Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Gym Name, Skipped, GEORGIA

It’s official, everyone at the gym knows me as a name other than my real name. The manager, the smelly old lawyer, the dude with the torn t-shirts. I think I’ll just go with it, why bother.

I was skipped in line twice in one day. First in line at Duncan Donuts, some woman who came in a minute after I arrived shouted out her order as she pushed to the front of the line. Bitch. Second was waiting for a locker at the gym, dude behind me slips off to the side and forces his card in front of the attendants face. Fucker even glanced over at me and I just stared at him. And of course I got a locker 10 away from his. Wanted to stick my foot up his naked ass when he bent over but I didn’t want to get shit on my shoe.

And the main point of this post:

Rules of Georgia

The dice game we are addicted to at the corner bar is called Georgia. Don’t ask me why it’s called Georgia. There was a rumor that three business men from Georgia taught it to our bartender but that’s a bunch of shit (although G actually believed it). The real story is some lonely/bored/can’t get a date/beer guzzling handsome young man spent way to much time at a certain bar on North Ave. while he was in college. The bartenders taught this young man the game and they played many a night. Guess who the young man is yet? Anyway, some whacked out Canadian (internet’s still working swell, thank you) wanted me to write the rules down so he could teach his friends up north (do they even have dice in Canada?). So here it goes, but bare with me as I can play this game in my sleep (and do sometimes) so I’ll do the best I can.

You start with six dice, a dice cup, and a pen and paper. You can have as many people play as you wish but I would exclude the women who take 10 minute bathroom breaks every 30 minutes (depending on the number of people the game can take anywhere from 20 minutes to over an hour and waiting for a broad to return from shitting/applying makeup can seem like an eternity). The standard buy in is $3 per person ($4 Canadian or two “tweenies” or whatever the slang is, I’m sure a certain someone will enlighten us in the comment section) but you can put in $5’s or $10’s, but keep in mind only one person wins so losing $3 is much easier on the budget. Once the pot is correct everyone rolls a die and the person with the highest roll starts the game (if there’s a tie only the people who tied it roll, the other suckers are out). On the score sheet you list everyone’s names across the top leaving plenty of room below them.

Getting to the actual game, the first person rolls all six dice. The method of scoring is as follows:

A five is 50 points
An ace is 100 points

Those are the only dice which by themselves count for any points.

3 twos is 200 points
3 threes is 300 points
3 fours is 400 points

Fives and sixes follow the same.

3 aces is 1,000 points
Any three pair rolled in one roll (all six dice in the cup) is 750
A straight (1-6) rolled in one roll (all six at once) is 1,250

I think the easiest way would be to go through some sample rolls. Say you have 1 ace, 2 twos, 2 threes, and a five. The rule in this situation is since there aren’t any three of a kinds you can only pull out one die, which would be the ace since it’s worth more than the five. The player would proceed to pick up the remaining five dice and roll again. The second roll is 3 threes, a five and a two. Since there is a three of a kind you would pull out all 3 threes as those are worth 300 points as opposed to the five (50 points) and two (no points). The new total is 400 points and counting.

I’ll back track a little bit. The goal is to score over 10,000 points but keep in mind that everyone else gets a turn to beat your score (going out with 10,300 points with a person right below you at 9,600 would not be wise as they’d need 750 points to beat you and take the pot). To “get on the board” or score your initial points you need at least 550 points on a roll. If you don’t get 550 you get a zero (or ass) marked on the score sheet. Zero’s don’t exactly hurt you (unless you get three in a row, then you owe the pot an additional dollar), but if everyone else scores it’s like loosing a turn. Sometimes a player can roll four or five times before getting 550, owing a dollar on the third, fourth, and fifth times. But once the player establishes a qualifying score the zero’s are “wiped out” and would need three in a row again to warrant paying the dollar again (ass money). Once a person established the 550 or above point score the new minimum is set at 350. In the sample roll above, if the player had already gotten on the board, he or she could stop with the 400 points being added to their score.

Assuming the above roll was for a player not on the board, they would roll the remaining two dice and get a three and a four (example). Special rule, matching three of a kind adds on to the original three of a kind score (a fourth three would add 300, fourth four would add 400, same if you roll 4 threes in one roll, would be 600 points), leaving this player with 700 points. At this point, not being on the board, a player would stop as they only have one non-qualifying/counting die (the four) and if they rolled again (one die) and got a two, four, or six they would receive zero points (all 700 would be wiped out).

A different variation, the last two dice came out a three and a one. This would give the player the 300 for the three and another 100 for the one, 800 total. Since all the dice count for points you’d be allowed to re-shake all the dice and add on to the 800 points. Same thing with a three and a five, all count (750) and you’d continue rolling. If 2 threes came out it would be an additional 300 for each three (400 first two rolls and 600 more = 1,000).

On the other side, starting with the original two shake 400 roll, if 2 twos were rolled the player would lose all the points as two’s aren’t worth anything unless you have three of them (same with fours and sixes).

In the above examples with the 3 threes you can adjust the scores for fours (400), fives (500) pretty easily.

If the player gets a straight or three pairs they can pick up all the dice and continue shaking.

When 3 aces are shaken in the same roll you’re left with a big decision, either roll the remaining dice and hope to get a five or an ace (only dice that won’t wipe out the 1,000 points you just rolled), but on the flip side, getting another ace gives you another 1,000 points and a 2,000 point roll is 20% of the game (and a damn good roll). Most people would shake again if there were three dice available, most wouldn’t with two dice left.

That’s about all I have for now, I’m sure I’ll think of other tips/pointers later, and I’m sure I left some stuff out so feel free to comment on this. It’s a really fun game, losing $3 isn’t bad but if you win it’s more about the gloating than taking in the $15 or so in winnings. And please feel free to trash talk, when I’m winning the roommate can be heard saying “ass, ass, ass” under her breath, or just loud enough for me to hear it.

I hope those wishy washy Canadians appreciate the two hours I spent writing this, but I guess it all works out as Andrew spent two hours getting the wireless internet connection to work at my house. Thanks again Andrew, hopefully my instructions are good enough, if not, call the Asian roommate.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Saturday Cont, Getting Caught, Finances, 40ish

Everything that happened after 8:30 on Saturday morning is a little blurry. I’m not sure if I went to bed or not, but around 11:00 or noon I ended up at the bar. G was either there already or came up shortly after (like I said, details are fuzzy) and we watched some random baseball game. The bartender was going next door and getting us pitchers (the main bar doesn’t have a tapper), and I’m not sure how many but we had a few. Now it gets really fuzzy. I guess I asked the manager if she wanted to go home and have sex with me (mind you she’s married, not like that ever stopped me before, but she’s 400 lbs, not like that…), left a two dollar tip (tight ass) and then took it back (even tighter ass), didn’t pay the tab, bounced off two walls, made it out the door, somehow walked down the street one block, and proceeded to pee my shorts as I couldn’t get the key in the front door (ever see a grown man pee his pants standing outside his house at 4:00 in the afternoon?). I tell the roommate not to look since I’m coming out of the bathroom without pants and underwear on, of course she looks. And then I passed out for four hours only to be woken up by the roommate (she said something about ruining my sleep schedule?) dragging my ass back out to the bar (two pitchers and I was drunk for the second time that day). Funny thing is I don’t remember taking a shower after peeing my pants. Euw, I should probably wash my sheets tonight.

Sunday was pretty tame, mowed the lawn, moved boxes around, cleaned out the sink, made steaks, and played dice games at the bar for three hours. The guys were giving me shit, telling me the manager’s husband was going to be in soon to shoot me or something. But, unfortunately, no such luck.

Monday morning the roommate caught me beating off in the bathroom. And I was 30 seconds from closing the deal. Sucks. 29 years or spanking the monkey and never got caught, have a roommate for a week and it’s the first thing she sees on Monday morning.

Financial advisor called today, informed me that in the last three years I’ve made 4% a year over the S&P 500, came out to be like 14% average per year. Cool, thanks man, I really do appreciate it, but when are you going to get me those fucking lottery numbers!? I’m ready to retire now, fly to Cancun and resurface sometime next spring. Roommate’s going to have to learn how to use a lawn mower. If anyone wants the awesome financial advisor’s number just give me a holler, he’ll gladly take your business, big or small.

While he was on the phone we talked about other things too. He said after reading this crap he thinks of me in a different way, I guess he was actually thinking of me to be the god father to his kid, but after reading this he’s shying away from it (come on, ask Jon how many birthday and Christmas presents I sent his son, seriously, I would send birthday presents if I knew what his birthday was. Doesn’t exactly explain Christmas, though). He also thought it was funny I haven’t told the parents about smoking (since New Years of some year a long time ago) or about the new roommate. I figure if anyone says anything I’ll reply that I’m smuggling Asians into the country and I get $10,000 a head for them ($12,000 for this one as she has a monster sized head). He said I have to go shopping and buy a nice “outfit” (I know he’s married and having a kid, but what straight guy says “outfit”?), hang out on Milwaukee St. (although not alone, I was thinking of taking my “I want to see her bald beaver” friend but FA said no), and hook up with a normal, decent, slim girl, with an emphasis on slim. We first said she can’t weigh more than he weighs (170 lb, 77 kg for the Canadian readers), but a five foot 170 lb woman isn’t really slim, actually far from it. His next idea was a pounds per inch of height calculation (which is still off as I’m guessing a man’s body structure would weigh more than a woman’s). So he took 170 lbs and divided it by 72 inches (he thinks he’s 6’ tall but he’s more like 5’10”) coming up with 2.36 lbs per inch. That would put a 5’1” woman at 144 lbs. So, even though he can earn me money in the stock market, he wants to set me up with a 5’1” pudgy girl. I think we need to rethink these calculations.

