Friday, June 29, 2007

Thoughts While Sitting on the Deck

So I’m sitting on the deck at 7:30 on a Friday night. It’s nice outside, probably about 70 degrees. I have about 8 ounces of vodka in my XL cup from McDonalds. There’s cranberry juice and ice in it too, incase you were wondering. I’ve spent so much time (and money) at the bar lately that they might as well have a “Customer of the Month” plaque on the wall with my picture on it. Holding a pitcher of beer, of course. I haven’t missed a day in quite some time now, except for Sundays when they aren’t open. Bastards. So I figured I’d spend some quality time with my minuscule internet fan base. Not that my fans are minuscule (ehem), just small in number.

I read five blogs every day. There’s Everything is wrong with me by Jason Mulgrew, Clublife by The Doorman, The Diary of Third and Long by Swandad, Diarrhea of the Mouth by the Renter, and Drunk and Single in Oxford by Shandoll (whenever she gets around to posting). And you know what? I get disappointed when I click on their blogs and there isn’t anything new to read. Not just disappointed, a little upset. Kind of like “What, they don’t care about me any more and haven’t posted anything?” I know, kind of sick and demented, right? That’s why I’m out here sitting on the deck. I want you to have something fresh and entertaining to read the next time you go to this site. Not that my writing is fresh and entertaining, well, maybe entertaining, but stories of me taking shits (3 times today) isn’t all that fresh unless you are there to witness it (survival rate is 50/50). I don’t really have anything of substance for you, just voicing my thoughts and feelings for the readers. I love and care about you guys, I really do. Oh, and the blog emails have reached a total of ten now, still only be two people but still, TEN!!! Swandad, the Renter, and the FA all know my personal email but all I get from them is hate mail (Renter), love/lust mail (FA), and scratch-off lottery ticket winning tickets (Swandad). Emails, emails, emails, keep‘em coming.

Which brings me to the topic of the day. I’m going to guess that I’m in a very small percentile of people (like .001%) who play games on their cell phones more than they actually talk on it. I think I had 80 minutes used on my last phone bill. There might have been 40 text messages, too. I spend 10 minutes on my phone every time I poop (and if you know me I can’t poop in less than 10 minutes). I pooped three times today. That’s 30 minutes I was playing games on my cell phone just today. You see, I’ve gotten into pool in the last six months. My favorite bartender is a big pool player and he has shown me how to do a lot of things on the pool table. My cell phone has a pretty cool pool game on it. Granted it’s just a trial version and you never get to hit the eight ball in because they want you to buy the game for a monthly fee. Now that I think about it, $4 or $5 a month wouldn’t be that bad considering how much I play it. But then again, I don’t have a data package on my phone so I kind of doubt that I could even download it. But there you have it, 80 minutes of talking on the phone and 900 minutes playing pool every month. And no, I’m not some dork who doesn’t have any friends or anything like that. My friends know that I don’t talk on the phone much and don’t even bother calling me. Well, except for the FA, but I swear he’s a little light on his feet so that explains a LOT of things. My friends know where to find me if they want to chat. If they need something important from me they’ll call, but if it’s just general chit chat they know what to do. Meet me at the bar and have some drinks because I’m not the talkative when I’m sober.

Thursday, June 28, 2007

You’re Incorrigible

The FA wanted me to join him tonight for a NBA Draft/Texas Holdem party. I used to play poker but I can’t stand that shit anymore. Playing poker would make my head hurt and leave me feeling like the poker gods/opposing players just fucked me in the ass. The games they were going to play tonight were going to be really cheap games with the blinds being $.50/$1. While it wouldn’t cost much to play, I’d still be getting fucked in the ass by someone only now I’d be like a cheap whore. So I had to tell the FA I wouldn’t be cumming.

FA: You know what? You’re incorrigible. Put that in your blog if you know how to spell it.

Me: The blog has spell checker.

FA: Really? The Renter must not use it too often.

Ha, ha, ha, ha, we laughed for quite a while over that one. He called back later.

FA: So, is the Renter cheaper than you?

Me: Oh yeah, way more. She quit playing pool with me once because she didn’t want to break a $20. And I was kicking her ass pretty bad.

FA: I’m going to guess that you make more money than her?

Me: Well, you know, being a male in the professional field you would only expect that. (And I’m not really that arrogant.)

FA: Maybe she isn’t cheap, maybe she’s just poor. You don’t hear people on welfare being called cheap.

You know what? For as many times as the FA called me asking me to go to the get-together I think he really did want to fuck me in the ass. Maybe his new name should be FA-G.

I'm iffy on the Buck's draft selection. I wanted Corey Brewer but that didn't happen. Now watch, I'm complaining now about the selection and by the time I'm done writing this they will have traded him for some putz with a funky nickname (like Nowitzki for Robet "Tractor" Trailor.

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

At the Strip Club

Sunday I went to the area strip club with some friends. I hadn’t been to a strip club for a long time so when they suggested going I was all for it. The club we went to is called Silk and is one of the better strip clubs in Milwaukee. We had free passes and the plan was to go in and just stay for an hour or so.

