Wednesday, December 27, 2006

Murry Fawking Crissmas

That pretty much sums up my Christmas weekend. What better way to celebrate the holidays than to get liquored up every night and sleep in till noon the next day? It was truly a great experience but I think my body is trying to tell me something as I now get dizzy when I stand up and my penis refuses to stand up. Just can’t win.

Recently the Renter and I have gotten into the game of pool. What makes it really entertaining is that every game is different and depending on how you play your cards (oops, wrong game) you can hit one shot and leave yourself with a fairly decent second shot. One newbie at the bar didn’t believe me when I told him I’d only been playing for a month. Thankfully my Mentor was standing right there to confirm my lack of experience (and I didn’t mean with women, fuck off!).

My pool Mentor is really anal about pool. Your stance, stroke, spin on the ball, everything has to be perfect and done in good form. He’s anal about pool kind of like how I was anal about my Air Jordans back in grade school (and ok, I’ll admit, high school too). My Air Jordans did not see rain or grass or even dry pavement, they were only worn on the basketball court or in the weight room. I would only wear them outside once a new model of the shoes hit the stores. I’m anal about my Jeep and park it far away from any cars in shopping mall parking lots. Sorry, I can’t lie, just the Walmart parking lot since that’s the only place I go for shit. But the result is I don’t have any door dings or bumper bruises. I’m anal about my recently refurbished wood floors and having women with clunky shoes walk on them. I’m still trying to figure out a way to get back at the FA and his wife scratching them up a bit. Maybe I’ll take a dump in his new home theater when it’s completed. Or, better yet, take a dump behind a wall while it’s still being built, that one sounds better. Oh, I’ll put a mouse in my pocket the next time I’m at his house and let it loose in some corner because everyone knows he’s a total pussy and won’t touch a mouse with his bare hands even if it’s dead (true story, dishwashing gloves up to his elbows and everything).

Anyway, the Mentor is anal about pool. He’s extremely anal about his pool stick. Bad, like he will chalk his stick after every shot to keep the tip protected for longevity. Bad, like I stopped asking to use his stick a long time ago because I always did something “wrong” with it. Playing pool on Tuesday afternoon, these two drunk women show up at the bar. Not the usual drunk you see but a scary, dancing to every song, hugging and kissing each other drunk. And of course they want to play pool. We agree to do partners and I racked and broke, not getting a ball in. The Mentor had walked away and I went up for a beer. When he came back he looked in both corners for his pool stick, looked at me, I looked at the drunk woman and looked back in time to catch the look of horror on his face. The drunk woman was using his prized possession. After she found out it was his stick she kindly asked if she could use it each time and I could hear the sound of regret every time he replied “sure.” And it got even better as at one point the stick was stuck between them as they danced to some blues song. I’ve never seen him jump so fast, sliding the stick up and out of her hands.

How come drunk hot chicks are cool but drunk ugly 50 year old women are pretty fucking nasty?

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

Breakin' The Law

I broke rule #4 last night. Twice.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas Landlord.


The Renter got me four picture frames with nine pictures in each of various funny photos from the bar. Pretty fucking cool. The wood frames even match all the furniture in my living room. And of course I'm not good at accepting gifts (pops keeps on asking what I want for Christmas and I don't answer him) so I'm like, "Oh, how did you do this? It's, uh, cool." Yeah, show some enthusiasm you stupid mother fucker. I'm retarded. Really.

So, how about some more pictures. Here is the neighbor snowblowing a path to the bar while the bar workers look on from the corner.This is what half of my basement looks like. And no, those are not my clothes.Check out how tall the pile actually is.And the boxes of shoes taht can't quite seem to stay in their place. Definately not my shoes.Oh, how about the kitchen table turned computer desk?So, someone gives me a very nice gift and I put pictures of her dirty laundry on the internet. God I'm a nice guy. Sometimes even I can't believe what an asshole I am. But hey, I needed something to post so it's all ok, right? How about this chic I found on Yahoo Personals? Would you really put this picture on your profile?Ok, maybe I'm the only one who thinks it's funny looking. But how about this one from Swandad's site (Third and Long)?Swandad, thanks for the laughs. I catch up with your schananigans every day (and I know schananigans but I really don't feel like looking it up). And lastly, the site activity for a site that I won't name but after looking at other ones they all end up the same (roughly). Don't look at the volume numbers but more at the daily activity. Do you think people are using their free time to read blogs or is it more of a company time kind of thing? Hmmm...Peace out.