Today at the gym, man, it’s getting harder and harder to work out. The college students started school on Monday and the women are out in full force with their skin tight tops and ass cheek revealing shorts. Not that I’m complaining, but when your shorts come down an inch past your ass and you’re bending over and spreading your legs, there’s definitely going to be stuff showing and you better believe I’ll be looking.

Talked with the 40ish hot woman extensively today (I’m finally starting to feel a little less nervous around her). Today it was more than the usual giving each other shit and random questions, our conversation actually interrupted our workouts (fine by me). Where’d you go to school, where do you work, stretching techniques. Come to find out she has a daughter who’s a sophomore at the college. So how old is this woman? Doesn’t exactly look 40 but her daughter must be 17 or 18 (maybe 19?). I found her trying to catch my eye a couple of times to ask me something, hmmm. And then as she was leaving she told me to have a good rest of the week, letting me know that she wouldn’t be in the gym any more this week. Why would she feel the need to fill me in on this? By the way, I only know her name from other people at the gym, pretty sure she doesn’t know mine. Next time I see her I’ll start with “Hi, I only know you as the hot woman in black (always wears black and I don’t think I should mention the ‘40ish’ thing), my name’s B.” And then there will be this awkward silence and we will go on with our workouts. Great one B, real smooth operator.

Saturday, August 26, 2006

Still Saturday Morn(mourning), Marriage (Puke)

Still going on the Friday night/Saturday morning coke buzz (really, it was only coffee at the casino, I really have no idea what a coke buzz is like, why am I still up, with seven empty beer cans next to me?). The hairdresser, might as well call him G because that’s his real name and I’m sick of typing “hairdresser” and I’m going to be writing his book shortly. Last year on his birthday (55th) he was at the bar (go figure). Since he knows everyone under the sun (at least the sun under west Milwaukee), everyone as buying him shots of tequila. Mind you G used to drink Vodka and cranberry but switched to beer after he took out two tables in a monster header, sporting a nice bruise on his head for a week and doing another header on the outside wall of the bar when left unattended for ten seconds. The details of his ride home are sketchy, one account has someone giving the cab driver $20 and G’s account has him giving the cab driver $10, in either case it was only eight blocks. The cab driver (towel head) couldn’t find G’s street, G said “Let me out” and decided to find his own way home. That of course didn’t happen. The next day we found out G didn’t find his apartment but used a pine tree for a habitat for the evening (hairdresser/nature boy). The story goes that G woke up that morning to semis driving on the freeway, two blocks from his apartment. After the towel head cab driver couldn’t find his street, G couldn’t find it either. G found the nicest tree available (not taken by other drunk/homeless people) and made camp for the night. Thank goodness he had a nice winter jacket and is still alive to tell the story. As mentioned before, G is a hairdresser. The story goes that he went to work in the morning, 9:00 – 12:00, went home, took a nap, woke up at 3:00 and called his son (who was working the front desk) telling him to cancel all his morning appointments. His son was like, “ Dad, you cut everyone’s hair, what are you talking about?” I just wrote “was like,” what the… G didn’t remember cutting anyone’s hair that morning, I can only imagine what they turned out like. Which is part of the reason I’ve only been to G’s shop once for a hair cut, you have to catch him on his sober days. The other part is he only works from 9:00 to 1:00 during the week and 9:00-12:00 on Saturdays, and I’m lucky to be awake and somewhat sober to drive at 11:00 on a Saturday, even though his shop is eight blocks away, the combination of waking up, being sober enough to drive on a Saturday, and kicking the broad out who spent the night/soiled my sheets (might have been me)/gave me lame head (most nights)/puked in my shower (definitely not me, waste of beer), I never make it to his shop. So I go to the shop right next to my gym (they don’t know I soil my sheets there, or that I give myself bad head).

My life is grand, I know. I have friends who are married and having kids (congrats financial planner, I know I replied “my condolences” when you told me the wifey was preggers (and your wifey is fucking hot), but really, I’m happy for you, and you’ll find a check for $2,000 on Monday as I can’t trust myself with that much cash), (please don’t fuck me and divert that money to your account just because I said your wifey was fucking hot). Still can’t figure out why my stinky ass can’t have sex (with random skanky/homeless/toothless women). Never thought I’d have to get married to have sex, thought all married people didn’t have sex. Shit, can’t even imagine my parents having sex, and I’m pretty sure they haven’t after mom yelled at pops “Go suck on an egg,” still not sure what exactly that means, English mom, please. That was 15 years ago, and now they communicate via post-it notes, great, is that what I have to look forward to? Might explain my views on dating. Gotta wonder how the sister was created.

Saturday Morning Blog (For No Better Title)

Ok, so mind you I told the roommate I wouldn’t blog about her snoring (does she have a baby pig in her closet?), as I came home one night at 4:30 and she was making noise. Granted she is a little under the weather, but she does snore (only when congested I’ve been told, right). When she wasn’t living here and just sleeping in my bed she’d wait till I fell asleep/passed out and then go to sleep. But not this time, caught her red handed (or baby pig handed). And as I type this she is making moaning sounds in her sleep (7:00 am, she’s going to kill me for this), I can only imagine that her dreams are much better than my sex life (which is currently non-existent, any volunteers, please?). Come on, single guy, 6’4”, 215 lbs who works out every week day, has the stamina to jog two miles (with only stopping twice, that equates to at least 20 minutes in the sack, foreplay adds on), minor gambling problem (losing $1,000, while it does change my mood, does not leave me blowing dudes on North Ave. for dinner {frozen pizza}, still up $2k on them for two weeks), spends way too much time on the internet (small percentage viewing porn), and the other half of his free time either spends at the corner bar or touching his schlong (quality time as I call it). Shit, with all of the above attributes you’d think I’d be a hot commodity. But no, as I am vehically challenged (bad driving record), and my refusal/inability to drive after drinking (40ish woman at the gym can have a glass of wine, I’ll have a coke (soda)), I’m stuck with the selection at the corner bar (which is questionable at best). And the selection at the bar is getting worse, had an ex-girlfriend flash a 12” knife in front of me the other night (granted it was her birthday and she had a cake in front of her, but waving the knife in front of me?). The last one I met blew me but I don’t come off of blow jobs, what the hell? Naked in my bed, no sex, so goes my life. I should change my Yahoo Personal ad. 25 (really 29) yr old lawyer, do corporate takeovers and mergers, single guy with 10” penis (slight exaggeration), run marathons (major exaggeration), penthouse condo downtown (yeah), Beemer M3 (every lawyer needs a Beemer, even though I would never own one, unless I won it), enjoy expensive dinners at Mo’s Steak House (Mc D's), dress impeccably (thank you Walmart/Old Navy), and love kids (all they do is shit, kinda like me). So I’m pretty much screwed (or not screwed, unless someone wants to offer some services, I'll pay for dinner, is that still prostitution?), and my dating life sucks, but I’m happy being single. I mean, really, everyone wants to be posting to their blog at 7:45 am on a Saturday after losing $1,000 at the casino and getting absolutely no sleep as the casino coffee kept you up all night/morning. And still drinking beer (cheap beer at that, thank you Busch Lite). Again, roommate’s going to kill me.

Oh, Saturday Morning Random Shit

So last night/this morning I lost $1,ooo but I wasn’t upset. I’m still up $2,000 for the week and will be sending it to the financial advisor in the morning as obviously I can’t have shit loads of cash readily available to me, I’ll just blow it at the casino or on toothless hookers, but they give the best beejers. My roommate was nice enough to drive me down, even though she doesn’t gamble, and stayed with me till 5:00 this morning. We were both wide awake at 5:30 this morning due to coke (the soda) and black coffee.

At the casino (writing this as the sun comes up, sorry, Busch Lite in hand), I was up $75 when I saw two friends sitting at a different table. Lost a little there, put me down for the night, went to a higher stakes table and lost the $1,000, so I blame it all on them (now it’s light enough that I can see the keyboard and I have two cans of beer in front of me, without my contacts in).

So, drunk and very tired mind you, I think every woman should consult/get advise from a gay guy about giving head. Who better to ask than a man who gives and receives? The first woman who gives me good head (that I remember in all my drunken stoopers) is the one I will marry (for at least six months as all marriages are doomed to fail). That said, I will never get married, either because I will not find the woman who can go down on eight inches of rock hard (or limp, depending on the beer consumption, although I can usually get hard, just can't cum to the climax) penis or I will not remember her going down on me in the morning (more likely the case). That said, I’m fucked (or not fucked as I don’t think I can list women who have given me head on “the list”). So goes my life.

Ok, now it’s getting really bright out, and I’m sitting on the deck with my shirt off drinking beer. Just had a guy pass by walking his dogs who said “Good morning,” which I replied to and he said “Nice Deck.” Thank you very kindly, I like my deck too, but the proper terminology should be not good morning, but “Dude, you’re fucked up beyond belief, you should go to bed and don’t fall off the monstrosity of a deck you built on the back of your house. Good luck since I can see you’re squinting at your laptop without your contacts in, man, you’re fucked.”

Now it’s getting really bright and I need to plug the laptop in.

I don’t remember shit from the bar tonight besides sharing chicken wings with the roommate, not a thing, just having a pitcher in front of me and downing it. Wonder why women don’t flock in my direction.