We walked in the door and grabbed some beers. They had a nice atmosphere going on. I mean, titties everywhere, and titties everywhere is a great atmosphere. (Which reminds me, check out Swandad’s post here that has several pictures of boobs and cleavage and all that good stuff.) I noticed this hot little Latino girl up on stage. Nice ass, really thin waist, not a whole lot upstairs but her boobs fit her frame very nicely. I hunted her down and asked for a lap dance. They had a special that night and the lap dances were $15. So she took me in the back room all the way back in the corner. There was a song playing already so we sat and chatted a little till the next song started. Then the song started and she started her routine. I’ve had lap dances there before but never like this one. This girl was all up in my crotch, bouncing up and down. After the first song she asked if I’d like another one. I had won $50 at the casino so I figured sure, why not. For the second song she took off her thigh-high stockings. We continued to talk a bit and she seemed really friendly. I know they have the whole “no hands” rule at strip clubs but sometimes the strippers will let you touch them. So I put my hands on her thighs. No problem. I moved my hands to her waist. Still no problem. And then the song ended. Once again, she asked if I’d like to stay for another one. After two seconds of thought I nodded my head like I was a Prince Fielder bobble head doll (who is leading the National League in home runs by the way. At $415,000/yr he’s only one home run behind New York’s $27,708,525/yr Alex Rodriquez). Halfway into the third song I had my hands firmly planted on her ass as she bounced it in front of me on my lap. Shit, I was having a good old time until the bouncer walked over and reminded me that there wasn’t any touching. Whoops. The stripper giggled, “Ha, we got caught!” and continued with the grinding. During the fourth song (yes, I know, fourth) the dirtiness continued. At one point I wasn’t sure if my finger was actually touching her asshole or not. She turned around and sat on my hand which was on my leg, rubber her vag up and down. I could feel moistness through her panties. I took my other hand and slowly put it down the front of her underwear. I was almost to the sweet spot when the song ended. She looked at me, panting, and said, “I don’t think I can do another song. I get really wet down there.” I understood her point. It would probably look bad if I walked out of the back room with a wet mark on my pants. So I thanked her and paid her leaving a fairly decent tip.

Friends, family members, and especially you Father Tom, this was not my story. This was the old roommate’s story about his weekend trip to Silk. I couldn’t believe what he was saying when he was telling me the story. I started to cringe when he mentioned putting his hands on her hips. I would not have to balls to do anything like this at a strip club (but if you want to come back to my place…). No, on the rare (and I mean rare) occasion that I end up at a strip club and I splurge on a lapper, I sit there with my hands at my sides and enjoy the show. I don’t move a fucking muscle. I figure if some girl is grinding on you in just her underwear you should respect the rules and be a good patron. Well, you know, at least don’t slip your dick in her until after she’s done working.

Tuesday, June 26, 2007


Ok, so Chris Benoit (pronounced ben-WAH) killed his wife and 7-year-old son, then killed himself, and the WWE canceled its live "Monday Night RAW" card in Corpus Christi, Texas, and USA Network aired a three-hour tribute to Benoit in place of the scheduled wrestling telecast. Who thought that one up? When I kill myself and half of the stray cat population in my neighborhood, I hope everyone spends a good three hours drinking at the bar, reminiscing about the stupid shit I’ve done, all while eating cat stew. Doing a three-hour tribute for the guy who strangled his wife and suffocated his son... Really, what the fuck?

Who’s with me on a Kobe to Minnesota trade? I’d LOVE to see Kobe shivering during a Minnesota winter. His wife would leave him and move back to LA in the Lamborghini he had converted to automatic for her (seriously), oh, and with half his money.

I’m sorry, I spoke too soon. The Lakers are offering Lamar Odom (broke) and Andrew Bynum (unproven) for Kevin Garnett. Do these trade offers really come up on a daily basis in the NBA? Faxing this trade offer over, did Laker GM Mitch Kupchak really think that Minnesota GM Kevin McHale wouldn’t laugh his ass off and then drop his pants and pee on the fax?

Adam “Pacman” Jones is fucked even if he doesn’t go to jail. What an ass.

Did you know that Tank Johnson has played three years in the NFL and still has (had) two years left on his rookie contract for $510,000 and $548,750? I don’t know if they have to sign five year deals as a rookie or what, but I think for all the headlines he made he’d be worth much more than that.

Email to the FA: Is the 2007 Roth $4,500? If that’s the case I can pull another $500 out of my butt and send it in, right?

Email from the FA: Keep it plugged sailor. Still 4k until 2008 (5k then). Throw a party for your friends with the other 5 bills. No more plate steaks and Roundys. Filet mignon and Kettle One, biotch….

Yeah, I don’t like my friends that much.

I can’t wait to see which NBA team is going to draft Joakim Noah this Thursday. Awe fuck, now that I’ve said that…



Monday, June 25, 2007

Drinking Till 7:00 A.M.

I learned an important lesson this weekend: going to the bar at 10:00 on a Friday will throw off your whole weekend.

After work on Friday I sat down and watched an hour of TV. I haven’t been keeping up with my favorite MTV shows like I used to and they had two episodes of The Inferno 3 that I hadn’t seen before on. Once those were over I worked up the energy to go downstairs and lift weights. Normally I don’t mind lifting weights and actually enjoy it to some extent, but Friday was a arm and leg day. Now, you would think most guys would love doing curls (for the girls) and tricep extensions but I’d rather do big body parts like chest, back, and shoulders. And try doing squats after having two knee surgeries and a tib/fib compound fracture – not an easy task.