Monday, December 18, 2006

The Big Scare

3:30 the call from the sister came in. “B, your doctor called and left a message. She said you need some kind of shot and she wanted to talk to you about your blood work. Her number is 1-800-SUC-COCK.” The number really wasn’t suc cock but I’d let her if she wanted to. My doctor that is, not my sister.

One week earlier I had gone in for the annual checkup. Since I had never had an STD test I figured it would be a good idea to have them check for everything. When my sister told me about the blood work thing I got on the phone right away. I called the doctor’s office and left a message and my cell phone number. 4:00, no call. 4:30, no call. 5:00, no call. I was going to go to the gym after work but they don’t allow cell phones in the workout area. Even with knowing that the chances of me getting a call from the doctor’s office after 5:00 was slim and none I still avoided it. What does one do when you’re waiting for a call from the doctor to talk about your blood work? You go to the bar where your new cell phone gets awesome fucking service and you drink. You drink heavily. You drink heavily to the point where you can’t play pool by 9:00. You drink heavily to the point where by the end of the night everyone in the whole bar knows that you “have something” but you’re not sure what that something is. Oh, and because of that you will never get laid again. Ever.

10:30 Saturday morning the doctor’s office called back. The doctor gave me the wonderful news that my penis is not going to fall off any time in the near future. Nope, good in that area (she actually did say I have a nice and disease free penis, really). The only thing that’s wrong is that my liver is failing. I shouldn’t say failing, but one of the tests came up a little high. Whatever that means (any potheads want to inform me what a little high is?), so I have to abstain from alcohol for ten days straight and go back in for another test. Oh, and for the flu shot that they forgot to give me.

(I’m going to guess the three pitchers I had the night before the appointment would be the culprit but we’ll see. And ten days? Fuck.)

(And I posted this in my underwear just in case you wanted to know.)

Thursday, December 14, 2006

I Sweat

I smoke. I drink beer (if “drinking” is what you call it). I sweat. I sweat a lot. I sweat when I’m nervous. I sweat when I walk up stairs. I sweat when I eat spicy food (but I still love those hot wings!). I sweat waiting in line at Walmart. I sweat so much at the gym that my urine changes to a darker color yellow. I sweat at meetings. I sweat when I don’t know what to say. I sweat taking shits but if you’ve seen them you’d know why. I sweat carrying laundry up from the basement. I sweat during sex. I sweat when I beat off. I sweat when I think about beating off (which is a lot). I sweat when I’m standing on a ladder. I sweat when I’m shopping. I sweat when I know I have to shake people’s hands making my hands even sweatier. I sweat speaking in front of groups of people. I sweat when I’m in close confines with other people. In other words, I sweat for about 60% of my waking hours.

I bought new shoes about a month ago, actually just wrote the check out for them today. They’re just brown dress/casual shoes that I wear at work. They’re made by Dockers and have a decent sole that will come handy this winter. The heels are a little over an inch thick so I tower over people just a little more than I used to. When I got them home from the store I saw a little tag on them that said they were waterproof. I thought great, not like I’m going to be playing in the snow with them but it can’t hurt with winter approaching. Unfortunately I didn’t realize that being waterproof on the outside also meant they are waterproof on the inside. I don’t know if I ever mentioned this, but I tend to sweat just a little bit. Walking around at work makes my feet sweat. When I get to the gym at noon the portion of my sock that was actually in the shoe is noticeably darker in color than the part that was not in the shoe. Noticeably darker and noticeably damper. But damp is not the right word, more like soaked to the point where my toes look a little pruney. I always try to spread my socks out in the locker so they might have a chance to dry out while I’m lifting weights. But this never happens. After I lift weights I have to slide the now cold and still wet socks back on and go back to work. On really “good” days I can smell my feet while I’m sitting at my desk. It’s great. Really.