I would like to find the microphone for my computer and take down the hairdresser’s stories but I don’t know if I can re-write them and make them entertaining. I’m not a writer by nature (by far) and I don’t think I would do them justice. Once it gets cold out I think we’ll start, but if it ever goes anywhere there will have to be some major editing since my writing sucks (as far as I’m concerned).

I still can’t go to bed, 6:15, getting bright, and not tired at all, what the fuck. I want to get up early and hit the bank before noon (not going to happen), so I’ll have to give my dad $2,000 to hold on to so I don’t gamble it away or spend it on 20 blow jobs by toothless women. How do I explain that one to pops? Shit, I haven’t even explained the new roommate to them, and I spray cologne on myself every time I go over as I hope they don’t know I smoke (cigs only), how pathetic. Speaking of which, I think the dude/chic driving behind me today on the way home from work was lighting a bowl while driving, several times. I would too if I couldn’t tell if I were a guy or a broad (no actually I wouldn't).

Now it’s almost broad daylight, still sitting on the deck, shirtless with beer in hand and hat head. Pretty sure my dating life is fucked if any broad reads this blog, so I might as well go gay, increases my chances of getting laid by 50% right? Ok, I won’t go to those extremes. To all my friends reading this, I'M NOT GAY!!! Unless you have lots of money to share...

I love you all, chic in Madison, someone in Chicago, peeps in Caledonia/Muskego, even the person in DC with the "US COURTS" IP address (please don't report me, I'm really a nice guy, really), (no really, I'm a law abiding, tax paying, legal Potowatomi card holder {bastards who took me for $1,000}), and for the rest of you, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy the show that is my life.

Friday, August 25, 2006

My Furture Ex-Wife And Two Ass Stories

I recently ran into my future ex wife (because what marriage is really going to last?). We didn’t talk to each other, just a long glance (probably more of a longing glance on my part), smile, and wave. Over a year ago she used to be a bartender at the corner bar. She has dark skin (her mom’s white and her dad’s Mexican), long flowing hair, very nice ass/boob combo, with just a hint of tummy/luv handles. If you know my taste in women you’d know I would cut off my pinky toe to get in bed with her, maybe even just to make out with her. Pretty much every Friday I’d go to the bar right after work. There’d be one or two other people in there and the goddess behind the bar. Since there wasn’t anyone else in there her age she was forced to talk to me (maybe not forced, but…). We would watch MTV and VH1 till her shift was up at 8:00, laughing our asses off and making fun of the idiots on the TV. She was always smiling and looking way to damn cute. Although she was a little ditsy, I’ve tried to block this from my memory. I don’t know if she did this on purpose or if it was truly the ditsyness, but after three pitchers of beer my tab would be $5. I love you beer goddess! And because she was the beer goddess who either can’t add or thinks I’m poor or thinks giving me free beer will get her laid (damn I should have realized that before she quit) I’d tip her $10 (would have spent $15 anyway if I was actually paying for them). But last night she was with her boyfriend who is kind of big and mean looking, and while I’m not small or anything I am somewhat of a pussy. See you (and mentally undress you) next time oh beer goddess.

Later in the evening my stomach started feeling a little funny, and standing at the bar (no seats open) did not help any. I don’t know why I called it “a little funny” because shitting your pants in front of your friends in a rage of the runs isn’t “a little funny.” Seeing someone else pee on themselves at the bar is fucking hilarious (please see Asian blog!!!), but when it’s you, not so funny. Around 12:00 I couldn’t hold it any longer, I had to shit. While I hang out at the corner bar a lot, I do not use their bathroom for anything but #1 (and masturbation). While it is a nice establishment the bathrooms can get a little nasty. My house is a block away and I’d much rather poop in the comfort of my own home.

I will save you from the juicy (really) details of sharing my most personal of moments with my toilet, but if you can imagine a bowl of chili with the odor or a five month old dead cat you’d be getting pretty close (only good cat is a dead cat).

After another hour at the bar the roommate and I leave as we both have to work in the morning. She asks if it’s still going to smell in the house. Come on, it’s me, my shits don’t stink (kinda like I’ve never peed in the sink). But oh my God did it ever, almost made me hurl my last pitcher of beer (that would be so wasteful, and sticking my head directly over the source of the stench would encourage another pitcher to spew out). The whole living room, hallway, three bedrooms, and bathroom had a green hazy cloud in them. I think the roommate got off easy as the densest section of the cloud was towards the ceiling and she slipped underneath it. Guess I forgot to use the “B’s Ass Spray.” Sorry, my fault, no, actually I’m sorry again, I forgot to use it on purpose (I’m horrible).

I'm not the only one with horrendous ass stories. I've posted a link to Jason Mulgrew's site. It's a little long but you can skip down halfway to the part where he gets to the party. He has some funny shit to tell.


Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Going Comando And My Stinky Ass

For some odd reason I decided to go commando this morning. I have absolutely no idea where this came from, I had underwear on at one point this morning but decided to take them off at the last moment. As I reflect on this later I can’t imagine what my logic was on this one. You see, I’m a huge fan of briefs. They keep everything nice and tidy, up close and in check, no wandering allowed. Boxers let your junk float around too much, you never know where it’s going to be at, left, right, somewhere in between, you have no control. I’ve sat on important parts wearing boxers before. Which is why I can’t understand why I went without today. Another advantage of the briefs is when you get an erection (I say “when” and not “if” because I get them often, like 15 times a day), the briefs keep it somewhat concealed by locking it up close to your body. Although they are often slightly painful erections since your penis has no place to go, it still remains hidden as you walk around, even in dress pants. With boxers I either have to remain sitting till it subsides or flip it up and tuck it behind the belt to keep it secure. Or I guess the third option would be to walk around with what looks like an eight inch bratwurst in my pocket. While I have done that at a bar and received a bj from a woman who noticed it (true story, although she tried to kick my ass when she found out the whole bar knew about it), walking around work like that would be a little unacceptable. Shit, I just looked down right now and it was noticeable, had to shift it over. And I constantly have this fear of shitting myself. With my rotten ass, I believe holding in a fart could possibly kill me some day. I can’t keep these toxic gases in my ass, eventually I think they’d infect my whole body and I’d either need a blood transfusion asap or a release valve stabbed into my intestines to let them out. In other words, I gas often. Not in the bathroom, but just anywhere. I believe it was in Along Came Polly when Philip Seymour Hoffman, while at an art show, informed Ben Stiller that he had “sharted.” A shart would be a juicy fart, a fart where a little shit gets out, hence the word shart. And all the farting I do throughout the day increases my fear of shitting myself. Usually, with underwear, you might be able to salvage the day by just taking off your soiled underwear and throwing them away (which brings me to a funny story of the hairdresser walking in the bathroom to find a black guy washing his penis in the sink, guess he had sex with someone other than his wife and the smell was pretty bad, G suggested he just toss his underwear). I almost felt the need to do this just yesterday walking into Walmart. I wasn’t quite sure if I had shit myself while farting but decided I’d go to a desolate area in the store and see if I smelled anything coming from my backside (after doing the sniff test I noticed I was in the bra and panty section). But without underwear on you’d be shitting in your dress pants, pretty much ending all hope of a respectable recovery. “Uh, boss, I’m sorry but I think I have to go home.” Boss’s face scrunching up from the smell. “Yeah, it seems as though I have shit myself once again. I know I promised I wouldn’t do it again after the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that, but I had Mexican food last night and it just slipped out. The sad thing is I didn’t notice it for half an hour and now it’s spread out and pretty much embedded in my pants.” [Boss is flapping his hand to fend off the stench, pointing at the door for me to leave as his face turns red from not breathing, but I go on.] “I promise to rectify (rectumfy?) this issue in the future. I’m sure I can find some device other than my thumb to stick up my ass to prevent this. Oh crap, I think I just did it again. Yes, yes I did, I can feel it running down my leg.” [Boss grabs his garbage can.] “I can see you’re not feeling well yourself so I’m going to leave now. I’ll see you tomorrow morning with unsoiled pants on.” [Leave boss’s office as he’s hurling chunks in his waste basket.] So today I’m going to be extra careful about many things like sitting down, zipping up my fly (ouch), and obviously farting. Pretty sad that I’m contemplating if it would be worth it to shit my pants to get out of work.

And I just realized I can’t remember the last time I whacked off. This is sad. What used to be an everyday bonding of hand and penis hasn’t happened in over a week. Trust me on this one, this has never happened in my entire life (from 6th grade on). I plan on fixing this soon. And ladies, please don’t offer up your services to help me fix this (unless you’re bringing a friend or two, or if you can swallow eight inches, or…), whacking off is a sacred ritual between a man and his penis carried out on a regular basis. This explains why I’ve been acting like a little bitch lately, I just need to whack it. Now I know what I’m doing this evening.

Sunday Move Part Two

Picking up where we left off, we have the UHAUL at the apartment and the neighbor's head hurts from hitting it on the ceiling. The move is going very well until the glass top from her desk decides to shatter. While the neighbor guy is holding it. Into a million little pieces. I guess going from an air conditioned apartment to 85 degree weather didn’t agree with its structure too well. And of course we couldn’t find a broom to clean it up with so we just left this great big pile of glass on the road. Another noteworthy one was her friend Marcus was carrying out a couple boxes stacked up with a stuffed frog on top, inches from his face. After carrying this load for 50 ft Marcus was informed that the frog was used for coughing into as she was coming down with strep throat. No one touched the frog after that.

The guys were really good with the move and my request to take it easy on the wood floors. We managed to only set stuff down on the floors twice, and once was even my fault as we were lifting the biggest fucking armoire I’ve ever seen, had to weigh a good 200 lbs. Other than that it was actually a fun time.