Anyway, I got downstairs and turned on the TV. The first thing that came on was Men In Black II and of course I like Will Smith movies so I started watching it. (And just for the record, even though Will Smith is black, he just doesn’t do the thing for me. I like dark-skinned women, not dark-skinned men.) The only problem with lifting weights while you are watching a movie is that after a while you are watching a movie while you are lifting weights. I found myself timing my sets in coordination with commercials and slow parts in the movie. This made for a very long workout which isn’t a totally bad thing; if the movie hadn’t been on I would have quit much sooner but I decided to stick it out to the end doing an extra set of squats or ab workout. By then it was 9:00. From 9:00 to 9:45 I folded laundry while the last episode of Celebrity Fit Club was on (Dustin Diamond is a douche bag). Then I showered and walked to the bar.

Bars close at 2:30 in the morning in Milwaukee. This left me with only 4.5 hours in which I planned on getting fucked up. For me, getting “fucked up” on a Friday is not getting “fucked up,” but more like getting “FUCKED UP!!!” You have to remember that my cheap ass refuses to pay $3 for a shot when you can get 48 ounces of beer for $5. So there I was trying to pound down all the beer I possibly could in 4.5 hours. And guess what? 2:30 came around and your’s truly was still pretty much straight, straight enough to still be winning games of pool. The situation just needed a little help.

A little help in the form of Roundy’s Vodka!!! I walked across the street to the gas station and got two bottles of ruby red grapefruit juice. Grapefruit juice is pretty strong and covered the vodka flavor with ease. That is until I realized that I couldn’t taste the vodka and started mixing it in a 50/50 manner. Oh, who am I kidding, it was 75/25 vodka/juice. I sat on the deck with my cigarettes and vodka till 7:00 in the morning. The birds were chirping when I made it to bed.

I had the whole weekend planned out. I was going to paint my room and possibly clean a little. I mean fuck, my bed is in my living room. I need to get that bedroom done. And I was going to start on it on Saturday when…

2:00 the doorbell rang. It was Elmer from down the street. There I was standing in the doorway, hair standing straight up as I had just been woken up by my neighbor who wanted to start partying when I could still smell and even taste the vodka from 7:00 in the morning. Even though it sounds like I’m complaining a little, in the back of my mind I wasn’t. I knew that if I was going to start drinking at 2:00 I most certainly would not be doing any work at all that day. And it was a gorgeous day; why spend it stuck inside sweating while you’re painting? So we had some beers. Elmer gave the Renter $20 to get beer and something else from the store. After a while we made it over to Elmer’s house where his kids were grilling brats and burgers. Everything was going great, nice weather, good company, good food, beer. But then something caught my eye. The beer can was different from what I was accustomed to. It turns out the Renter bought Milwaukee’s Best Light Ice and not just the regular stuff. I drink Milwaukee’s Best Light because that’s what it is, light. You can pound can after can without getting horribly drunk and it’s kind of watered down so it goes down easily. I was on number six by the time I notice the “Ice” on the label. That, combined with the six regular Lights that I drank at my house, left me tippy-toeing pretty damn close to the edge. Elmer suggested showering (not together) and going up to the bar to watch the Brewer’s game. I stumbled home.

I didn’t make it to the shower. I flopped face down on my newly convenient bed in the middle of the living room. I woke up to the doorbell ringing (for the second time). Elmer convinced to me take a shower and I reluctantly did. We had another beer or two on the deck and then a couple vodka cranberries which probably had two shots in each. Walking up to the bar I felt fine. I didn’t have any problems following Elmer and the Renter (although I might have gotten lost if I wasn’t following them). But then, walking in the door I heard, “Hi, Renter! Hi, Elmer! Hi… oh my God!” I guess I must have looked pretty fucked up because that was the reaction lawyer girl gave me. I mumbled something and sat in between the Renter and Elmer. The bartender made her way over. The Renter got her usual water, Elmer got his usual Miller High Life, and me? An order of chicken tenders and some onion rings, please. I did not drink at the bar on Saturday night. While I did watch the game I don’t remember anything about it. I ate my food, paid the bill and walked out the door. It was 8:30.

So, if I hadn’t gotten to the bar at 10:00 on Friday I wouldn’t have stayed up till 7:00 am drinking on Saturday and wouldn’t still have been loaded when the neighbor came over at 2:00 and would have faired much better than I did on Saturday night. Now I know. Hopefully you can learn from my mistakes. Or at least test it out sometime. Watching the progression from dark to light and hearing the birds chirp while you’re sitting outside still drinking from the night before is a pretty fucking cool thing to experience.

Friday, June 22, 2007

Conversation With FA (#156)

The FA called today.

FA: I had to go down to the post office today to pick up a certified letter. Usually when you get a certified letter in the mail its something important like the IRS wants to audit you or incriminating pictures, like of me masturbating on my toilet or something.

Me: Yeah, because people sneak into your bathroom and wait for you to start whacking off.

FA: Speaking of which, the guys at [pizza place] and I were talking about the whole sitting down/standing up while you masturbate thing. They all agreed with me that it was more comfortable sitting down than standing up.

Me: Really?

FA: Yeah. Joe said it must have something to do with you tall people because Harry used to do it in the sink, too. The rest of us short people wouldn’t be able to reach that high.

Me: So what, because you’re only 5’10” you can’t get your penis over the edge of the sink?