I did my laundry the other day and straightened up my room. I usually have clean and dirty clothes on the floor and I wanted to make sure I kept everything separate. My bed was a little disheveled so I figured while I’m folding clothes I might as well strip the blankets off and tuck the sheets under the mattress at the foot of the bed (I wasn’t quite motivated enough to actually wash them). While lifting up the mattress I must have lost my balance or something as I ended up doing a face plant on the mattress. A face plant that left me almost gagging as my nose was in direct contact with the worst foot odor you could ever imagine. Every guy knows that if you have a really nasty gym bag or a lunch bag that’s been sitting out for a month you can’t just smell it once, you have to double check to see if it’s really that bad and then see if you can find someone to share it with. I leaned over and sniffed again and it was indeed horrible. I thought about planting the Renter’s nose in it but the smell really was that disgusting, I would have actually felt bad. I didn’t want to have to clean up vomit after she would have puked on my bed, either. Funny thing is, three days later, do you think I’ve washed them yet?

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

I Can't Make A Commitment

Of any kind or nature. Isn’t that what most SINGLE women complain about their men, that they can’t commit and take the next step? Of course the women have been dreaming of getting married in a huge ceremony and spitting out 3-4 kids since they were thirteen playing doll house in the living room and don’t realize that men have been warned and educated by their fathers since the age of eighteen how much being married to your mom has sucked goat ass for the last twenty some years and that you should pull out even if you have a condom on if you want 100% of your paycheck going in to your bank account. Damn long sentence but thanks for the advice on sex, pops!

I don’t date because most women my age are looking for that commitment. I think there’s some rumor going around that people look at women weird if they are 40 and have never been married. “Oh look, there’s Jane, still no ring on her finger, I wonder what’s wrong with her vagina, it must smell like dead fish, maybe she’s just bad at oral sex.” Yes, ladies, that is what everyone is thinking, even your parents. Speaking of oral sex skills, some gay guys should open a firm teaching women the proper procedure. Or a website. I’m sick of the “dancing on the head” shit that most women do. Stick the whole fucker in your mouth for crying out loud! Can you sense any sexual frustration coming from me? I’m not going to a good place when I die, I know.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I do NOT fear the commitment that comes with dating. I have blocked that from my thoughts many years ago. Women look at guys and say “He’d be a nice catch” while I look at women and think “I wonder if she’d let me IN tonight.” I don’t fear commitment because I know no relationship I have with the opposite sex will ever go that far (or even for more than two months, that’s still stretching it). I FEAR EVERY OTHER SITUATION IN DAILY LIFE THAT REQUIRES ME MAKING A COMMITMENT. “What are you doing next Saturday?” “Uhhhh, I’m not sure.” “Did you want to go and do this with this person and this person?” “Uhhhhhhhhh…”

Ask my financial advisor (FA, and for some reason I think he’s taken a liking to the new name, even though it could stand for “fat ass” or “fucking asshole”). I think he has learned better when asking me if I want to do something with him and his lovely wife (down boy, down!). Speaking of which, can I get that porn back that your wife borrowed? I think it was Anal Sluts 6. Thank you. He used to call me on a Monday or Tuesday to make plans for the weekend. “Uh, poker at 11:00 am on a Saturday? Isn’t that a little early? I don’t know if I’ll be up yet.” That’s right, don’t try to schedule anything with me on a Saturday morning because my alarm clock does not work on Saturdays. Well, it works, but I ain’t gonna set it. Oh, and he has stopped asking if I want to go to some club with butterflies or insects or spiders or something in it’s name because he knows I won’t go. I’m tall, I’m white, I can’t dance. And I don’t feel like spending $5 on a bottle of beer when I can get 48 ounces for $5 at the corner bar. But I digress. FA used to call me to go to concerts. Going to a concert requires planning ahead and purchasing (rather expensive) tickets meaning that the actual concert is probably over a month away. I do not make concert plans with people because I could be dead within a month, therefore letting them down and ruining the concert for everyone (at least they’d have free beer at the funeral!). “Remember that time B to the… actually agreed to go see Nickleback with us and died the week before the concert?” “Yeah, that was a great concert! Who died?” No concerts.

