Your Most Insane Animal Encounters

Illustration for article titled Your Most Insane Animal Encounters

Welcome to Pissing Contest, a weekly story sharing circle for the the ass-draggiest time of the afternoon on the ass-draggiest time of the last day between you and the weekend. Every week, we'll provide a prompt, you'll share stories, and we'll pick a winner that's featured in the next week's post. It's like a pyramid scheme of outdoing each other!


Out of the one and a half million or so species of animals that exist on this planet, maybe five of them are our friends. The rest, in my estimation, would either enjoy eating us our find us annoying to menacing. Most would prefer to be left alone.

But there seven point some-odd billion of us, and every once in awhile, our paths cross with animals in a way that is disturbing, or miraculous, or harrowing, or scary, or really fucking cool, or some combination of those things. That's what we're going to talk about today.

Have you ever been bitten by a poisonous spider? Did an ocean swim become an accidental encounter with a giant sea turtle? How about a bear that decided to set up camp on your porch? Did your dog save you from a fire? Been mauled by a zoo animal? Have you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moon?

Domesticated or wild, cute or crawly, dangerous or reassuring, we want to hear your stories of unforgettable animal encounters.

But first, last week's winners of the Cheating Stories pissing contest. Hoo boy. There were a lot. Ginger Harrison's tale of the lying and fart-averse. There's elitish7, expert bluffer. ziggybloodlust's story of Sean the jerk. Kim Jong's Angst and the fake lesbian. oncearoundtheamberbock's babysitter story. And, of course, Cool ur heels Mabel's tale of Valentine's Day duplicity. The winner, though, is this one, from CanIHave4Beers:

A friend of mine got told on the Fourth of July that her husband wanted a divorce. He blamed her for everything - she was too in to her career, she wasn't getting pregnant fast enough, and a bunch of other douche canoe things in a list that smelled, shall we say, fishy, from the beginning.

So she came and stayed with me for the weekend, and during that time he said he was taking some vacation time and it would be a good time for her to get her stuff out of their house. He would be gone for a week, he said.

So we went over and started boxing shit up (or I boxed shit up while she cried and I refilled her wine glass). She decided to check the answering machine, in case anyone had tried to get in touch with her that hadn't heard. Aaaaaaaannnnnd then things became clear.

This lady muppet voice came over the speaker, saying, "oh honey, I can't wait for our little getaway! I was so tired of sneaking around - things will only get better from here!"

Not on my watch, sister.

So I load my friend up in the car, and we go to Sam's club for shitty frozen fish. We get two whole big fish (fuck, I didn't even bother looking to see which kind) and five bags of frozen baby shrimp, oh, and 2 cans of tuna, packed in oil.

Then we went back to the house. The fish went in air ducts. The shrimp went in the hems of the drapes. The cans of tuna were drained of their oil, on the mattress, which was flipped over and the bed carefully remade. Then we made some delicious tuna salad sandwiches, washed our plates, dried them and put them away, and turned the heat up to 90, and left.

The end. For us. For him, not so much.

Ah, sweet, fishy revenge. The best kind. But onto the next one.

Image via Youtube/screengrab


A Small Turnip

A few years ago, in my free-wheeling salad days, I spent a few months backpacking through China before travelling down into northern Pakistan to teach English for six months. It was such a great adventure. I spoke about ten words of Mandarin, but man, I had fun. I especially loved Xinjiang, in the far west of China, with its vast, stretching Taklamakan desert, full of magical singing sand dunes and secret Buddhist cave paintings. It's such a tragedy that the province has recently descended into horrifying ethnic violence because it's truly a place of sublime beauty, and one of the last great wildernesses on earth.

Anyway, I was travelling with some friends from Kashgar, the great wild west market town, south through the Karakorum mountains to northern Pakistan. It's a three day trip through some of the most remote country I've ever experienced. As you wind up into the mountains, you'll occasionally see a lone yurt in the distance, its hazy spiral of chimney smoke visible for miles. And some yaks. And that's it. For days. It was so beautiful. We drive on and on, climbing higher and higher until we eventually reach the icy Khunjerab Pass, the deep crack high up in the mountains that eventually leads down into the soft green valleys of northern Pakistan. The small, lonely Chinese-Pakistani border crossing post is here, and after we get our passports stamped, I notice that there's a public loo, so I scoot off to take advantage of the facilities. I know it's going to be hours until there's any other chance.

The loos are grim. Grim. I've been in some terrible toilets before, but this——this is really bad. The waist-high cubicle walls? No problem. The absence of doors? No big deal. The long-drop loos? Pshaw. I'm a modern woman. You can't faze me.

But the piles and piles and piles of used sanitary pads heaped up on the floor? Yeah, that's different. Haven't seen that before. And the smell is beyond anything I've encountered previously. I'm genuinely taken aback by it. But I cheerfully steel myself, because I AM A TROOPER, GODDAMMIT, and anyway, I have to pee like nobody's business.

So I wade through the piles of bloody pads, unbutton my trousers, and carefully, cautiously balance myself over one of the holes, making sure not to look down. I'm trying to relax so I can unclench enough to wee, so I'm thinking happy thoughts about daisies and bunny rabbits and spotless bathrooms full of hot running water and rolls and rolls of soft white toilet paper and sweet jasmine-scented soap and all of a sudden I feel a warm, moist gush of air on my cold, bare ass.

I look down.

Between my legs, there is a large pink hairy pig snout, sniffing the air inquisitively. There is a pig. Wandering around in the long-drop. Sniffing my ass.

I'm not what you'd call an athletic person. I'm the kind of girl who's really into sitting comfortably. But you have never—and I mean never—seen anyone move as fast as I did right then, yanking my trousers up as I leapt gazelle-like over the filth and the blood and the shit and the piss and out the door and through the gate and down the road and over the mountains and far far far far away until I collapse due to the fact that I am having a massive shit-loving-pig-induced myocardial infarction.

"Drive!" I shout at my friend in the front seat of our Land Rover, lightly but hysterically stabbing myself in the thigh with a tightly-clutched pen-knife. "A pig just sniffed my ass! Drive! For the love of God, drive!" So he drove, rocketing off past the yaks and the glaciers and the pigs and down into Pakistan. And I cannot put into words how much of a relief it was to enter that blessed realm where the people are friendly and the curry is good and they will not make you eat pork ever ever ever amen. The end.