see if my shorts had been compromised. To someone watching me, it may have looked as if I were checking for my wallet in my back pocket. at least that's how I intended and hoped it would look. In fact, I was dragging my hand across the crack of my ass to see if my shorts felt damp; mercifully, they did not. Channeling the supremodel that lives in all of us, I performed a few strategic turns besides my now closed car door, using its shine as a sort of mirror. All looked clear. And so with one foot in front of the other, I set past the very few cars that were parked in the parking lot -- most were from out of state, you fucking snowbirds -- and towards the store's entrance. Mission first, I told myself.

As the electronic doors slid open, my feet glided over the metal venting in the floor that blows hot air in the winter and cool in the summer and I was delighted to see that there was no Walmart greeter on duty. "Nonchalance," I whispered under my breath, "it's all about nonchalance. If you don't act like anything is wrong, no one will look for anything wrong." My feet carried me past the pharmacy, past the toothbrushes -- skirting around an old woman pushing a shopping cart my way who may have thought I was being overly polite when in fact sorry, I was determined to keep my shit-watered stained ass pointed away from you -- past the coffee makers, down the aisle with the fishing poles and to..... an empty ammunition counter. It was a barren fucking wasteland; just empty white shelves and those little holes for adjusting the height. No .22, no 9mm, no .45, no .380, no .223, no .308. Shit not even any .40 or .17hmr. No buckshot, no slugs. No nothing, save for two lonely boxes of #7 1/2 birdshot laying off in the corner of the bottom shelf, but I don't shoot clay so what the fuck am I going to do with that? I was stunned. My Dying Humanity and The Quiet Voice gasped, and slowly hung their heads in defeat. I didn't know what to do? I checked my phone. It was only 7:22am. Had I come too late? Did someone arrive before me and buy whatever few boxes had come in? Was this all for nothing? "Sorry boys," a hustling woman dressed in a Walmart blue shirt said to me and another man I didn't even realize I was standing next to, "nothing delivered today."

I sighed. My shoulders slumped. In the end, it would this whole trip had been for nothing. Defeat. All of that shame. All of that sacrifice. For nothing. For nothing? Fuck that. Fuck Walmart. Fuck you. And fuck everything in between that and you! I felt like Michael Biehn in that scene The Rock when his SEAL team popped up out of the showers into a waiting ambush, "I will complete my mission!" I reached back with my right hand and pulled my wallet out of my back pocket, giving a subtle sniff test through the air just in case. No shit smell detected. "Miss," I called out to the Walmart blue worker who was digging around in a large cardboard box as tall as her waist. The sense of urgency in my voice caused My Dying Humanity and The Quiet Voice to lift their heads first out of shock and then out of pride. And I'll be damned if the Star Spangled Banner didn't start playing over the stores loudspeakers as I called out, "Miss, I'll take a box of those 7 1/2 shotgun shells."

I completed my transaction and bid a hasty retreat from the store. My secret stayed safe and to my knowledge, no one discovered that I had sort of shit my pants on the way to Walmart. I opened the driver side door, slung the plastic bag containing the box of shotgun shells across the seat where they thumped off the passenger door and fell to the floor. I drove home in bitter silence.

I live in Jacksonville Fl, no bashes like that going on here....... That's Jax's bar on bourban street in New Orleans..... Love the site BTW! Bob

And if you think gun laws here in Florida are fucked up, take a look at this poor fucker in New Jersey.

You'll love these photos of Jessica Hall playing with her red, heart-shaped guitar. Her personality matches her killer smile boobs and I hope to see more of her again soon [NSFW]. Jessica currently has a radio show on Sirius with the Playboy channel.

The Porsche 911 GT3 looks a lot like the standard Porsche 911, but with some important modifications. For one, the front end has been aggressively redesigned with spoilers and LED lights. There's also a new rear bumper as well as many other enhancements. You can get a more detailed breakdown of the 2014 Porsche 911 GT3 in the press release from Porsche, there's also this gallery of images straight from the Geneva Auto Show – it should be enough to tide you over until the car's release later this summer.

Ever since Hasbro used the term action figure in 1964 to sell G.I. Joes to boys who stuck their noses up at dolls, businesses have been cashing in on the idea. Star Wars creator George Lucas was one of the first to realize the enormous business opportunities that merchandising offered. These days, whether they're comic book heroes, movie stars or real-life US presidents, kids and adult collectors love spending money on these plastic figurines. The global toy industry, it seems, is big business, and in 2012 it was estimated to be worth around $84 billion. From Elite Force Aviator George W. Bush to Barack Obama with a ninja sword, here's a look at 15 US presidential figurines.

this one is for the ladies: matthew fox got insanely jacked to play a serial killer


BOTTOM FEEDER

USERS ONLINE

All original material ©1997-2017 EHOWA.COM/ERNIESHOUSEOFWHOOPASS.COM - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
all other materials are property of their respective owners!