Which makes you wonder how I ever purchased a home and took on the burden of a 30 year “marriage” if you will. I toy with this in my head all the time. The only reasons I can come up with is I was sick of slipping on ice walking home from the bar, the house is only a block away, and it was in my price range. Oh, and when the realtor called me with the counter offer including all the appliances I was four pitchers into it on a Sunday watching football and merrily agreed (I get rather happy when loaded). There’s nothing special about my house except for the 350 sq ft deck pops and I built on the back this summer. Where was I going with this? Oh, commitment under the influence.

Saturday the Renter and I went to a different bar down the street since my bar manager won’t let me drink if I’m working the door at the old folks joint. She has good reason, trust me. We watched the Madison/Marquette basketball game from 1:00-3:00 and hit the pool table after that. After about eight games and five pitchers I magically arrived at the Sprint kiosk at the mall. My cell phone rarely works in my house or at the bar or at work. It mainly only works when I am driving in my car and I only drive 120 miles a week so it’s pretty much useless. That and the battery has been lasting 24 hours lately and then dieing making my phone emit this irritating noise that is just calling for a beat down. “I just charged you for eight hours and now eighteen hours later you’re calling it quits on me? What if I miss a call and some woman erroneously dials my number and wants to get nasty in bed and buy me a new car? Appropriately, a Hummer!” Unfortunately my phone knows my fear of commitment and that I won’t replace it with a different service provider/phone combo. UNLESS I’m loaded and the mall is still open. I don’t know what the people at the service counter thought of me and I guess I really don’t care. But I was loaded. Leaning and hanging on to the counter loaded. Looking at only three phones loaded. Picking the phone because it was blue loaded. Show me where to sign loaded. “Renter, what plan did I get?” loaded. I don’t even know if I have a one or two year contract loaded. Waking up the next day to find out my phone has a camera loaded. Being informed by the Renter two days later that my phone plays MP3’s loaded. So, pretty much just plain loaded. And it was 7:00.

If some woman ever wants me to propose to her she will have to feed me massive quantities of alcohol to hear those words slur out of my mouth. So ladies, please line up to the right and wait your turn.

I really just want the free alcohol.

Friday, December 08, 2006

I Have An STD

I recently went to the doctor’s office for my annual check up. There’s really nothing wrong with me physically, although some people might argue that I have mental issues since I like to take pictures of the big shits I take, but I force myself to go in once a year just before winter to get the annual check up and flu shot at the same time. And wouldn’t you know it, five hours after the visit I realized I never received the flu shot. Nice.

I got to the doctor’s office five minutes late which sent me in to a little bit of a panic. The combination of being late and being in a building with one million needles had my heart feverishly beating to the point where I could see the veins in my arm jumping. Ok, calm down, you’ll be out of here in 30 minutes.

The nurse checked me in for the height/weight/urine sample within three minutes of my arrival. She started pulling the height measurement thingy up and stopped, looked up at me (she was only 5’1”), and realized she wasn’t going to be able to measure me. I saw the look on her face and said “Six foot four” to which she smiled and wrote it down on the clipboard. Then she had me step on the scale. “I’m going to guess 218 lbs with jean on.” I had just weighed myself at the gym three hours earlier so I was pretty confident with my estimate. She must have missed the “weighing in patients” day in school. She started with the big weight at 150 and started sliding the top one over in 10 lb increments. When she got up to 190 she finally realized it wasn’t going to work and flipped the big weight over to 200. And what do you, 218 on the dot. I was a little bit worried I’d be off since I had just shot a load on the Renter’s toothbrush, but I guess that didn’t affect it too much (didn’t affect the weight on the scale, might have affected the flavor of her toothbrush).

