January 15, 2011
Marwencol Showtimes At The Uptown
Operation Titzkrieg
I am the worst man on Earth.
My friend has a set schedule. A routine. In true hitman fashion, I have observed this pattern and decided that it was time to strike.
I went rooting around the house one day and found a shoebox full of drugs and medications. No, I don’t know who they belong to. I briefly toyed with the idea of administering, in secret, some sort of clinical medication to my new and oblivious test subject, but decided that was too dangerous. But then, I saw it.
Breast enhancement serum. A plan was born. My friend, every night, fills his kettle for the morning, with which he makes tea. Every night after he goes to bed, I have been putting one dropper into his kettle. I like one dropper, because it’s a good, stable amount. I then began to keep a day by day journal of the results. Here you go, a month’s worth of douchebaggery in one nice, concise post. Please enjoy.
Day one:
No change. I was half hoping for him to wake up with a gigantic set of double-D breasts, but my hopes are dashed. I can’t look at him without laughing. I spend the day out.
Day two:
My co-conspirator comes over. The victim is playing Farcry 2, and fails spectacularly. He has a temper tantrum and starts throwing shit. I cannot stop laughing. Co-conspirator looks at me, clutches where his breasts would be, and makes a rage face. I nearly piss my pants. We spend the rest of the day out.
Day three:
Victim asks me if I want to jam with him. I say sure. We are playing our instruments – him on bass, me on my guitar – and I manage to somehow play a fairly decent solo. Victim says “Mate, that lick was TITS!”. I almost lose it. I have to start playing the intro to Rock Bottom (UFO representin’), which is his least favourite song of all time (that no-taste douchebag). He goes upstairs. I laugh for ten minutes.
Day four:
I think about playing guitar. I think about a riff I played the day before. My thought process goes thus:
Man, that one riff was great.
Where have I heard it before?
I think it was Slayer.
Yeah, it was Slayer.
That was a lot of fun to play.
“That lick was TITS!”
I spend the rest of the day out. Laughing.
Day five:
Victim gets drunk and starts having a gigantic temper tantrum on the phone. I am worried until I realize that it’s probably because he’s been pumped full of estrogen and god knows what else. I go to co-conspirator’s house. We laugh all day.
Day six:
I work from noon until ten PM. I’m too tired to try and observe his behaviour. I administer the drops to his kettle and go to bed. I have a hardtime falling asleep. God this is funny.
Day seven:
He’s begun drinking a lot more. I’m getting worried. Is this shit dangerous to mix with alcohol? I continue dosing him. If anything, I’m going to get an article out of this.
Day eight:
After work, Victim and I are hanging out and smoking. He mentions that his chest has been unnaturally sore lately, as if he’s been doing a lot of pectoral workouts. I desperately hope that the joy does not show on my face. Is it working? My God, I think it’s working.
Day nine:
I’m starting to feel really, really bad about this. Victim gets drunk and proceeds to have one of those “I love you man” talks with me. What hit me hardest was the fact that he said “Until you moved out here, Vancouver didn’t feel like home”. God damn it. I still dose him.
Day ten:
I avoid him all day. I still feel terrible.
Day eleven:
I tell my female co-worker about this plan. She punches me and tells me I am the worst person on earth. An hour later she comes to me laughing and says she’s changed her mind and that it’s actually hilarious. I agree wholeheartedly.
Day twelve:
I’m broke and Victim buys me a pack of cigarettes. I’m starting to feel really, really bad for him. I don’t know if I can keep doing this.
Day thirteen:
While drunk, Victim intentionally punches me in the penis for no reason while I am making Kool-Aid. I don’t feel as bad about dosing him. Cheeky fucker.
Day fourteen:
Victim’s alcohol abuse has reached new heights. I worry again about the wisdom of dosing him, then come upon the conclusion that since he’s drunk roughly 60% of the time, it is now roughly 60% easier to dose him. Logic!
Day fifteen:
He walks out of the shower shirtless. I swear to God that his chest is ever so slightly more tit-tacular. I congratulate myself.
Day sixteen:
Victim’s kid brother, who is an extremely cool kid, comes over. We watch The Mighty Boosh. Victim gets insanely jealous when Co-Conspirator and I are spending more time talking to Kid Brother than to Victim. Victim starts to get really fucking rude with his brother. I say that that’s unnecessary. Victim goes upstairs in a rage. I give chase, trying to be the diplomat, and Victim attempts to take a swing at me. I briefly consider stopping the dosage – people are now at risk due to his raging hormones – but decide against it.
Day seventeen to twenty one:
Nothing new to report. His dosings are continuing as scheduled.
Day twenty two:
I am on the Skytrain when I run into Victim’s mother. We have a very nice chat. She tells me that Victim talks about me quite often, and that the family quite likes me. I feel pretty bad.
Day twenty three:
It is fucking hot as hell, so we buy some beer, set up the portable iPod dock in the back yard, and proceed to get drunk while listening to blues. I nearly spill the beans when he asks me what I’ve been typing about every night. I make what I think is the save of the year when I calmly say “Metroid fan fiction”. I did not know that he loves Metroid. He asks me about it. Since I have not, in fact, been writing about Samus Aran’s adventures in space, Jimi Hendrix comes on and we go silent while listening to it. Thank you, Jimi. You saved my ass there.
Day twenty four:
It rains all day. He’s stuck in the house with me. He is growing visibly more feminine and volatile in his moods. He loses his shit for no particular reason after a particularly heated game of Mean Bean Machine. I laugh to myself because I know why.
Day twenty five to twenty eight:
Nothing new. He works all week. Drinks tea every morning, and is beginning to drink tea every evening. I toy with the idea of increasing the dosage to compensate, but decide that would fuck with my results.