FA: No, I’d have to stand on a phone book or something.

Thank you, FA, for giving me something to write about on a day that I don’t have any material to work with.

Crack House

If you looked in my front window you would think that my house was a crack house. Not that I know what a crack house looks like on the inside (or the outside for that matter), but the state that my living room is in is what I would think one would look like. I actually know very little about crack. I’ve never seen it and certainly have never smoked it or injected it or stuck it up my butt or whatever they do to get it in their system. I know as much about crack as I do about babies and women – absolutely nothing.

My mattress bed is right in the middle of my living room. My box spring is leaning up against one of the walls. My bedding and comforters are in a heap on one of the chairs. And yes I did say comforters (plural) as two keep you quite warm when the house is 55 degrees in the winter time (which might be close to crack house temperatures).

I had to take Thursday off because the Renter kept me up all night on Wednesday puking everywhere. And I mean everywhere. You’d think those Asian people would be able to eat pretty much anything and not get sick since they should be used to eating dog and cat on a regular basis but I guess not. I tried to stay awake for most of it incase she needed a ride to the hospital. I maybe got three hours of sleep so I was in no condition to go to work and be productive. So I called in to work and took a personal day and went back to bed. I woke up around 1:00 in the afternoon feeling quite refreshed.

Two walls in my bedroom have wood paneling on them. I don’t really like the look and parts of it is falling off in places. So, since I was feeling refreshed, I started pulling the shit off with my bare hands (because it sounds manly when you say “bare hands”). I moved the bed to the middle of the floor and just started ripping away. Some parts near the ceiling or floor were a little tough since they had molding holding it on. In 15 minutes I had completely de-paneled my room. The walls behind the paneling looked like they were in pretty good shape. It will need a little touching up where all the nail holes are but it shouldn’t be too bad.

I got the still ailing Renter to go to Menards (like Home Depot) with me to help me pick out some paint. She threw so many different shades of blue in front of my face that they all started to look the same. Picking out a color of paint for your bedroom is kind of a permanent thing and is not easily accomplished when you have a fear of commitment. The Renter eventually got fed up and walked away. I browsed around a little bit more but then decided to go and find her since we had taken her car and I wouldn’t put it past her to hop in the car and leave me there. I tracked her down and got yelled at again for still not having anything picked out. Then we found some displays that had rooms pretty much color coded with wall, ceiling, and trim colors. I grabbed four cans of paint, gave it to the cute chick who was doing the mixing and ten minutes later I was walking out the door.

Back at the ranch I managed to work up quite the sweat while trying to move crap out of my room. (I’m starting to wonder which I mention more, sweating or masturbating). I dragged the mattress out to the living room. I leaned the box spring up against one of the living room walls. I hauled a bookcase out to the kitchen. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but that’s about all I did to work myself into a sweaty fit of huffing and puffing. After regaining my composure I started pulling out nails that didn’t come out with the paneling. And I found out why they didn’t come out with the paneling. I had to use all my strength on some of them. The ones at waist height weren’t hard at all, pretty much like doing a seated row in the weight room. But holy fuck did it get hard for the ones right up by the ceiling. Arms fully extended and the wrench in my hand (some didn’t come out using the hammer), I pulled and twisted and groaned till every last one came out. If I had been a short Asian person standing on a chair doing this I would have fallen off numerous times.

Once again I was sweating and panting like a black dog sitting in the sun. The Renter asked me what was next and I said that was it. I’m sure she could see the look of defeat in my eyes.

This weekend will be fun. I’ve never painted a room before. And it’s supposed to be nice out this weekend which means it’s going to be hot in my room. When I’m hot I get angry, mean, foul, and even worse, I don’t feel like masturbating. So it’s official: I will be sweating more than I will be masturbating this weekend.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Fat Ass

So, even though the Renter says she has a fat ass, and even says so in her blog ALL THE TIME, I can't write "The Renter squeezed her fat ass in between us" on my blog. So...

The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass. The Renter has a fat ass.

I recently used the bathroom at one of those 24 hour diners. The manager was in there fixing a mirror. I farted. While I was washing my hands I appologized to the manager. "Oh, God! B to the..., man! We have to air this out!" And he stopped working on the mirror and got something to prop the door open. I actually felt somewhat bad. (Oh, and ladies, I do not fart during sex. At least I try not to fart during sex. Granted I did poop in that one girl's bed during sex, but that only happened one time and it was many years ago. Soooo, if you're interested...

I must admit, I've gotten exactly four emails at that email address from exactly two individuals, one of whom is the FA's wife. And I think she just forwarded some lame joke or something. Why I expect women to email me when I write "and ladies, I do not fart during sex" I don't know. But, as you could imagine, the emails don't come flowing in by the thousands. The other person who sent me three emails said she hadn't noticed the address on the blog before. So I figured I'd lay it out in this posting and maybe someone might take notice. Not that laying it out in this posting is going to draw more of you out to send me hate mail or questions about masturbating (I'm a pro) or (gasp) offers for sex with a midget, but a boy can always hope. For the hate mail of course.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Heat Stroke

On Sunday I was awoken by the Renter at around noon. You might think noon is a little late to be getting up but I assure you noon was too early for last Sunday. See, I had Southern Comfort on Saturday night. The only reason I have Southern Comfort is when I can’t fit any more beer in my stomach. When I can’t fit any more beer in my stomach I am pretty lit. When I add numerous shots of Southern Comfort on top of the beer is when I end up scouring the neighborhood looking for a stray cat to fuck. The point is noon on Sunday was too early.