One guy I talked to didn’t think guys actually weighed themselves or even cared. I am not one of those men. I weigh myself every day at the gym and actually have kept record of it since February 21. Somehow I don’t think I’ve put on 12 lbs of muscle since then but I’d like to think it’s all in my penis as it has been looking rather large and heavy lately and makes little Asian girls cry when I stick it in their asses. I don’t think I’m really vain or anything but then again I caught myself checking out my arms in the mirror while I was playing pool last night so maybe I am. But you have to give me credit for not pulling out the 12 lb penis and checking that out in the mirror. I also didn’t want to put the black guys I was playing pool with to shame ‘cause I’m nice like that.

The nurse handed me a cup and asked if I could give a urine sample. I drink 160 ounces of water every day at work, yes, I think I can give you a sample. So I filled the cup, fished off the rest in the toilet and washed up. The nurse led me to an exam room where she took my elevated pulse (there were needles in the room!) and blood pressure. For some reason she never gives me the results so I have no idea if the readings were good or bad. Even if she did tell me the results I’d have to ask her if they were good numbers or not since I have no idea what the ideal figures should be. I should look in to this sometime so I can have one more thing to worry about besides if the Renter bought more whipped silk body wash so I can beat my meat in the shower. If/when she moves out I’ll have to go buy my own.

After the nurse packed up her shit she gave me a gown and told me to take off my shirt and jeans and the doctor will be in shortly. I don’t know about most people but I’m not self conscious about my body and would rather go through the exam without a table cloth strapped to my neck. They’re big, they’re awkward, and they’re a bitch to tie when you’re used to having Velcro on your shoes (don’t laugh, mom never taught me how to tie and I think the “can’t teach an old dog new tricks” is in effect). But, not wanting the doctor to think that I’m some exhibitionist sitting there in just my tighty whities, I put the gown on and stared at some lame picture for five minutes.

First thing I noticed when the doctor walked in was the ring on her finger. Fuck, there goes my chance of dinner and sex with my older but aging very well doctor. I was all prepared to arouse myself and show her “everything” that I had to offer but now my plan was shot down the tubes. We went through the usual questions, are you still smoking, how much, are you working out, any illnesses lately, is your 12 lb penis still up to the task of making me scream, you know, just the basics. She had me lie down on the table and started feeling my internal organs through my stomach. Having her fingers poking on my stomach felt really fucking weird and made me laugh a couple times. I don’t think I’m ticklish or anything but seriously, when was the last time someone poked you just below your rib cage to see if some organ was indeed intact and in the right place? Question for the day: do your organs move or sag with age like women’s boobs do?

And then the fun part came. She always gets this “I’m sorry but I have to” look on her face when it comes time for the testicular check. Little does she know that I’m more than willing to drop trou in front of attractive women (even if they didn’t ask me to and may or may not call the cops). So I pull down my underwear and lift up the gown as she gets on one knee. I thought about doing a little hip movement to possibly smack her on the forehead with it but decided not to as the cop shop was just down the street and I still had to put my clothes on before I could run out of the office. Oh, and they kind of know who I am so even if I ran I’d still get caught. Unless I could blame it on an uncontrollable cough…

I was a little bit disappointed that she put on a glove to fondle my balls. I mean, she gave the rest of the exam without gloves on, why not my balls? They’re clean, semi shaven, normal looking balls (except I think one is bigger than the other). “Is everything ok down here, no pain or anything besides me grabbing them?” “Uh, no, no pain.” The first time I ever saw her she said “Hmmm, nice.” as she was down there. I’m still contemplating what she was referring to five years later. I’m sure she still thinks about that day as she’s lying in bed at night, too. So I got my balls fondled for a $10 co-pay. I was thinking about going in every week since I don’t think $10 is an outrageous amount to pay to get your balls played with. I’ll just tell them I’m a hypochondriac or something and not a sexually deprived pervert.