Andrew from Canada was an interesting guy. When I first met him he was totally serious and seemed to know everything about everything. After two days of hanging out with him I got him to laugh a couple times and he had some jokes of his own. After he left (and I sobered up) I realized he did know something about pretty much everything, from packing a UHAUL to grilling steaks to hooking up the internet to coating wood floors to general life situations. He was genuinely a nice overall guy and I really enjoyed talking with him. On his return flight they were overbooked and he opted to get a free one-way ticket and leave later. I’m hoping he’ll use that ticket and come back before the year is over. And no I’m not gay.

Sorry, this one kind of sucked but I had to finish Sunday Move Part One. And give props to Andrew.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

UHAUL/Sunday Move Part One

I’ve been kind of bitchy lately. Friday night I lost a round of six shots on some unwritten rule (come on, I’ve been playing various bar dice games for 8 years). So I guess I complained a little longer than I should have. Last night I wasn’t keeping score in Georgia and had no idea where everyone was at in the game (good score keepers periodically inform the players of their score totals). I’m not saying it would have made a difference in the game but… and I’m still whining, what the…

My ass stinks, and it isn’t choosy on when or where it wants to strike. Last night my hairstylist friend had to get off his bar stool and walk away it was so bad. Today in my office I find myself fanning my crotch in case someone just happens to walk in my office any time soon. Roommate has a can of air freshener in the bathroom that’s labeled “B’s Ass Spray.” I think everyone’s just jealous.

Stinky guy at the gym asked me how many pushups I do on chest days. To be honest I never counted, just alternated the pushups with the situps till my 40 minutes was up. Today I counted, 250. Obviously these aren't all at once, usually start with 35, then 30, then 25, progressively getting lower as I go on. But they seem to be working since I still can't get on the actual bench press with the shoulder. 40ish woman was there, she won the softball game she wanted me to play in. Sporting mad cleavage as usual (thank you!).

And last night I got an email from the “no penetration” chic, basically she doesn’t think that things are going to work out with us, looking for different things crap. One line I’ll quote for you, “I am not really comfortable with how things ended up on Friday.” No shit, me either, not only was I manipulated into going down on a girl (I think the six pitchers did the manipulating, so if you want me to go down on you please buy me six pitchers of beer first), but I had a naked girl in my bed and didn’t get no booty. Oral sex is no substitution for hot and heavy sweaty loud so your neighbors hear you porn style fucking (I guess the neighbor has heard once and his house is 45 ft away, he was trying to get it on with a broad and I foiled his plans). And since we didn’t do the ditty, can I put her on “the list” or not? I think I might have mentioned this blog to her, which (after the post about her) might explain why I got her email. I’m starting to wonder if my blog and my dating life can coexist. I just won’t tell the future ones about it.

Back to the story that was Sunday. New roommate swung by at 11:30 (and she was on time for once) and we head up to the UHAUL store with the little neighbor kid from across the street (ok, he’s my age, just short). After she’s in the office for 15 minutes (little pokey?) she comes out and informs us she rented the smallest one available. I’m thinking great, I know she doesn’t have much stuff but it’s all big (and ungodly heavy) crap. The cab is the size of a 1980 Toyota pickup so neighbor offers to ride in the back. Ok, cool, fine with me, now I might be able to fit in the front seat without my knees touching my chest. That’s me and the Asian has to scoot down in order to reach the pedals.

Pulling out on to the street the Asian didn’t notice an oncoming car and we got plowed into from the rear with the neighbor in the back. I was lucky not to be injured thanks to the seat belt, but the dude in back? He had a slight concusion and a huge bruise on his head. Ok, that didn’t happen, but we did hear him tumble around the first stop we made. And the second. I’m trying to egg her on and take corners at a brisk pace, stopping just a little harder than needed but she isn’t going for it. Until we get to the speed bumps. She’s got this evil Asian look in her slanty eye, before you know it we’re going fast enough that I feel the need to hang on. Front tires hit, not too bad. Back tires hit, way bad. Dude’s yelling and screaming in the back, locked in a UHAUL that could become his coffin. The bed of the truck had to have lifted up six inches, more than likely propelling him even higher than that, in a UHAUL where the ceiling was less than six inches above his head. I’m sure he made contact.

Other weird pictures I found when looking up UHAUL. Guy doing a burn out in one.

And a guy obviously pissed at UHAUL.

I’ll get to the rest of the move later, it’s beer time now.

Monday, August 21, 2006

Book Title

The Hairdresser.

I’m going to put Sunday off for a later day, Monday was much better. The hair stylist and I came to an agreement, he will come over and tell me his life story, a memoir if you will. And trust me, this guy has stories, everything from checking into jail and them turning him away sense they didn’t have the paperwork to mob stories that we can’t mention names in. I’m actually excited about this, sounds like a cool idea and it would be damn entertaining. So now I have my second job, my claim to fame, everyone wish me well. And don’t try stealing the idea, I’m like his third son so he loves me, fuck off. Peace out.

Hanging On For Dear Life

After the gay home security guy left on Saturday I quickly hopped on the computer to write the last blog, thankfully my friends were 30 minutes late to pick me up for the Waukesha party. I had the usual 4 shot vod/lem on the deck when I see my bartender walking the neighborhood hairdresser down the block. I have no idea why they’re heading towards my house and I panic just a little as I want to finish the stupid blog entry. My bartender informs me he’s taking G home and there’s a full pitcher waiting for me in the refrigerator. Mind you it’s 6:00 pm, G lives five blocks away, and there’s a whole pitcher waiting for me? Then I see G walk, or try to, as he swerves five feet off the sidewalk as he’s mumbling something about being up there since 1:00. Ok, that certainly explains why at 6:00 pm one would need a ride home and leave a pitcher of beer at the bar. Usually when I get like that I wait till no one’s looking and run out the door with the pitcher so I can be stupidly drunk by myself on the deck.

The slanty eyed Asian and Canadian (why did Word capitalize Canadian when I typed it with a small “c” and it didn’t do it for Asian with a small ”a”? Asians less important?) friend swing by at 6:30 and we head up to the bar for food and the free pitcher. They both order food, I go with the “Can’t get drunk with food in your stomach” theory and don’t order anything (later got a steak taco from the Asian). I polish off the pitcher and they’re still eating so I order another and quickly realize I underestimated how long it was going to take them to finish their food. I don’t like people waiting for me (note to Asian – punctually) and polish off half a pitcher in five minutes (unlike G I don’t leave pitchers partially full).

The count is 4 shots, 2 pitchers.

Financial advisor and mortgage dude are at mortgage dude’s house warming party out in Waukesha (15 minute drive, 25 if you don’t know Waukesha, took us 25). We have to have him stand in front of his house so we can find it. Pretty nice house, little pond with running water (I was informed I couldn’t pee in it, come on, would I do that? I’ll just use the kitchen sink then), nice area for 30 people to chill, kick ass stainless grill on the patio, but the thing I fell in love with was the full size barrel sitting in a fridge with a tapper on the front. Oh my god, Gar, can I move in with you? If you ask nicely I might even sleep with you, not sexually but on cold winter nights we can cuddle. Is it ok if I don’t use a glass and just wrap my lips around it (the tapper you fuckers)? My new friend the fridge and I become best of friends in a hurry, to the point where I think Gar saw how many times I was going in and out for glass refills that he brought me a pitcher. Thank you future roomie!

A month ago I was at the neighborhood gay guy’s party, inebriated as a mofo, hanging on to a minivan just to stand up. I figured it worked the last time and looked for something stable to hold on to. My new good friend (best friend status was already established with the fridge) turned out being a large metal apparatus that went over his sidewalk leading to the back door. This thing was probably 6’6” high to it worked nicely as I could grab it anywhere from waist high to over my head. As the night went on the hand kept reaching up, not only supporting me from left and right but also helping me actually stand without crumbling straight down. Word is I had that thing swaying quite a bit towards the end of the night, not quite as sturdy as a minivan. That said, today financial advisor asked me why we left so early. Uh, did you see me? I must have been bad, we got up to the corner bar and I did not want a pitcher, just to sneak out and crawl into bed. Mind you it’s only 10:30, an angry Asian girl insists I stay and buys me a pitcher while I’m in the bathroom (ok, I told her I wasn’t buying a pitcher and wanted to go home, if she wanted me to stay she’d have to buy it). I’d tell you what happened after that but I don’t remember.

Sunday, August 20, 2006

My Titties/No Sex

I now know what women feel like when they catch me eyeing up their titties. A guy from some security system company rang my door bell just as I was getting out of the shower. I answered the door in just my underwear and shorts. This guy was obviously gay. He offered me a free $1,500 system if I left a sign advertising for their company in my front yard for the rest of the summer. He went on and on about wanting my house as a promotional house, how my house is pretty and well maintained, how my front lawn is decorated and kept up. He should have seen the tub before I cleaned it. So I’m not sure if this is how they operate, maybe they do this to everyone as a selling tactic and milk the $39 monthly fee out of them for years on end. But several times in our 15 minute conversation I caught him checking out my chest. And I had no idea what to think of it. I’m always on the other end of checking out tits and ass, funny how odd and invading it is when you’re on the other end of it. I didn’t think gay guys liked 215 lb not exactly skinny white guys who shop at Walmart three times a week (they want $15 for a belt, what the fuck, it’s Walmart). Granted my boobs are kind of nice since I work out every day during the week (except the left one is bigger, any way to fix this?). I’ll have to check with the neighborhood gay guy to see if I’m gay worthy. Maybe that’s a new direction for me to take, might increase the odds of me getting laid.