Anyway, the Renter wanted to go to the driving range. So I got up, took a shower, and posted a thing on the blog (because women take so damn long to get ready). It was plenty warm out so I grabbed a tank top, deodorant, and some cologne. We stopped at a health food place (McDonalds) on the way there and ate our salads (double cheeseburgers) at the driving range. Right away I put the tank top on as it had to be close to 90 degrees with absolutely no breeze. I grabbed a big bucket of balls and found two spots open on the range (home, home on the range). The Renter was going to get another bucket when I suggested we just share the one that I had gotten. That was the brightest idea I’ve had since I was 12 when I discovered how much fun masturbating is (even though back then it was without a condom on). I swear I planted my butt on the ground after hitting 10 balls. After hitting 10 balls I had sweat dripping down my head and soaking my shirt. I don’t know if it was the heat or the lack of breeze or the cigarettes or the previous night’s consumption of alcohol (which I grossly overstate on here by the way), but I felt dizzy and had to reach for what was left of my Vitamin Water (Coke). And that’s how it went for 45 minutes with me hitting 10 or 15 balls and needing to take a break. I eventually gave up and took whatever balls I had left and put them by the Renter. She might have thought that I was being nice or something but trust me, that wasn’t the case. I’m not that nice of a guy. No, this was out of necessity. If I had continued to hit balls out there in the heat I would have needed medical attention. I stood there panting and thought about what it would have been like if I were actually on a course hauling my clubs on my shoulder and walking over 7,000 yards. I could tell the Renter was getting overworked also. I wasn’t sure if she peed her pants or if it was just her ass sweating but there were definite wet marks on the back of her pants. She eventually gave up too and gave the balls to some kid who was next to us.

We got in her car and cranked the air conditioning. The Renter has a fairly new car now and the air conditioning works like a champ. I sat there in the front seat and sucked in the cold air but as cold as it was it wasn’t doing the trick. We were going to Walmart and I made some lame joke about Walmart being the “coolest” place in Milwaukee. Usually department stores have the air cranked and you shiver right when you walk in the front door. But no, not Walmart. I think they were trying to stick to their policies of keeping the prices low and kept the air on at 80 to keep the electricity bill low. I walked through the isles still sweating from the golf. People were giving me looks like, “Dude, are you ok?” as I stumbled down each isle. And then I found it: half of an isle that had nothing but fans blowing left and right. While the Renter looked for a box fan, I positioned four fans directly at me and stood there not caring how unbelievably dumb I must have looked. The Renter didn’t like any of the fans there and went over to the next isle. I bowed and thanked the fans (I have fans!) and grudgingly left the fan isle. At least that’s what I thought. As I rounded the corner I found myself staring directly at a dual fan combo job that looked like something out of Star Wars. I hit the power button and breathed a sign of relief as the blades started to turn. Now, you know how it is when you get a rental car and it’s something like a Dodge Charger with the 5.7 L Hemi engine and you can’t resist “testing out” each and every horsey that’s under the hood. Well, I’ve never had a rental car, but I’m sure if I did rent a Dodge Charger it would have far less rubber on the tires when I returned it. This is exactly how it went with the space age futuristic dual fan thingy. I cranked it. Much to my surprise (and the customers around me) the space age futuristic dual fan thingy sounded like a small jet plane. It wound up and reached top speed with a low whirring sound and a high pitched screech. The space age futuristic dual fan thingy (I could write that again if you’d like) blew faster than a bag lady giving $.05 blow jobs so she could buy a burger at McDonalds. I stood in front of it blinking so my eyeballs wouldn’t dry up and fall out of their sockets. And I stood there. And stood there. I stood there in full bliss as people were standing and staring at me. Eventually I saw a Walmart employee approaching so I quickly turned off the space age futuristic dual fan thingy (told you) and ducked down another isle. The employees might have been hunting for me, but I had managed to fix the whole sweating thing and was looking pretty spiffy with my hair blown back.

Later I went back to the same isle. The first time I was there I saw this thing hanging on the wall called a mister. It attached directly to a hose and emitted a cooling mist (hence the name I guess). I figured it was pretty freaking hot out so why not give it a shot. When I got it home I ripped open the package and dragged the hose out of the garage. By itself the mister didn’t do that much but spray a little water in whatever direction the 1.5 mph breeze was going. But then the Renter came through. She opened her brand new box fan and put it on the patio table. I mounted the mister right in front of the fan and cranked the water. The combination of the fan and the mister was absolutely glorious. I think I might have even creamed my shorts twice. The fan and mister made it feel like it was 20 degrees cooler outside. After sitting in front of the cooling mist for 30 minutes I couldn’t stand not being in front of it. Walking to the fridge for a beer left me gasping for air in the thick heat. Sure, I might have been getting wet and all but I was cool and that’s all that mattered. Well, as cool as one can be while he’s sitting outside with a box fan on the patio table blowing a cold mist over his body (kinda ghetto).

(Actually got two reactions from our neighbors. One drove by and laughed at the fan on the table and told me to go inside and put on the A/C. The other was parking his car and yelled out the window, “Where can I get one of those? That’s fucking awesome!” And indeed it felt awesome. I’m pretty sure that’s how they do it in the mountains of West Virginia.)