She brought out the blood work chart and started going down the list.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had an STD test done.”

“Is there a reason you might think you need one?”

“No, not really, but my roommate sometimes sleeps with me and wanted me to get one.”

Ten second pause…

“Who would be more likely to have something, you or him?”

Yes, my doctor thought I was gay. I quickly jumped in explaining the roommate was a short busty Korean girl who cries when my dick is in her ass. I think I gave the doctor a little bit too much information as she just stared at me for a very uncomfortable period of time.

“How do you want to do it? One way is to stick a cue tip up you or we can take another urine sample if that’s possible.”

Why do these women question whether I can pee or not?

“Uh, yeah, I can pee again.”

She wished me luck and told me to get dressed and that the nurse would come in to take me to the lab. Oh, and to give me a flu shot which she fucking forgot and I hate doctor’s offices so much I probably won’t go back to get one (unless they’re offering ball fondling too).

The lab tech was girl a little younger than me. She seemed to be a little bit on the quiet side so of course I had to fuck with her.

“You don’t mind if I don’t watch, do you?”

Halfway through.

“Are we having fun yet?”

After it was done.

“Why is pulling the needle out so much less painful?

“It’s because the needle is going through fatty tissues in your arm.”

“Oh, so now you’re calling me fat?”

“No, no, no, everyone has fatty tissues in the veins.”

She showed me in to another room where I was supposed to fill another urine cup for one of the tests. It was then that I realized why everyone asked if I could pee or not. She told me to fill it up to this line and wouldn’t you know it, I barely had enough in me to reach the line. After that I was finished, walked out of the lobby and lit up a cigarette feeling just like the Marlboro Man except in a not so masculine way (couldn’t even look at the needle, pussy). But it was officially over.

I really don’t know if I have an STD or not, haven’t gotten the test results back yet. If I do I hope its something really rare and dramatic like my penis will fall off inside some broad’s vagina while we’re having sex or something cool like that. I just put that title up to possibly throw a little fear in any past girlfriends who might read this or hear of it. So if you have slept with me and have spent the last five minutes reading this in horror, good, mission accomplished. I love being a dick.

Tuesday, December 05, 2006


I work at the door of an old folks show lounge on Saturday nights. They get some decent bands in (the band this Saturday played at the casino earlier in the week), but the average age of the patrons is 55 nonetheless. Usually the average age is 55 but let me backtrack to Saturday afternoon.

After visiting the parents for a little and shoveling snow I decided I was going to plop my ass on the couch for some quality TV time. Not the usual TV time which consists of 90% sports and 10% MTV (you gotta check out Rob and Big). No, I wanted to watch some movies. I saw the last half of Revolution or something like that where the werewolves and vampires were fighting and kicking each other’s asses. The second movie was Jurassic Park III which was ok but pretty much like the first two. The last movie was Van Helsing. When it first came out it didn’t get very good reviews but I found it to be quite entertaining, maybe a little far fetched but I think that’s what made it entertaining. I later found out G the hairdresser was watching the same movie (which is a little odd since we’re 26 years apart in age). The movie was going to last till 8:30 and I was going to call in my order to the Mexican restaurant so I could pick up my order, eat it, and be ready for “work” (sitting on my ass and making sure no one gets in for free) at 9:00. Since I put in my notice two weeks ago the manager of the two bars and restaurant has been on my case. I don’t know why, I gave them a months notice to find someone else to sit by the door and pick their nose, I thought I was being more than generous. 8:00 I get a phone call. “De wants you to get your ass up here right now.” I know I’m supposed to be there at 9:00 but you never know, she might have a legitimate reason to want me there an hour early. So I quickly got dressed into the “security” shirt, which I have come to loath, but only after I called in my food order. I wasn’t going to let her throw her weight around and screw me out of the free meal I was counting on filling my empty stomach with. When I got to the sports bar I sat in the corner away from the door and quickly ate my burrito just in case she was watching on the cameras or would happen to walk by. After I finished (with head sweating and all from the hot sauce I had them put on it) I punched in, took a shit (might as well get paid for it), and walked through the restaurant. There she was sitting watching TV. “What’s with the 8:00 start time?” “Isn’t that the time you always start?” “Uh, no, it’s usually 9:00.” She turned her head and continued watching TV. Whatever, broad.