Day twenty nine:
He throws a billiards ball at me after I completely dominate him at Goldeneye 007. It narrowly misses my head. Thank God he throws like a girl. I can’t wait for this to be over.
Day thirty:
I wake up feeling like a child on Christmas Eve. Tomorrow is the big day! I administer his last dose.
Day thirty one:
The experiment is over. I breathe a sigh of relief, and experience a feeling of dread, knowing that he will eventually find out.
Results:
-Victim grew visibly more volatile and emotional after his body was pumped full of estrogen and God knows what else. The hormones et al in the medication obviously work.
-Victim seemingly grew small, not-of-any-note breasts, but this could just be diet (he subsists mainly on pizza and beer) and lack of general exercise. I am hesitant to say that the medication indeed made him grow breasts, as I may only be seeing them because I’m hoping so hard for this operation to work, but there was – seemingly - small progress on that front.
-Victim still knows nothing of this experiment, and I intend to keep it that way, at least until we live a bit farther apart. I’m fairly certain he could take me in a fair fight, and I am reluctant to break a beer bottle and cut him as is my standard defensive technique when threatened by stronger opponents.
-I am still a douchebag, and regardless of any thoughts to the contrary I continued the experiment to the end. I am, if nothing else, scientific.
There you have it. This may very well be my magnum opus, my Venus de Milo, my Metal Gear Solid 4, my Die Hard. I hope you enjoyed it, especially since the chance of me mysteriously dying is now a thousand percent higher. I will, in the next month, put together a follow-up report on his behaviour and his physical makeup now that he is no longer being dosed.
And if you ever wonder how I got this moniker, well, there you go.
To contact the author of this post: mark.armstrong@wildgunmen.com
Bahaha, I bet if you put more drops in you would’ve definitely seen some boobs. Although playing it safe was a good idea.
Awesome experiment. You’re pretty evil lol.
Chuck Palanhiuk writes about doing this sort of thing in Invisible Monsters. Fiendish stuff!
So we need to see pics of the jublies…. if there are any jublies. Also you said he started drinking less, but was he getting less drunk? What im implying here is that as his estrogen levels increased did his Alchohol level decrease? Cause if it did, then you probably did him a favour money wise, although you would have altered his genes…
Good job either way!
Alchohol tolerance level*
I would beat the shit out of you! Honestly! You look like a total loser too, and given what you did to your so called “friend” you pretty much have proved it! You have no idea what that word means either. Women get slipped date rape drugs in the clubs and its considered to be criminal? And should be. This poor guy has no choice in this… You are a criminal. I’m pretty sure you are guilty of some sort of assault here too…. And you posted this shit here to prove it. Douche bag is a soft name for you! I have a sense of humor, but this just isn’t funny. You need help.
I’m glad you enjoyed the article, Wolfy! And don’t fret, you aren’t the only sperglord to claim that I’m a bastard.
I’m no online tough guy, but reading this pissed me off. Your not a bastard, your human vomit, don’t give yourself so much credit. Your assualting your friend, no less? You seem so proud???? So again get help, your sick, this shit isn’t normal nor funny. Please people don’t support this guy.
QQ more. I thought it was hilarious. I’d be too chicken to prank someone like that though. I’m usually the victim. :C
reading this reminds me of how awesome it was hanging out with you. always a good story
Judas, did Drummer ever find his blender?
No, he didn’t. I eventually ended up giving it back to him because he wouldn’t stop bitching about it.
i really cant wait to read the article you write on “Titskrieg 2, He becomes abreast of the situation”
this article has had me laughing all day. the fact though that you put his picture up here…. fuck man its really only a matter of time before he shanks you.
I think my favorite line is “I laugh because I know why”. You should get that on a t-shirt, underneath a picture of sweater pillows.
I just want to clarify one thing with everyone, because I received a hilariously misinformed hate mail about how I “increased his risk of testicular cancer by 50%” and other such horseshit since the shit I used in the image is soy-based.
For starters, I don’t have a decent camera kicking around, so I grabbed a stock photo off of the internet. If you’re interested, the exact product I used on him was Breast & Balance Dietary Supplement. Its ingredients are as follows, for a 2mL serving:
Vitamin E: 20 IU (I don’t know what that is either)
Vitamin B6: 20mg
Folate: 50 mcg
Zinc: 4mg
Selenium: 60mcg
Their proprietary blend of herbs and spices:
Saw Palmetto (berry)
Dong Qual (root)
Damiana (leaf)
Fenugreek (seed)
Blessed Thistle* (leaf)
Fennel (seed)
Puerira Murifica or some shit
Wild Yam (root)
Marshmallow (root)
Violet (root)
Cumin (seed)
Hops (flower)
Other ingredients:
Purified water, glycerin.
So there you go. Nothing in here, as far as I’m aware (and without sounding conceited I am slightly more aware than most) will kill him or give him cancer. Our boy is going to be just fine.
*This also means that apparently it was good for his soul!
And for the lucky fellow who emailed me, you’re a fucking dumb bastard. Soy based products caused cancer? OH NO EVERYONE START PANICKING TOFU IS A WEAPON
Soy is the devil anyway.
You’re an ass. I’m glad you didn’t kill him. It was pretty funny. Poor Guy…. DOUCHE
Great story! A+ would administer hormones again
Metroid Fan fiction is the best cover for anything.
This honestly sounds like what I was like on birth control pills. It’s sort of nice to know that this kind of shit affects men’s moods the same way haha. I know there was no real estrogen or protesterone getting added to his body, but still.. really similar. Fuck being a girl. xD
Also, my ReCAPTCHA is “crAckup manly” ahaha.
*progesterone
Wish I was your roommate, I’d love to grow boobies.
You should have kept going. Seriously.
It is for science!
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