(The movie Deliverance still freaks me out.)

Monday, June 18, 2007

The Pedophile

When I got to the bar on Friday there were an unusual number of people there. Since it has been nice out lately and there are outdoor activities going on an “unusual number of people” would be all of nine. Those of you not familiar with the bar might be going, “What? Nine people? That’s nothing.” And you’d be right. Any hole in the wall bar in Milwaukee would have at least nine people in at 7:00 on a Friday. I’m not saying that the bar I go to is a dive or anything; it’s just been slowing down lately. The only problem with Friday night was that all nine people were actually sitting at the bar and no one was sitting at any of the tables. The only problem with nine people sitting at the bar is that there are only eleven bar stools. So I was forced to sit on the far end by the grill and the door to the restaurant. I really didn’t have that much of a problem with it because I’m not that type of guy. It actually turned out pretty well as I was out of the way of the freezing cold air that was blowing over my head and I was sitting next to the Baseball Encyclopedia (seriously, the guy knows everything). The Renter came in later and managed to squeeze her fat ass in between B.E. and me.

When I’m sitting at the bar I’m either watching TV, glancing outside, or checking out the restaurant to see who’s over there. About the time the Brewer’s were in the seventh inning I noticed two pretty hot women walking in the restaurant door. Turns out they were there for a birthday party that was being held in the hall downstairs. After a little while the one came in and got a pitcher of beer. Since I was sitting right next to the door she leaned over and asked me if the Brewer’s were playing in “real time.” (?) I told her the game was indeed live (because nine people want to sit at a bar and watch yesterday’s game). Then she asked where they were playing and I told her Minnesota to which she replied, “Oh, I don’t care about it then.” Again, (?)? She ended up telling me that she was there for her sister’s 16th birthday party (yeah, that was the other “pretty hot” woman who walked in, you’d think I’d be able to tell the difference between 28 and 16). When the Renter heard this she had to yell loud enough for the whole bar to hear that I was “into” young girls and sometimes even young boys. The woman looked at me like I had just killed her dog and took her beer back down to the party.

When you’re sitting at a bar with nine people in it you tend to notice objects in motion. When there isn’t much going on anything that moves catches your eye. So there I was, sitting by the door, snapping my head 90 degrees to the right whenever someone walked in the restaurant door and the someone who walked in the door was inevitably a 16 year-old girl. Every time I would cringe when I realized I was checking out a 16 year-old girl. And yet every time someone walked in the door my head would snap over. It was like I couldn’t even control it, an involuntary reflex. And it happened a lot, enough to get a new nickname from the Renter.

On Saturday I was leaving the grocery store and noticed there was one of those charitable car washes going on across the street. There were some girls in tight shirts and short shorts standing on the street holding up some kind of sign. So I went out of my way and exited the parking lot right across the street from where they were standing. Pulling up to the stop sign I secretly wished that there would be a ton of traffic and I’d have to sit there and wait for a while as I checked out the girls waving at passerbies. But no, there was no traffic and I drove out on to the street, half watching where I was going and half watching the girls (actually just their boobs). And then I read their sign. Nathan Hale Prom Squad. When I was in high school I went to exactly one school dance. I’m not sure what the dance schedule is, but I think that prom is in the spring. That and the fact that all the schools are out for the summer led me to believe that these girls were going to be seniors this coming fall. The summer going into my senior year, I was 17. Once again I felt a little sick that I was checking out 17 year-old girls.

So I diverted my eyes to the girls who were actually doing the car washes hoping to find some bikini and/or possible thong action (and yes I realize that those girls were probably 17 also). I looked closely and squinted my eyes and guess what I saw? Uggers!!! They had the cute girls with ample chests jumping up and down on the street while they put the fatties to work washing the cars. Thoroughly disappointed I drove on even though my Jeep could have used a wash and I could have used a blow job.

(On a side note, remember back when they had the big HIV/AIDS crisis in the porn industry? Does it really help that much to have a condom on for sex but not for blow jobs and money shots? I’m stumped.)

Sunday, June 17, 2007

Savings Gimmick

I used to save $1 bills as a savings gimmick.I believe everyone has a little piggy bank or something in which to put their change. Well, I wanted to take that to a different level. So every dollar bill that ended up in my pocket would be stashed in my singles collection. On good nights of dice I could add up to 30 ones to the stash. Just before Christmas I had it up to $1,800 but then it dropped down to $1,600 as I gave my mom and sister a sleeve each because I didn’t know what the hell to give them. My mom actually said that she felt the richest she’s ever felt holding 100 one dollar bills (yeah, that’s my mom, nuff said). And then I found out that the cashiers at Potowatomi (local casino) could change $800 in singles to eight $100 bills in less than ten minutes. As you can probably guess, I don’t have $1,600 in ones anymore. To be more specific, I think I might have three one dollar bills in my pocket right now. All the singles are gone. Being a tight wad I have a long list of things I’d like to get like lounge chairs for the deck, a new entertainment center, a new TV, 80 lb dumbbells, 1.5” lift kit on the Jeep, a 21 year-old Hispanic hooker, a 21 year-old African American hooker (because “black hooter” just sounds derogatory); you get the point, it’s a long list. With that $1,600 I could have gotten all of the above except for maybe the hookers (you can’t find quality hookers for $100 anymore). But no, yours truly blew it all on the blackjack tables. Sucks dick. Not that I suck dick, but you know what I mean. Right?