So I walked over to the show lounge expecting to see a huge crowd (reason for being called in early?) only to find a total of 19 people. 19 people including three bartenders, one cashier, and six band members. 9 customers had come through the door since they opened at 8:00. I thought great, another boring night trying to sleep with my eyes open. And I guess it must have shown. One guy who comes in every other week stopped by to chat. He’s one of the few normal people there and we usually have a good time making fun of the old people with 80’s hair cuts or telling each other stories about some funny dates/screws/sex with midgets (plural) incidents. But this week it just wasn’t happening. I didn’t want to be there and my personality reflected the same. So he went to the sports bar to talk with the Renter (I heard she even did shots with him and didn’t pee on herself).

Around 11:00 it started to pick up. First one hot chic with her mom (mom had to be helped walking out later that evening!), then a group of three cute girls, then another group of three cute girls (one had to be six feet tall). Before I knew it we had a nice crowd of 25-30 year old party goers who were having a good time. This picked up my spirits somewhat. And it was kind of funny seeing how the young people were all on one side of the bar and all the people on their death beds were on the other side. At least there was eye candy to divert my attention away from the Bucks playing on the TV (can’t stand NBA basketball).

Around 1:30 a group of three rather attractive girls stagger up to me by the door. First girl, “You’re going to remember my face and let me back in again, right?” By the time she got to “right” her face was two inches away from mine. Me, being mister stupid fuck, leans backwards a bit surprised that this girl is that close to my face. And, after she stayed there for three seconds mister stupid fuck still did nothing. Fuck mister stupid fuck! Should have just fucking moved in for the kill and played tonsil hockey with her right there. But in all honesty, her friends were staggering right behind her and she may just have been pushed from behind, I’m not exactly sure. Of course you know if that was the case and I did kiss her I’d probably get slapped in the face or her boyfriend would come over and I’d have some explaining to do. In any case, I was two inches away from making out with a hot chic. Isn’t my love life fucking great?

But wait, it gets better.

Around 2:15 I was talking to an older gentleman who was asking me questions like what I do for a living and stuff (for some reason he thought I was in the military, must have been the new haircut). He wanted a Guinness and the old folks joint doesn’t stock Guinness so he wondered if it was possible for me to get one from the restaurant and bring it in. I wasn’t sure if I could or not and the restaurant was locked up anyway so I told him the sports bar on the other side had Guinness. Being the nice guy that I am (hey, don’t laugh, I am), I walked him to the sports bar in 10 degree weather holding his mixed drink in case a friendly police officer was to drive by and stop him. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure if I’d be safe with an open beverage just because I have a stupid shirt on that says “security” but I think I’d have a better chance talking with an officer than someone who wasn’t on the clock. Anyway, I get him in the door, make sure everything’s ok with the other door man bringing the drink in, shake his hand and walk back out into the cold. Guess who I see walking directly toward me? Yup, it’s close face hot girl.

“How are you doing?

“Holy crap, I’m pretty faded.”

“But hey, at least you’re still cute.”

“Why thank you! Hey, look for me on ANTM!”


“Do you know what that stands for?”

“Uh, no.”

“America’s Next Top Model! You better vote for me!”

And that was it. Of course over the next hour I thought of ten different things I could have said to her to possibly make out with her or get her phone number. Ok fine, I’m still thinking about it three days later (she was that attractive). At any rate, I blew it, I know, I know this all too well. All of the lame lines I have that make women laugh and nothing popped into my head. I could have walked her to her car but mister stupid fuck walked right back to the show lounge that I dislike with a passion only to hang my head in utter disgust at my lack of game. Lack of game and not jumping on the opportunity when it came. What a fucking pussy.