There is no such thing as a free lunch. How do I know this? Let’s just say that you don’t get invited up to Wayne Newton’s suite and think that those cocktails aren’t going to cost you a little in the way of a milk-maid costume. We all have our price, folks. And our own lederhosen, apparently.
All this could be yours.
In the spirit of humiliation and sort of free things, I’m having a give-away! There’s two packs of a dozen assorted parking cards up for grabs. That’s right…a dozen laminated notes of justice! Slip them under the windshield of your favorite a-hole’s car. Or, as my faithful friend S did, feeling sure that others would appreciate the quality humour involved, tuck them on the windshield of the first twelve cars next to yours in the parking lot of the WalMart, no matter how well they are parked. I never said that S was smart, just faithful. And brave in the face of midnight rats.
What is it I want from you in exchange for a chance at these prize notes? I want your humiliating moments. Any humiliating moments, but the more excruciating, the better. It doesn’t need to be long or detailed, just cut to the chase. Give me the tale of the date where you realized at the end of the evening that your fly was down and you were wearing AirWolf Underoos. Or how about the time you fainted in church right as the preacher reached the part about smiting the whores of Babylon. The authors of the two best responses will each receive a pack of one dozen assorted parking notes and their humiliations will be posted here for all to see.
Why I am doing this? Maybe I’m tired of being the only one discussing the worrying habit that five-year-old me had of publicly pulling my pants down at the slightest provocation. Maybe I just want to feel like my readers care. Like maybe just one or two of you give enough of a damn to join me in this excruciating exercise we call my blog.
Or maybe I just want to laugh at you. Whatever.
Enter by leaving your humiliation in the comments below. Contest ends at 11:59pm (AST), Saturday, August 27, 2011.
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I so want these… Can I submit twice? Not there there aren’t hundreds more moments to choose from, but here goes one:
Setting: summer camp, 1977, age 13. Despite my boyish looks, my breasts had forged ahead into adolescence without me, and I chose to participate in tennis class wearing a woefully inadequate, flimsy, late ’70s bra (its manufacture perhaps influenced by those Farah Fawcett and Cheryl Ladd posters?). The tennis instructor was an of-the-era 16-year-old hottie (winged hair!), and even his acne was magically spackled over by the stirrings of my young teen mind. Being poor at tennis, I found myself scrounging for the ball a lot after my partner or I sent it out of bounds and through the gaping fence. During one retrieval near the end of class, I was shuffling through the weeds and oddly vexed by a flap of fabric down around my thighs, which seemed to have been there while I was running around on the court, too… but I kept digging for the ball. When I finally bent to grab it, the flap identified itself as my bra, one shoulder strap having somehow unwound itself, then, probably from the lack of tautness, the back clasp had undone as well. So there it was valiantly but barely clinging to one shoulder, the rest of it hanging straight down and out the bottom of my shortie midriff shirt, flapping cup, limp strap and all. How long had I been lunging and serving and swinging with my bra waving down the front of me? As the hottie instructor called over about my delay, I panicked. Not yet being skilled at remediating these kinds of events, I hastily shoved the wad up my middie shirt as best I could (simulating a lumpy growth between my navel and boobs), threw the lost tennis ball back into the court with a closed-arm girlie throw, imagining his delighted mocking laughter and retellings back in the counselors lounge, as I ran all the way down to my cabin, clutching my chest. Thereafter, I skipped tennis for the remainder of the week.
By the way, I just simulated this with my current breast support system. Much larger nowadays – it would really make an impression in, say, the supermarket.
CAW
For the love of god, give her the damn cards. That story is priceless. (Also kind of makes me want to be 16 with winged hair again. Man I had some badass wings with my middle-part hair”style”.)
i was 6.
i was a monkey in human form. climbing anything that looked like it might support my weight (and even some things that shouldn’t have).
there was a pretty Crimson King (Norway Maple) tree in our front yard. i’d climed it many, many times.
that day, somehow, was different.
maybe it was the new shorts.
maybe it was the new haircut.
either way, somehow, i got stuck by the elastic waistband on one of the branches.
and then i slipped and thought i was going to fall out of the tree.
except i never hit the ground.
because i was stuck, by my shorts, on the branch of the tree.
i hollared for my mother to help me down.
she came out, saw me, and burst out laughing. (thanks mom!)
then she went back inside (?!).
then she came back out.
holding a camera.
that’s right, there’s photographic evidence.
of me, stuck in a tree by my undies.
and just to show you how much i want those cards, i just texted my mother to ask her if she knows where the photo is.
so that i can scan it in, and show you.
so i’ll post again when and if i find it.