Which brings me to Friday night. I took Friday off of work so I could sleep in and recoup from the week. I slept in till noon, played on the internet for a little while and headed up to the Mexican restaurant that attached to my corner bar at 2:00. Main reason for going there was for some lunch, wasn’t sure if I’d be drinking since all they have are $3 bottles and I could go through a lot of bottles. But when the bartender offered to go next door and get me pitchers it was settled, I was staying at the bar till I got drunk. The Yankees and Red Sox were playing and it was an entertaining game, for some reason I really got into it. Not a bad day off, drinking beer and watching baseball. But by 7:00 I had six pitchers in me, not totally drunk but to the point where I wasn’t sure if I could finish a seventh one. So I went home, made some drunken phone calls, and took a three hour nap. In those three hours I got two phone calls and three text messages, all from the girl I met last Friday at the bar. I guess she stopped over and rang the door bell but you would have needed an air horn outside my window to wake me up. So I called her back and she was willing to come back over (she lives 20 blocks away). We sat and chatted for a while on the deck, one of the classic B drunken openly honest conversations, can’t remember much about it (other than me telling her the pictures that weren’t going to go on the internet are actually on the internet), typical for a B drunken deck talk. At the end I told her I’d either have to kick her off the deck while I go back up to the bar or we can go inside and continue the make out session from last week. Two minutes later we’re naked in my bed (pick up line, kick you out or let’s go make out, anyone else understand why my lame comments get women in my bed?). So we’re fooling around in bed, making out, she goes down on me (which reminds me I should shave soon) and she asks me to go down on her. I ask her if it’s time to put the condom on and go to town when she informs me she’s never “been penetrated” before. Uh, hello, my fingers were just knuckle deep in you vagina, and you’ve never been penetrated before? Is this some sort of way to tell your future husband that you’ve never had sex and you’re still a virgin? I don’t get it. Second day I’ve known you, naked in my bed, and you don’t put out? What the hell? Of course, being the nice guy I am I told her I respected her wishes and thought they were admirable (fuck that), but I’m still in awe. That’s it, think of it what you will. Fuck off as I had a naked woman in my bed and didn’t get laid. Again, fuck off.

Friday, August 18, 2006

Little Shit From The Week/Peeing In The Sink

Bear with me on this one, just a bunch of little junk that popped up during the week.

True confession from a self-proclaimed male pig. As I was heading down the hallway when I caught a glimpse of a really hot ass in black dress pants going through the door to the stairway. Perfect opportunity, follow her up the stairs and try not to trip while I’m staring at this fine piece of equipment. But no, my lazy ass took the elevator, wasted opportunity.

I want to become a dump truck driver. They’re doing construction on the Marquette interchange and dump trucks are every where. Recently I noticed how the dump trucks operate. The part that I see is them stacked three deep, waiting 30 minutes to get filled up by the front end loader. 30 minutes of sitting in the cab with jeans and a t-shirt on, how rough can it be? I’m sure they get compensated fairly well too. If only my driving record was better…

Don’t they ever learn?

WASHINGTON (AP) - Former NBA player Lonny Baxter was arrested by uniformed Secret Service agents on Wednesday after shots were fired from a vehicle about two blocks from the White House (you couldn't pick a better location?). Baxter, who played with the Charlotte Bobcats last season, was taken into custody around 2:30 a.m. after a witness flagged down a Secret Service agent and reported shots fired from a white sport-utility vehicle, said Secret Service spokesman Eric Zahren. "There were spent shell casings in plain view inside the vehicle," Zahren said. Officers also recovered a handgun.

Pop’s response to this: “Is this illegal? They were just having a little fun. Gees, a guy can't do anything anymore without some uniforms jumping down his throat.”

A clip from Jason Mulgrew’s site:

(Side story: Back in college during my junior year, I met a girl in one of my English classes and we started to date. As we were leaving class one day, we ran into one of her friends in the hallway, a small, Asian guy I had recognized from another English class we shared. This was how our introduction went. I’ve changed his name to protect him from me:
Girl: “Dan, this is Tim. Tim, this is Dan.”
(Something feels weird as we shake hands.)
Me: “Whoa, what’s with the secret handshake?”
(Tim pulls up his extra long sleeves to reveal two deformed hands, each with only three fingers.)

Can’t imagine how embarrassing that would be.

Clip from the Power Ball website:

The $208.6 million jackpot offered on August 5, 2006 was won by a ticket sold at the Ma and Pa's Grocery Express in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. The prize has not yet been officially claimed, although there are press stories of a group of about 100 workers at a cheese factory (really, that is not just a Wisconsin joke).

And no, I did not add the "Wisconsin joke" part on there, they did.

I sent the following email to a girl this week. I asked her what she likes in movies, music, little crap like that just to get to know her. My response to her email goes like this:

Movies have to be comedies, although I recently saw "Love Song for Bobby Long" with John Travolta and Scarlette Johanson that is pretty much a drama but for half the movie they were either drunk or in the process of getting there, wonder why I liked it so much... Music, I'm kind of a freak, not that I listen to weird shit or anything, currently in the car I have Jay-Z's "The Black Album" (wish he'd make more), so it's rap on the way to work and on the way home. At work I listen to 102.9 all day long, I get my fill of old and new rock.

Oh, Friends, my sister has every episode on DVD, sometimes we'll sit there for eight straight hours and just watch that. I'm an MTV nut, too.

I've never rollerbladed, I'd hurt myself, I know. During lunch every day I go to Marquette to lift weights, I think it's the Rec Plex (her email address is from Marquette). I have to check out the hot college chics, you know, it's a guy thing. Actually, there's this woman who might be 40 who I've been chatting with in the weight room, but of course I'm too big of a pussy to see if she's available.

My average night will be doing something to the house (cleaning, mowing the lawn, masterbating, whatever), sitting on the deck with the laptop stealing the neighbors wireless signal, downing 16 shots of vodka with a little lemonade for flavor, and topping that off with 3 pitchers at the corner bar. As much as I joke I wish I was joking with those last lines.

Oh, and I like playing with little kids too, but only when they're naked. Ok, now that I just re-read that it isn't all that funny, actually a little gross, purge that from your memory. (she works with kids in some aspect)

New roommate and I have started making up a list of rules for the house, kind of like the one at the bar (rule #7 has been changed to “do not exchange bodily fluids with anyone named B”, they must have changed it after the Friday make out session). What we have so far:

1. No heels on the living room floor.
2. No peeps in the house.
3. No 20 minute showers (what the hell do women do in the shower for 20 minutes? I could whack off three times and still bathe myself in 20 minutes).
4. No ashing on the deck (I have a huge pail on the deck for cigs and people still miss).
5. No peeing in the kitchen sink.

Yes, that last one was me. Thursday night the ex-coworkers meet up at a place that has 10 wings for $2, damn good deal and damn good wings. I got the mild ones and within ten minutes my hair was wet from the sweat pouring out of my scalp. Plow through four pitchers of beer and I think it’s time to go. Ant says no and gets me another pitcher. Mind you this is after a day when I could only spend 20 minutes in the weight room as my heart and lungs were screaming at me for the shit I put them through the night before. And these weren’t your average pitchers, noticeable bigger than my corner bar ones. During the course of pitch #5 I had to deal with Ant relentlessly trying to get the roommate to take it up the butt and Ant’s friend pulling out his penis at the bar. Not just for a quick second, but for over a minute. With all that going on she managed to pick up 20 plastic cups to add to my fine china collection (there was a Bacardi rep at the bar and they had special cups for B’s and coke. She had a super ass and a great personality, combination you don’t find too often). We shake hands (even penis guy) and leave for my corner bar. My recollection of the 20 minutes I spent there is a little fuzzy, remember talking to the neighborhood gay guy and the suit maker, but not much else. End up paying the tab and taking half a pitcher home for some quality deck time.

Some time in the night I wake up and I need to pee (major understatement). I feel like all six pitchers of beer are trying to exit my body with the velocity of a garden hose at full throttle (while my penis is bigger than a garden hose, the pee pee hole certainly isn’t). First off, I can’t find the door to get out of my room. This puts me in panic mode as I just cleaned the carpets and don’t want to pee on them. And I know once it begins I’m not going to be able to shut it off. Visions of waking up to urine everywhere in my room and down my hallway flash through my head. I finally find the door but I can’t find the door to the bathroom (a whole five feet away). Frustrated I head to the kitchen where the new roommate finds me peeing in the sink. “Hi new roommate! I think I might have failed to mention this, but I pee in my sink on a regular basis, is that ok with you?” Seriously that was the first and only time (till next time) that I’ve peed in my sink. Great start to a three day weekend (I took Friday off, figured I needed to catch up on sleep as I closed the bar down on Sunday, Tuesday, and Wednesday). We’ll see what the weekend brings, helping move on Sunday and the only proper way to move someone is to do it while intoxicated, dulls the pain and agony.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

My Friends Are Going To Shit Themselves

I’ve been a busy beaver the last two days. Monday I mowed the lawn after work, picked weeds for 30 minutes (filled up a Walmart bag), watered the lawn, and spent 45 minutes moving crap out of my two extra bedrooms (ok, one and a half) all the way to my kitchen (didn’t feel like going all the way downstairs, and I don’t have a kitchen table so there’s plenty of room). I was a sweaty little boy after that so I took a shower, had three vod/lems (four shots each) and three pitchers at the bar where I won $240 playing Ship/Captain/Crew for $5 a pop. For those of you who don’t know that’s a shit load for a $5 game.