Now I have come up with a new “save for a rainy day” method. Lately when I play pool at the bar, instead of going to the quarter machine with a buck or two I stick a $5 bill in. I usually don’t put $5 into the pool table (I do win sometimes) and end up going home sounding like Mr. T with his 50 gold chains clanging together. I then stick all the quarters into my lovely skull bank (complete with fake rubber eyes). (Used to freak out women who came over for the first time, well, back when women used to come over.) And let me tell you, the skull bank is getting heavy. The last time I took it to the bank there was something like $140 in it, $100 of which was just in quarters. Actually, I didn’t take it in; the Renter took it to her work and did it for me. But anyway, I think this is a much safer way of saving money as I can’t imagine walking into the casino with $800 in quarters. Hmmm, I wonder how much that would weigh…

Saturday, June 16, 2007

Marquette Bastards

My sister is heading off to Perdue University this fall. I tried to get her to go to a nice affordable college like UW-Milwaukee (who made it to the Sweet Sixteen in 2005!) but she wouldn’t have any of that. I think her main goal is to get out of the house where mom is turning psychotic and my parents speak to each other through post-it notes. I can’t blame her for that. But $25k a year? I don’t know if the parents are paying for it or if she’s taking out loans, but that’s a lot of cash (money hoes).

Today I emailed dad and told him that my Roth IRA made $800 yesterday. He emailed back saying that if it did that every day I could retire early and to let the FA know that he has to get on that. So I sent an email off to the FA who replied that my father should jump on the money train while it’s hot. Dad replied that he won’t have anything left after Butthead’s done with college (yes, even my dad calls her Butthead). I tried to make my point that Marquette wasn’t that expensive once you took my $5k scholarship into account ($15k - $5k = $10k). The scholarship was available as long as I got a 3.5 gpa. Yeah, well, after the first year I had a 3.49. Back then and to this day I thought my parents had called and made arrangements to keep the scholarship intact. So I got this email from dad today:

Oh, they took it away. I tried to argue that the 3.49 was close enough and they said no. If you got it above the 3.5 they would reinstate it. Bastards. I think the whole thing was just a setup. They can certainly manipulate the gpa so that it ends up below a certain point.

I’m not a big conspiracy theory kind of guy, but if you think about it, bumping some poor schmuck down from a 3.5 to a 3.49 to get another $5k out of him isn’t that far fetched. My academic friend Swandad might have more insight (feel free to comment), but in the dark dungy basement of some bunker located under the university chapel (what better place?), there could be a bunch of hump-backed old men calculating gpa’s to the fifth decimal point trying to screw young men out of their scholarships (they are Catholic after all and back then I was young and kinda cute). I’m sure they figured that after you’ve spent one whole year there you will just stick it out for three more years and fork over the additional money to say that you actually graduated from Marquette University. That was their plan. But it didn’t work on me. Well, it might have worked on me if it wasn’t for something called Calculus 3. Back in high school I was damn good at math. Damn good as in I took the SAT, which you could use a calculator on, without a calculator and got a 97% (but I sure as hell felt pretty dumb when everyone else pulled their calculators out for the math section and I didn’t have one). Calculus 1 and 2 weren’t that bad, but I had to take Calculus 3 twice in order to get a D. And that was only because I bought a TI-1000 something that solved all the problems for me. The fucker had a full keyboard and a six inch screen that plotted whatever equation you typed in. My last two test scores were 95 and 93 and I still got a D. If only I had gotten that calculator at the beginning of the class. By then I was a semester behind every engineering student and still had to take Differential Equations so I threw in the towel. I checked out UW-Milwaukee and their accounting program, found out I was overqualified in math (because every numb nut can add and subtract), and I signed on the dotted line. UW-Milwaukee’s tuition was equivalent to my private high school tuition, although instead of getting free books I had to fork out $100 for every class.

(That TI-1000 something with the full keyboard and monstrous screen also “paid off” in several accounting courses.)

So the Marquette bastards evidently took away my scholarship and made my parents carry the full load. You may or may not know this already, but I have a thing for steaks. Steaks are good, especially with my Spicy Montreal Steak Seasoning that I sprinkle on (seriously, try the stuff). The Renter and I will go to Pick ‘N Save and get two plate steaks (steaks as big as your plate) for $10, or $5 a piece. This isn’t a bad deal in my mind. A five dollar plate steak with nothing else will fill me up. Well, back when I was in college my family only had steak on rare occasions. I remember mom coming home from the grocery store and loudly proclaiming that she had bought steaks. Dad would run outside and start the grill up and my whole family would stand by the grill drooling as we waited for the steaks to be done. And now that I know that the Marquette bastards took away my scholarship because of a 3.49 and prohibited me from having steak for dinner every night I am royally pissed. Fucking Roman Catholic Jesuit 12 year-old alter boy fucker fuckers.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Back In The Days…

Back in the days when I was, oh, say 14 or 15, I worked for my dad to make extra cash. My dad owned his own fire protection company. When he first started the business it was just my dad designing and installing systems by himself using our International Scout II as a work truck. (By the way, the Scout was a freaking awesome vehicle. You could take the top off and pops always had some oversized tires with gnarly treads on it. We even took it on a four week camping trip out west.) Eventually he hired two fitters and bought two vans for them to use. But my dad was a non-union kind of guy and eventually got fed up with one of our neighbors (who was also a fitter) spying on him and reporting back to the union. So he folded up the company and worked solely on the design part of the job. He had his insider contacts and was never short on work.