Freshman year of high school. I was wearing a sundress and a pair of my mom’s sandals, which were very slippery on the linoleum and were a full size too big. My feet slid out from underneath me as I was walking down the hall. I flew sideways, taking out the guy (cute, of course) next to me, and we both went down, books and papers flying everywhere. I landed with my skirt up around my belly button somewhere. The worst worst part? I was wearing a pair of my “emergency undies” – the ones I kept shoved in the back of my underwear drawer for those horrid moments when I realize all my undies are in the dirty laundry. I’d had them since 6th grade, they were two sizes too small, and they were Winnie the Pooh.
Well I’m Not going to post my worst moment of all. Suffice to say it involved an errant hair on a woman’s chin and I was drunk. WryandGinger knows this one too well. Good luck to you all. Winnie the Pooh, Oh Fcuk.
Hmmmm, I don’t know about that. I think humiliating acts during moments of drunkenness are invalid! Alcohol deadens you’re ability to be embarrassed. The moment might very well be hideously embarrassing, but if you were too drunk to be mortified, then it shouldn’t count! I had to endure my moment stone cold sober, and I’m sure the others who’ve posted will agree that it makes it that much worse (and ensures that your memories of the event are starkly awkward). Wry, I hope you’ve factored mental clarity into your humiliation scale calculation, lmao!
That being said, I totally want to hear the chin hair drunk story. The possibilities I’m developing in my mind are monumental.
Darn, the pressure’s on! Forget fair play, I’ll drag every humiliating moment out if it takes up a decade:
Belly of the Beast:
During college I held a student job in an administrative office at a large state university working alongside a lot of dronelike civil servants. As the clever go-fer-gal, I was assigned to any and every task, and thus is was one day that I found myself dispatched to fix a printer jam (this was a classic early 80s model with continuous feed paper) with the extremely jolly and overweight Sylvia LongPolishNameski. We fidgeted for a while with no results, and as I was yanking the paper from the back, the perforations gave way and my hand rocketed backward into Sylvia’s abdomen, waiting like a fleshy catcher’s mitt. It was here that time slowed down and seemed sliced into nanoseconds, and I visually recall it as if on high speed camera like they use on Discovery Channel programs. Readers can provide a soundtrack by slowly and softly repeating, “WOOB woob woob woob…” My hand plunged every deeper – knuckles, hand, wrist, oh god where will it stop?! Will it swallow my whole arm? I thought in astonishment. It seemed elbow deep when my hand finally met a firmer underlying organ and was ejected back out of the gut with the same power and speed as the entry. The expulsion was so forceful that my hand hit the printer and I scraped a knuckle. Red-faced and bleating every possible apology, I wondered who I felt worse for, Sylvia or myself. For her part, Sylvia emitted a delighted “OOOOOH hoo hoo hoo hoo!” shockingly similar to the Pillsbury Doughboy when his flour-paste middle takes a hit. I got over it quickly, chiefly by realizing that the episode had provided a pleasant diversion to Sylvia’s mundane workday.
So, it’s come full circle: I now teach part-time at a state college and must navigate the faculty/staff parking lots choked with the vehicles of countless civil servants. Ford Focuses, PT Cruisers, MegaTundraAvalanche XXLs parked at every possible angle. Have pity.
Trolling has never been such fun. But as much as I want those cards, I’ll never divulge my story about the squirrel.
1. You are not elderly.
2. The squirrel story is gold. GOld.
I’ve also received a lengthy humiliation via email from a customer. I won’t post it here unless she wins but it’s a doozy.
Oh sure, it probably involves those sure fire crowd pleasers, explosive diarrhea or something menstrual.
there are few things as marvelous as explosive diarrhea.
from a distance.
I was 14, and was spending the evening at Canada’s Wonderland with my cousin. I was obsessed with demonstrating my bravery by riding terrifying roller coasters. On this particular soiree, I was wearing jean shorts and a lime green tube top, thinking I was pretty hot indeed.
We went on a roller coaster called Dragonfire, which involves sheer drops, several loops, etc., which was all well and good. After the ride, our cars rolled into the station, and we hopped off. It was at this moment that my cousin stared at me, horrified, and said “Oh my GOD, your shirt.” I looked down to discover that my tube top had betrayed me. It had folded upon itself, fully exposing my braless chest to the world.
Of course, among my initial thoughts were “Sweet Christ, at what point of the ride did this nightmare befall me?” Unfortunately, as I discovered moments after, it was NOT after the moment where the camera takes a picture of you and your joyriding associates, posting the proofs on a large video screen for hundreds to see.
ooooooooooh public humiliation via bigscreen at an amusement park…I believe this one’s a contender
Oh man, that one will be hard to top – widespread accidental nudity is towards the top of the humiliation scale, especially when you factor in the easily mortified teenager aspect! Kudos for sharing!
I have to agree. Despite my attempts with the wayward bra and Sylvia’s belly, Elyse teaches us that one needn’t resort to gastrointestinal mayhem or other bodily fluids to achieve commendable humiliation.