72 Hours with a Buzzing Timebomb Up My Clacker

Now, look—I’m no stranger to dumb decisions. I’ve tried to superglue a broken thong back together. I once thought I could outdrink a Scotsman. I’ve even believed I could eat a whole Guzman burrito and make it to a Tinder date on time. Spoiler: I was 40 minutes late and sweating refried beans.

But nothing, and I mean nothing, prepared me for the little vibrating gremlin that hitchhiked up my backside for three full days. Let’s rewind a bit.

It was one of those wild nights. You know the kind—when the sun clocks off, your brain decides to join it, and suddenly you’re saying “yes” to things you’d normally politely decline with a hard “are you serious, mate?”

I found myself in the presence of an adventurous couple who made an offer for some grown up fun as a trio and “fuck yeah” was my answer. The girl was no lady, but what a woman she was. No hold barred, day turned to night. Every move, every positioned, and every hole was explored and exhausted. Nothing like spit roasting an easy girl and high diving over her back.

The drinks were flowing, the music was thumping, and she whipped out a treasure chest of adult “novelties.” Amongst them: a vibrating bullet. Cute little thing, no bigger than classy chromed lipstick and apparently “very powerful”. Right then, the devil on my shoulder whispered, “You only live once… and your health insurance is up to date.”

So, in it went. No leash. No string. No emergency evacuation plan. Just confidence, stupidity, and about three vodka Red Bulls too many.

Now, initially, it was… fine. Weird? Yes. Oddly invigorating? Also yes. But once the fun was over, reality came crashing in like a hungover tradie on a Monday morning. Because here’s the kicker: the damn thing wouldn’t come out.

Gone. Vanished. Like a criminal on parole. One moment it was a novelty—next thing it was a squatter.

Panic set in. Tried coughing. Tried squatting like I was checking my oil. Tried yoga poses I saw once on a YouTube video hosted by a woman named Luna. Nothing. Every time I moved, it buzzed. Every. Bloody. Time. Even The Force did not give a shit this time. Ummm… no pun intended.

Let me tell you something—there is no humble way to go about your day with a Turbo vibrator going off in your rear end like it’s trying to get me to answer a phone call from my rectum.

Day one: work. Tried acting normal. But my legs were vibrating like an Aldi washing machine on spin cycle. My boss asked if I was cold. “Nah mate, just full of energy today.”

Day two: went for a drive. Do you know what it’s like trying to indicate while your rectum thinks it’s auditioning for a Bunnings sander commercial? I was gripping the wheel like I was in Fast and Furious: Proctology Drift.

Day three: I hit rock bottom—or more accurately, the battery did. The silence was deafening. Finally, the buzzing menace had gone flat. I went to the bathroom, said a short prayer to Saint Gastroenterology, and managed to part ways with my unwelcome lodger.

And did I cherish the moment? Reflect on the lessons learned? Nope. I flushed it like a bad Tinder date and promised never to speak of it again.
Until now.

So why am I telling you this?

Because, my fellow degenerates, life is full of unexpected plot twists. Some come with joy. Others come with 9000 RPM and no user manual. If you’re gonna explore—great. Be safe, be smart, and for the love of all things holy, get the one with the bloody string.

And if you ever find yourself walking like you’ve got a jackhammer on low speed tucked between your cheeks, just remember—you’re not alone.

There are others. We are many. We are buzzing.

Author: Master Yoda
For: Langtrees.com

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