Today I got a decent amount of stuff done at work, went to the gym, chatted with the new gym pal/gal, and I think I pulled something in my back (can’t pull the thing in the front at the gym). But here’s where the major shitting will come if you haven’t already. After work I went to Walmart and bought (gasp) cleaning supplies. My philosophy is I’m not home much so I don’t make much of a mess, hence my sparce/zero cleaning schedule (more like zero). The Walmart shopping list was:

22 paper plates (keeps the real plates clean)
Liquid plumber (you should see my slow draining tub)
Shower curtain liner (again, see above)
Scrubbing bubbles (and again…)
Scrubbing sponges (need I say anything?)
Ant/spider killer (for the garage, not the tub)
2 bags of sunflower seeds (Arabs downtown have been ripping me off!)
Shampoo (yes, I do use my filthy shower)
Citrus air freshener (for those days when I forget to shit at work)
Lowrey’s beef jerky (haven’t had that stuff since I was a kid)

All that for $25, god I love Walmart.

When I got home I picked weeds for another 20 minutes, another Walmart bag filled. Watered the grass, poured the drano, all while paying my internet and energy bill (five days of having the radio cranked for 9 hours each day - sorry neighbors - and using the power tools for the deck increased my bill by $30, bastards). Then I busted out the carpet cleaner [insert carpet cleaning/munching joke here]. I’ve been in my house for 5.5 months and haven’t really vacuumed, only when it looked dirty and then (don’t laugh) it was with a hand held Dirt Devil (wonder why I didn’t do it more often?). The carpet cleaner worked like a charm, the dirty disgusting water that I dumped in the toilet would have made any real man proud (reminds me of leaving the sister a “surprise” in her bathroom two weeks ago). In the process of doing the carpets I dripped some of the cleaning solution on the wood floors (which I spent – with pops – 15 hours sanding and refinishing). I didn’t want to screw up the finish so I quickly mopped the living room and kitchen. 9:00 pm, sweaty boy sitting on the steps of his new deck, smoking a cigarette, drinking a root beer, all while totally sober. Sucked. Two days in a row I busted my ass till 9:00, not the usual B. And it will be the same tomorrow cleaning out the tub. You know my cheap ass has only had the air on for one day so I’m sure I’ll have the box fan blowing on me while I’m laboring over the “ring around the collar”. Won’t stop me from sweating I guarantee you. All this in preparation of the slant eyed asian woman moving in. Last time I helped her move I was pretty well lit by 1:00 (and she wants me to drive the moving van? I don’t think so!) and it was quite an entertaining day. Guess I asked some woman I met that day if her boobs (was informed they were fake) were firm or soft. Was later informed she wanted to kick my ass and at that time it wouldn’t have been hard (or firm?).

I’ve got more shit but I’ll save it for a later day. I have to refill my cup (important things first). Peace.

Monday, August 14, 2006

Just Photos From Friday

That's all for now, no insightful or something somewhat funny, sorry.

Saturday, August 12, 2006

Friday Night Vacuum Cleaner

Friday night started out like most Friday’s, me sitting on the patio with the vod/lem playing on the laptop (reading Mulgrew’s blog). Friend came over and around 10:30 we headed up to the bar. Really odd crowd for a Friday, we only knew the bartender and one patron/bar fixture. Surprisingly young crowd, too. Around 11:30 “Chris Farley” came in and I’d like to say the party really got started but that would be an understatement. Mahog busted out her camera and got these two cute girls to pose for ass shots. Not just a photo from behind, we had them do side shots while bending over too. Farley and the bartender pretended to make out (hand over mouth) and posed for pictures. Then we got the two cute chics to make out with each other, twice, as the first one didn’t get caught on camera. It was getting pretty wild and everyone was laughing, having a good time. Very late in the evening I saw one of the girls get up off her stool and make a beeline for me.

Her: Hi. I’m C.
Me: Hi, I’m B. Do you live around here?
Her: Yeah, my roommate (make out partner, odd) and I live just down the road.
Me: Hell, I live a block away.

Two minutes of blah, blah, blah, and she makes her move. Before I know it her tongue is tap dancing in my mouth. Uh, hi, don’t you think we should talk for more than two minutes before we start making out? Me, being drunk and talkative, tried to do exactly that but it’s hard to speak when someone else’s tongue is in your mouth. So I gave up trying and went along with it, balls to the walls make out session right there at the bar. Then it got a little weird. If we were having sex there would have been two positions: either 1) her tongue was slammed in the back of my throat trying to see what I had for dinner or 2) she was sucking on my tongue to the point of pain. I never stuck my tongue in a vacuum cleaner hose but I now know what it would feel like. This went on for a good ten minutes. I think my friend got pissed and went outside with her phone. Eventually the girl’s friend gets drunk and they have to leave. I get her phone number and they walk out the door. Funny thing is not once did I even think of asking her over to my house. The old B would have tried numerous times with the many lines in my pick-up/please fuck my brains out vocabulary. But not tonight, sorry for not returning the favor and checking out your cervix.

Went to the casino at 2:30, won $1,300, had breakfast, and went to bed at 6:00 this morning. For some inexplicable reason I was up at 10:00, showered, went to the bank, tried moving stuff out of the spare bedrooms (Mahog is moving in soon, roomie), and pops is on his way to finish the railing on my deck steps. With a party at 5:00 I’m going to be one tired mo fo. Peace.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

More Jason/Gym/New Girlfriend

I had a post a while back when I first went to the chiropractor for my back/shoulder issues and had to fill out the patient form that had the “drinks per day/week” question on it. Jason Mulgrew wrote about a check up appointment he had at the doctor’s office and what the doctor’s 26 year old assistant had to say:

Racquel: “I noticed on the form that you wrote that you drank ‘a goodly amount’ - can you explain that a little bit?”
Me: “Well, I didn’t know how to quantify it - do you want a day? a week?”
Racquel: “Let’s say a week - how many drinks do you have a week?”
Me: “That depends on the week really. The weather’s been nice and my friends and I have been going out a lot, so that inflates the number a lot…”
Racquel: “Just the average.”
Me: “I don’t know…if I go out three nights a week, I’d say I’d have fifty drinks.”
Racquel: [silence for about three seconds] “Fifty?”
Me: “Yeah - but it takes a lot to get me drunk.”
Racquel: “Is this something you want to continue?”
Me: “Drinking? Pretty much, yeah.”

I went to the gym today. For five minutes. I managed to check in, grab two towels, strip down to my underwear in the locker room, and realize that I brought two shirts and no shorts. Disaster. No sweating my ass off. No hot 40ish woman to ogle at. No reading the money section of USA Today. Fuck. So I got dressed back into the work clothes, almost in tears, and make my way back up to the front desk. There’s this really cute blonde college student manning the front desk (can a woman be “manning” anything? just sounds weird), and of course my mind is full of inappropriate thoughts (come on, it’s me!). I pick one of the tamer ones and let it fly. “It’s really depressing when you have two shirts and no shorts. Unless you don’t mind if I work out in my boxers…” Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking at the time. I got a little smile out of her but it was one of those “please leave soon, you’re freaking me out” smiles. Should have just left it at the two shirts part, no need to mention working out in my underwear. And I don’t even wear boxers, the third leg needs to be strapped/tied/handcuffed down in the briefs so Mr. P is not noticeable when he unexpectedly gets excited at work or in the gym.

I got an email from a person today and I scanned through the names of all the other people it was sent to. I was the only white person included. Oh wait, just found another whitey, but he’s gay, does he still count? I’m down with the hood.

Crap, almost forgot, I have a new girlfriend! Yes boys and girls, B is macking again. And I’m totally infatuated with her after just two dates. She’s tall, about 5’10”, probably 130 lbs. She’s a little older than I am, but it’s only seven years as she’s 36. Very nice blonde hair and lips you just want to suck on. Her ass is tight and she has the boobs of a 23 year old (although not large they’re quite beautiful). Every time she looks me in the eyes my heart melts, I don’t know how else to explain it. She’s intelligent and humorous, two things I always look for in a woman (besides the ass and tits). I actually think she might be the one, the one who I’d settle down with and raise a family. Scary thought, I know, but it just feels right. So, if anyone has Uma Thurman’s phone number would you please forward it on to me so we can check our calendars to set our wedding date?

I’ve been watching a movie every night this week and saw her in “Be Cool” and “Prime,” instantly fell in love. Both are good movies, too.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Jason Mulgrew/Gym Etiquette

I’ve linked Jason Mulgrew’s page under the link section (where else would it go), pretty funny shit. But I must warn you, only read it if you have a lot of time on your hands. His stuff is so entertaining you won’t want to stop reading. Here are a couple clips I pulled off:

On the fifth day, I wasn’t sure if I had eaten something bad or if someone had shot me in the asshole. Yes, it was as horrible as it sounds. And no, I have no doubt that I have some sort of colon cancer. My whole "stop wiping when there’s more red than brown" approach went out the window. By the end of the week, all sorts of things were happening: I was seeing no browns, but lots of reds, greens - I think I saw some purple, but that could have been part of one of my balls. Just a total mess, figuratively and literally.

Oh been there. Especially after a trip to Mexico. Usually hits while I'm riding my mountain bike, stuck five miles out from home.

Part of the cleaning involved the fridge - throwing out both my old food and Brian’s old food. This did not take very long, since our fridge is usually completely empty, aside from Friday nights when it is filled with Pabst, leftovers, a pizza, whatever we can mix with vodka, and usually something horribly gross (band-aids, Q-tips, condoms, etc). After I trashed all the old food, I went to the super market to buy some new groceries.

[Seriously, you have not lived until you’ve masturbated into a cold condom. You’re welcome.]

