Free DeMello Off-Road Bumper & Baja Design Sport series lights.

That's right you read that correctly. DeMello Off-road and Baja Designs is teaming up and will be giving away one DeMello Off-Road bumper for a 2005-2015 Toyota Tacoma along with a set of Baja Sport series lights. But you need to do a little work to get these Freebie!

What do you have to do to win this?

Tell us a very short story.

What should the story be about?

What ever you want in relation to why you think you should win our Tacoma bumper, it could be completely made up, true story or someone else s story, extra points for making us laugh, the inclusion of unicorns, rainbows and/or waterfalls. Tell us about your sad sob story how your wife wont let you buy anymore stuff for your truck, or tell us how you saved seven kittens from a burning house.

Where do we post this story?

On our Face Book page under the Tacoma bumper give away post. Extra points if your friends go to our page and like it as well as like our page. You can post it here as well and link it to the FB page so you get more likes. But at minim it needs to be on our FB account. Please be sure to tag DeMello Off-Road,Baja designs as well as Tacoma world in your post. Remember extra points for more likes.

How long should the story be?

Like my 8th grade English teacher use to say. "Make it like a ladies skirt." short enough to keep interest, but long enough to cover the subject.

How long do you have?

The month of October, we will be picking a winning post on October 31st and announcing it on Facebook and here.

Why are we doing this? Because I was once a guy with a new Tacoma and a big payment and I would have loved to get a free bumper! Oh and well it's a shameless way for us to promote our Tacoma bumper and Facebook page.

Good luck and may the most creative story win!

 

Its hard enough for me just to say cool story bro let alone come up with one of my own.
You guys Rock bump for free stuff.

 

Not gonna enter, but I love the redesign on the bumper - the updated internal frame and reinforcement is badass!!!

 

Let's do this!

 

Good luck to those entering! If I didn't just get a front bumper I'd be entering! Sweet hookup!

 

...and just some motivational ideas for those entering:

 

Someone just recently told me I have some good Karma coming my way with all the free and low priced stuff I give away and sell on here. Where are all my Taco Brethren that can give me a shout out for a new bumper?

 

You guys should do this for a 95-04 rear pre-runner bumper and some rock lights.

I'd write the shit out of a story about the massive misunderstood black widow spider that lives in the waterspout next to my garage. For some reason I refuse to go into my garage at night.

 

LOL

 

currently writing my mission report of the adventure to rainbow waterfall where the evil unicorn lives and hides all the kittens.

 

Beat me to it.

 

Short story .

My life is sad and I don't have money to buy a bumper.

Dictated but not read

 

sharing this simply because it's a story, and it's glorious.

A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards.

It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.

We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much, however.

I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been passed in batches right at the table without too much concern.

Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress...

Entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good shit, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shit. I went to the normal stall. In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical proportions. I began "The Move."

For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of shit at the exact same second that ones ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a ballet dancer.

I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch. What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can.

In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crouched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over shit no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since shitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted. At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000 Killed in Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of shit the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass.

But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The shit wave was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down. Recall that when that event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the shit wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of shit remaining on about one third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon. Now, back to the vomit...

While all the shitting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles. In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet.

In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in shit that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid shit. All while thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat. And there was no fucking toilet paper.

What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.

About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to bring the car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing.

She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. She left.

The manager then came back in with a half dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage of just slightly above.

At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose. Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.

When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door. The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.

 

Yep, you win. Enjoy your bumper.

 

I wish, but i have a first gen. They're welcome to share it anyways, i'm not the author. Found it on the internet once, and i still laugh uncontrollably while reading it.

 

Anyone have the TLDR on that?

 

Hilarious shit and vomit disaster in public restroom. Good customer service.

 

Every day when I wake up, eat breakfast, button up my uniform and slide on my boots, I walk out to my truck, it is there, waiting for me. I sigh as I begin my morning commute to work. This 11 mile commute is the most intense piece of man-made road I have ever encountered. I have driven from every coast to every coast in these United States of America, but I have never been so truly tested until I drove in Puerto Rico...

The commute begins with me pulling out of my drive way, where I must drive past the dependa's (military spouses) shoveling their brood into the school bus. They all glare at me with their crossed arms. I sometimes am able to beat the bus in the morning, but sometimes, I must sit, and wait while the little "stop" sign on the side of the bus flashes red. This is when it is truly painful as the dependa's get even more time to judge me. I know they're thinking "Why didn't he come to the Christmas Party" or "Why isn't his wife part of the spouses club?" or "Why is his truck so noisy?". Once I make it through the judging gauntlet, I must continue on to my next trial.

Upon leaving the safety of military housing (or Little America as my wife and I call it) I must utilize the on ramp to merge into traffic onto the main highway. In Puerto Rico it is customary to make as many lanes out of one lane as possible, so I must dip, dodge, dive and dodge to gain even the smallest of inches. Imagine pouring a bag of dried beans through a straw, where only one bean at a time can fit. The cars are the beans, and the straw is this god forsaken on ramp, blessed by the Devil himself. Your turn signal? It does nothing to help your cause, it only alerts the enemy to your movements. Once I get to the stoplight (approximately 1000 feet, but taking 5-10 minutes), the next challenge begins.

Newspapers! Do you know Spanish? Because I don't, but that doesn't stop the newspaper peddlers who will shove news papers into the smallest crack of your lowered side window whether you want it or not. They will walk out into traffic without warning to ensure you are up to date on words you can't read. Then, Pot hole after pothole after chasmous pothole, my truck arrives at work where I am greeted by gate guard. I go to show him my ID and as I pat my pocket I realize I don't have my wallet, and the grueling trek through fire and flames back to my house begins once again.

Why do I tell you this tragic tale? Because I hope to win the bumper and lights you are so graciously giving away. I know that I will find solace seeing my truck every morning, properly outfitted with armor and illumination, and that my truck, and in turn myself, is more ready for the daily struggle, of getting to work.

 

I believe the story has to be posted on their facebook page to count