Holy shit, the mother fucker stole my fridge!!! Except I have Busch Lite, leftovers, whatever you can mix with vodka, and usually something horribly gross (being leftover food that’s been sitting for two months, or the MGD’s that have been there since February). But what’s with the condom in the fridge? I don’t get it, wouldn’t it warm up to body temp almost immediately? Still I’m a bit curious…

Last night, I was planning on meeting an ex-girlfriend for a drink after work. She’s engaged now, moving out the city, starting her grown-up life. Meanwhile, I’ve been pissing in a cup and throwing it out our bathroom window because the toilet’s broken and spent most of the last week organizing and renaming the porn on my computer.

Makes my slow-draining shower seem harmless.

Me: “Dude, Mike, do you want a blanket?”
Mike: “That’d be great man.”
Me: [throwing blanket] “Here you go.”
Mike: “Thanks - BLLEECCHH!”

I’m not sure if that’s the correct spelling of the puking noise, but for the next ten minutes I got to watch Mike puke over almost everything in our apartment, including but not limited to: the floor, the rug, the walls, the couch, my blanket, my jacket, two of our pots (?), our silverware, some glasses, our toilet, shower curtain, and bathroom floor. Unbelievable.

I haven’t personally done this (oh wait, maybe when I was 21), but I can imagine it is equivalent to peeing yourself at the bar.

So the older woman at the gym asked me to play on her softball team yesterday. Mind you I haven’t swung a baseball bat in years and never could catch a fly ball (they put me at catcher in grade school, and I was deathly afraid of the throws coming to home trying to beat the base runner). But hey, I’d be sitting on the bench in between innings with the hot 40ish woman who I’ve observed from afar (at least from across the gym) for quite some time now, maybe we could strike up a conversation and head out for beers after a game. Maybe I could purposely get loaded and have to spend the night at her house, never tried that one before (think it would work?). I could finally find out if they’re real or not! But no, my hopes and dreams were shot down the shitter faster than diarrhea from a fat man: it was a Marquette University softball league, and since I don’t work for Marquette I can’t play. Damn you Marquette, first you put me through two stressful years of college and now you take away any chance I had of scoring with this woman. Well, not really, I guess I could just ask her out to dinner (gasp, dinner with a woman!), but I can’t do that sober and I can’t go to the gym loaded so I’m screwed (and at the same time not screwed). Come on B, grow some balls. Worst fear would be her giving me this look like “are you crazy, what would you want from me, are you some perverted 29 year old who just likes older women (well actually…), you’re too young for me, what more could you offer besides some hot steamy sex (ok, she wouldn’t have that look, but a boy can dream), or dude, get away from me, I was just making small talk in the gym, now that I know you’re psycho please stop staring at my chest/ass all the time (most probable scenario).” And my response to this look would be… I don’t know what the hell I’d say, probably start talking about my dead cat (I’ve never had a cat), maybe I’d just turn around and start lifting weights again. Oh, I’m secretly hoping that if I did grow some balls and ask her that she’d say she was flattered but married, that would let me off the hook and I could resume observing/lusting from afar. Unless she said “I’m married, but…”

Monday, August 07, 2006

Sour Dough Boys

Friday we parttook in an ancient drinking tradition that fat midwesterners do often: we hit George Webb's at 2:15 in the morning after closing the bar. Three of us made the trek down the road with our sober pilot deftly guiding the way (as well as a slanty eyed asian girl can). We get there and order four sour dough boys (greatest burger ever).
Of course with only three of us you can guess who had two of them (me! me!). 2:40 in the morning and we're scarfing down the food like we haven't eaten in days (at least I was). Finish up, wipe all the burger sauce and ketchup off my face (really needed a shower), lit up some cigs and start chatting and laughing our asses off. A cute girl and her boyfriend walk in a sit not too far away. Pig boy that I am, I have AT look over his shoulder at her. Not quite sure what she was wearing but you could see a LOT of leg. I guess AT looked for just a bit too long as she must have noticed him. Either that or she overheard him saying "I want to see her bald beaver!" Mind you this is after many hours of drinking and AT is not quiet when he's intoxicated. Didn't help that he said it three or four times despite numerous requests for him to stop. Next thing I know she's crying and running out the door. I find this totally funny, we made a girl cry at George Webb's. And it was funny, till her rather large tattooed boyfriend comes over to our table demanding an explaination. Things went from funny to fairly serious pretty quickly. He's looking at AT (thank you God!) and I put in my two cents that he didn't say anything. Beef boy looks at our sober driver (thank you for being sober and not peeing yourself) and she says something to the fact that his girlfriend had nice legs (wait, sober girl, not sure if you're helping!) and beef boy turns to the door saying "Pussies." That was my Friday from what I remember with the gaps filled in by the sober asian. Peace out and keep the beverages flowing.

Friday, August 04, 2006

Friday's Thoughts

You know my washer and dryer don't like me. Besides turning every t-shirt inside out, they are now eating my underwear. I just did laundry this week and my undee drawer is practically empty. I think they know I blogged about them and they're trying to get back at me. Then I look around the room, some of my favorite shirts are missing too. Are they trying to keep complete outfits? I don't understand, what would a washer and dryer want to steal my clothes? Light bulb when on in my head (doesn't happen too often), checked the dryer and there's a load in there. Dumb ass.

Walking around downtown today and:

1. I saw a convertible Ferrari. Who leaves a convertible Ferrari on Wisconsin Ave. with the top down for over 30 minutes? Just asking for trouble.
2. Noticed I was walking with a limp. What the hell? 29 years old and I’m walking with a limp. For some reason the good knee was not cooperating.
3. Walked past a group of four business women, all dressed up, all pretty hot, all carrying paperwork/folders, and I enjoyed the scent that followed them.
4. Walked past a street side Cousin’s cart. Figured that would be good for lunch, I’ll pick one up on the way back. That’s if the mother fucker selling them was at his cart on my return trip. He wasn’t. I’m going to shrivel up and die now.
5. If you don't know already, I am a pig. Saw a cute chick in a black dress across the street. She crossed and was walking behind me. I deliberately slowed down and let her by so I can check out the ass. Very nice, no panty line to be seen, wish I had a camera.

Found this on MSNBC:

But startups KSolo, Bix and SingShot — which opened the doors to its virtual Karaoke club Monday — aim to create sites where performances are evaluated and the cream rises to the top.

Great, just what we need is internet karaokee. We need more yahoos who think they can sing but actually sound like very bad wedding singers (never did like that movie). I guess I should be thankfull they're just on the internet and not in my corner bar, we have enough yahoos as it is. What will they think of next, virtual porn? Oh wait...

Went golfing today with the ex-roommate, first time out this year, no driving range or anything. Don't laugh, but I think my pecks are too big to do a proper swing. We sucked. After 4 holes we started doing better, some nice drives soaring down the fairway. After 6 holes we sucked again, hacking the shit out of the fairways that two holes ago we were soaring over. But we had fun. Felt bad for the people we were paired up with, wait, not people, should say kids, soon to be seniors in high school. They were really, really good. Like 280 yard drives right down the middle good. I think I might have to quit golf now. I'd like to blame it on the workout I had during lunch but that wouldn't fully explain it. I just suck.

Gym workout, after the past couple days I really wanted to punish myself, was doing tricep pushdowns, dumbell curls, pushups, and sit ups, all within a five minute period and then repeat. I was one tired and sweaty mofo when I got done.

But I did talk to the 40ish hot woman a bit. Think I might have gotten my foot in the door. Last week when I was doing pushups and situps the whole time she asked if I was training for the military (I really don't think they'd want me). I explained the shoulder/back injury and continued on. Today she was doing pushups so I asked her if she was training for the military, got her to laugh. Ok, dirty old man, checked out her ass at every opportunity, even saw her underwear as she was stretching (white). I know, I'm bad. But she did tell me to have a good weekend, thank you! I need to stay in the aerobic area more often. Except for when she's doing bench presses in the other room with her boobs perched smack on top of her chest standing at attention. I asked lawyer guy (who needs to wash his gym clothes, it's like Pig Pen with a cloud trailing behind him) if he thought they were real. He wasn't sure but now that I mentioned it I'm sure he'll be doing some research.

Back on track, if she's wearing a braclet and a watch in the weight room, would she also keep on her wedding ring if she had one? I think I might ask her one of these days, "If a woman wears her watch and braclet in the weight room, would she leave her wedding ring on too or just take it off?" I still have to come up with a response to which ever way she replies, will have to think about that. Till then, peace out and keep the beverages flowing.

Thursday, August 03, 2006

Possible Answer To Genital Fondling

I was reading blogs and happened to find the below clip, might be the answer to the gym indecency posting.

Speaking of balls (?), is there any substitute for a freshly Gold Bonded set of testes? This time of year is always hard on my jennies, with the weather changing and all. It’s not so much the outside conditions that bother them, but the fact that my office has trouble acclimating to temperature changes. Spring in NYC is erratic. One day it can be 80 and sunny, the next 55 and rainy. My building heating/cooling system is always a day behind, resulting in an uncanny ability to match the outside conditions. When it’s cold outside in spring, it’s cold inside my office. When it’s hot outside in spring, it’s hot inside my office.

Again, not good for the jennies. My balls basically stew for ten hours a day like two grapes in a hot bowl of oatmeal. Gross.

It has been really freaking warm in Milwaukee lately so this could be the reason dude in the gym was rubbing some shit on his sack. But it still doesn't explain why he was doing it right in front of another guy.

I had to go somewhere on Wednesday when it was 98 degrees outside. Knowing that I sweat like someone twice my size (can it be from the cigs and alcohol?) I changed into shorts and a t-shirt. Seriously, I don't know if I mentioned this before but on one of my jogs this week I noticed halfway through that my shorts looked like I had peed myself, great big wet V pointing from my stomach right straight down to my junk (maybe I should try that Gold Bond?). My Jeep Wrangler has been sitting in the sun for 8 hours and with the black soft top it gets hotter than a Jenna Jamison porn video (that's hot). I load my shit in the car, open all the windows, unzip the back window (takes too fricken long to take the whole top down), sit in the drivers seat and immediately begin to sweat. This is not going to work. I can only think of two options, 1) wear the t-shirt and sweat and since it's white it might not show exactly where the seat belt crosses my chest, or 2) take the shirt off and just soak my front seat with sweat. After 30 seconds of thought I realize my seat is going to see some sweaty action whether I have the shirt on or not so I take it off.

Five minutes later I'm driving in the hood with my shirt off. White guy, Jeep Wrangler, no shirt, great combination. Along the way I start to panic a little as the road I was going to take had a convenient "Bridge Out" sign on it. This does not help the sweating as now I'm nervous that I'll be late. The woman who almost hit me (and would have if I didn't swerve four feet over the center line to avoid her, actually surprised there wasn't any contact) doesn't help the sweating either as my heart instantly starts beating at a rapid pace. But I find the location, walk in, and they don't have air conditioning, I should refrase that, they have air but it's like A/C in a 88 Chevy Cavalier. At this point I give up, ain't nothing I can do to stop it now. I can start to see wet spots on my shirt, hoping and praying no one else will notice. Doesn't help that everyone I have to meet with is eye level with my soon to be sweat soaked chest. I do what I have to do, chat for just a bit and head home, once again stripping down to my shorts (or take off my t-shirt, stripping down to my shorts sounded better) as I noticed even hot air blowing across my bare chest is better than over a t-shirt. So it goes. Peace out and keep the beverages flowing.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Funny Shit I've Read Lately

Found this story on some NY guy, funny crap about a Friday night he had. I'll post a link to his site later.

Over the next five hours, I got drunk off my ass. Blind, filthy, stinking drunk in my apartment by myself, listening to country music. I finished the bottle of Maker’s Mark, pounding those fucking Manhattans like they were iced tea. When I started drinking, I was using a jigger to measure four jiggers of bourbon, two of vermouth, and drinking the Manhattans out of a highball glass. Once I discovered George Jones however, I was using eight-ten jiggers of bourbon, four-five of vermouth, and drinking out of a pint glass.

I can’t really explain this except to say that I really look good in suits, and, I guess I wanted to look good. So there I was in my apartment, in a suit, alone, drinking Manhattans out of a pint glass, playing guitar and singing lines like "I’ll keep drinking, it won’t matter/I’ll just remember that I once had her."

I realize that this may sound depressing (horribly, horribly depressing), but I had a fucking ball. An absolute blast. Just because the songs were sad doesn’t mean I was; indeed, I’ve gotten a lot sadder by being out at bars, looking at attractive unapproachable women and the douchebags they were with. The songs didn’t inspire sadness in me, but rather a profound awe. I couldn’t believe that a) people wrote songs like these; and b) I hadn’t heard them in my 27 years. Bottom line, there is a lot to be said for getting blackout drunk by yourself (on bourbon, no less), listening to country music. And if you can’t appreciate that, well, then I don’t think you should keep reading this.

By now it was about 2:45 in the morning and I realized that if I didn’t leave the apartment I was going to put myself in the hospital. Although I was just about out of whiskey, I had an almost full bottle of vodka, two bottles of wine, and about a half a case of beer. I was prepared for war.

Instead, I got in touch with a friend who invited me over to smoke a bowl, because, you know, that’s what I really needed at that point. I headed over and brought a can of Chef Boyardee as a gift and spent about an hour hanging out, getting high.

Who takes over Chef Boyardee to someone's house? Must be a stoner thing, I don't get it. Wouldn't it be better to go over empty handed? Next one is from his annual NJ pub crawl. He and his friend will make t-shirts for everyone to wear, guess they had 80 people this year, called it DUYS, or Drink Until You Shit. No one shit, but one guy puked for three blocks straight (while still walking) and there was a reported puke explosion by someone else, sounds like fun?

When I got home, per my usual "I’m super fucked up" routine, instead of properly storing my contact lenses, I took them out of my eyes and threw them the fuck out. I went to bed in the bedroom, leaving Kyle passed out on the couch.

All I know is the next day I woke up on the sofa bed (thankfully, alone). My first instinct when I wake up in a strange place after a night of heavy drinker is to check and make sure my boxers are on. Not because I’m concerned that I was seduced by some succubus in the night, but because if my boxers are off, that usually means I’ve pissed myself; I’ll sometimes piss myself in bed and throw them off during the night when I finally recognize the wetness or, more likely, I’ll get up, walk to a corner or wall in the room, drop my boxers to my ankles and piss, leaving the boxers to soak up the warm urine bouncing off the wall and collecting at my feet.

Is everyone peeing themselves now? Is that the cool thing to do (Billy Madison)?

Which brings me to my evening story. Back when I was in grade school/high school I'd have a bowl of cereal in the morning every day. Favorites back then were Captain Crunch, Froot Loops, Frosted Flakes, and Frosted Mini Wheats. At night I'd have two or three more bowls while I was either doing homework or watching basketball. Back then the NBA was cool and the Chicago station televised every Bulls game, watching Jordan was always entertaining. So I'd have three to four bowls of cereal every day; with 2% milk. All was good.

Fast forward to 2006. I stopped at the parents house after work for some grub and noticed they have chocolate milk in the fridge. I haven't bought milk for my house in months, needed it once to make my 10 block radius famous scrambled eggs, small bottle which of course went bad and had to be tossed. So I pour about six ounces in a cup and show it to pops, he looks at me with a straight face and says I'm leaving right after I eat. Yeah, yeah, sure, whatever. I eat and sit on the recliner, pops and sister are watching the Gilmore Girls DVD they got from the library. After not getting much sleep last night I fall asleep, nice little hour and a half nap. Wake up to the feeling that I know all too well, little rumble in the stomach. Oh boy, the fruits of my labor. I let two silent ones fly, wait ten minutes and get up for a popsicle (really tasty rasberry one). As soon as I get up, sister sitting ten feet away looks at me with this angry face, "B you reek! Stop farting!" Obviously the air flow was going in that direction today with the windows closed and the air on. Pops gives his two bits, "B, if you do that again you have to leave." Ok, I understand their point of view and painfully hold in any more. After another 20 minutes I can't take it any more, get up and grab some food for the next day since I can't cook but on the grill. Only problem was the getting up part, something shifted in my body and the painfull hold-in flies out like Superman.

Crap, I better leave soon before they smell that. I packed up some food in a container and realize I'm not going to make it six miles to my place to unload the foulness that's currently residing in my ass. As I head for the bathroom sister's yelling, "No, no, not my bathroom! B, you can't! Use the spare bathroom!" Of course I race into hers and proceed to make the grossest noises possible. Truely an experience, kind of like a colon cleaning if you will, pretty much everything inside of me just slipped out, sometimes forcefully. Got done in there, figured I'd leave sis a present and "forgot" to flush. What are big brothers for?

That brings me back people calling me an ass. Please stop calling me an ass, I know I'm an ass, you know I'm an ass, why be surprised by anything I do? You should just expect ass-like comments/actions to come from me, it's in my nature. My not flushing was my ass-like moment of the day, ha, ha. Peace out and keep the beverages flowing.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

Weight Room Indecency

Today was chest and abdominal day at the gym, 20 sets of pushups (still can’t get on the bench press with the shoulder, must be getting old) and 20 sets of situps. Actually starting to like the pushups over the bench/bar, keeps me in the big cool room with all the aerobic equipment (and hot college chics). I can set up in the back of the room and pretend to watch the TV’s on the other end when all I’m doing is checking out some ass. Yes, I’m a pig, but they wouldn’t wear the tight shorts if they didn’t want their asses noticed, little do they know that I’m doing more than just noticing them…

I get done with the workout and head for the locker room, do the usual wipe down and stand in front of a dryer for a minute. There’s a guy ten lockers over, butt ass naked (Nick Lachey’s butt is cuter), standing up with his legs bowed, and rubbing some product on his junk. I immediately avert my eyes from this horrifying scene. Who wants to see some naked dude while his hands are generously applying some substance to his crotch? I’m still trying to erase the whole image from my memory (might have to drink tonight to ease the pain).

Changed back into my work clothes, I head to the mirror to double check the hair and I have to walk past junk man. He’s talking to some other guy with a towel around his waist (why don’t all guys do that?). I can’t remember what they’re talking about but it’s been going on for a bit, make eye contact with the towel guy and he backs up to let me through. They resume their combination as I walk by and I see junk man putting more stuff on his junk. What the fuck? Two grown men having a conversation, facing each other approximately 5 feet apart, all while one of them is rubbing lotion on his balls and penis. And I had to walk between them, I was even closer than 5 feet to a naked man massaging his balls. So I wonder what the towel guy was thinking, was he ok with it? Was he thinking in the back of his mind “What the fuck, I just wanted to chat with this guy, not watch him play with his shit right in front of me.”? Also, why was junk man still naked while I was already done changing? Was he playing with his balls the whole time?

4:45, just about time to jump in the car and drive home, look out the window and I see this.

What the fuck. By the time I got home you could see exactly where my seatbelt was, great big wet stripe crossing my chest. Oh well. Peace out and keep the beverages flowing.