I used to help him in the designing process. He and I would go out to job sights and measure out the whole building. We got every measurement possible from room dimensions to ceiling hight to wall thickness. We had everything down on paper and then back at the office he would have me sketch the building out using AutoCADD (which is probably an ancient program by now). Back in the day AutoCADD was a pretty complex program and pops was always looking for the fastest computer possible. I remember him paying $3,000 for a 300 Mhz computer when they first came out. Anyway, I would either work at his office or at home drawing these floor plans for $10 an hour. Not bad work for a 15 year old, but then again I was working for my father and would get paid whenever there was money available. It was kind of easy in that I could work whenever I wanted to but then again there were times when he needed something done and I didn’t have much of a choice (kind of like the post college life).

I would say my favorite times were when we were out on a job site measuring. Out on the job site dad and I had a lot of personal interaction unlike the computer work. Typically we would have fun cracking jokes but there were always the other times when we wouldn’t say much to each other. One of the more memorable times was when we were measuring Brookfield Square which is a fairly big mall just outside of Milwaukee. The mall, for whatever reason, was already built but the codes required it to have sprinklers. So there dad and I were, measuring the mall and all its shops while shoppers were milling around. Usually the job sites would be vacant, either new buildings in the process of going up or old buildings being remodeled. Brookfield Square has a really high ceiling. Dad had these fiberglass “sticks” that would extend out and lock into place, the inner stick being an inch wide going all the way to the outermost casing being six inches wide (kind of like those expanding police batons only on a much larger scale). So there I was extending these six foot long extensions up and up till I reached the ceiling. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem and you’d just lean it again the wall to balance it and go up. For some reason I couldn’t do that at the mall. Either the ceiling had a pitch to it or there was something on the wall that wouldn’t let me do it. I extended the sticks up to 40 feet and started to have problems balancing it and I was no where near the ceiling yet. I had another 15 feet to go and I could see the sticks wobbling back and forth at the top while I tried my hardest to keep them stable. I got them up to 50 feet and (go figure) my hands started to sweat like crazy. I was standing there with a 50 foot long pole standing straight up, trying to keep it from falling over while women were pushing their kids around me in strollers. Had they known how much difficulty I was having they wouldn’t have been anywhere near me. I finally got it up to the ceiling, took the measurement, and brought it back down. Once I had it back down dad looked at me and said, “You looked a little nervous there.” “Yeah, that thing’s really hard to handle when you extend it that far up.” “If you put your feet on both sides of the base it helps to stabilize it.” Great, thanks dad, you couldn’t have told me this before I almost wiped out six moms and their kids?

Another memorable moment was when dad was talking to one of the fire inspectors he didn’t like. This guy would give my dad problems left and right for petty little shit. So one day we were at a site and the guy walked up to us. The fire inspector had two hearing aids. As he walked up I could see my dad mouthing words but couldn’t hear a damn thing. The fire inspector held his hand up in a “hold on” kind of fashion and adjusted his hearing aids. Once he was done my dad yelled, “So John, how’s it going?” so loud that it almost made me jump. The fire inspector nearly crapped his pants and dropped all his paperwork in a quick effort to fix his hearing aids. Yeah, now you know where I get my sense of humor from.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

I'm Soooo Not In Shape

Yesterday after work I decided to lift weights. I did six sets of biceps and six sets of triceps. I was going to do some leg exercises too but I hate leg exercises with a passion. It was really nice outside so I decided to swap out the leg exercises with a jog around the neighborhood. Only problem was that the jog around the neighborhood turned into a jog around the block. Well, it wasn’t that short, but it sure as hell wasn’t much over a mile. And there were frequent frequent frequent stops where I was gasping for air and people driving by actually pulled over and asked if I needed help. Yeah, it didn’t go so well.

After I got home and caught my breath (and smoked a cigarette) I pulled out the hedge trimmer and hacked away at two bushes in front of my house. Now, most people use the electric powered trimmers with the three foot arm and oscillating blades. No, no, not me, that’s beer money being wasted on an electric trimmer when I can easily borrow dad’s manually operated trimmer that looks like the biggest scissors ever. I mean, why spend money on something that would make the job easier when you have a functional tool that will get the job done but will require a little effort? Or at least I thought it would require little effort. After 15 minutes of hacking away at the bush I could be found lying down in my front yard panting like a puppy. After 15 minutes I was sweating more than I was after my mile jog. After 15 minutes I was ready to rip the fucking bush out of the ground. After 15 minutes I became very depressed, even to the point of self mutilation with the hedge trimmer, because I still had another bush to trim. Holding my arms parallel to the ground and constantly opening and closing the trimmer taxed my shoulders and arms (which were still shaking from lifting weights) to the point where I wondered if I’d ever be able to whack off again. That, my friends, is a damn scary thought. But I eventually got it done. They’re not exactly symmetrical, but I could never cut in a straight line in the first place. Shit, most of the time I can’t even walk in a straight line.

Oh, and for the record, I've gone jogging two days in a row now. Pretty soon I'll be able to climb a flight of stairs without wretching projectile vomit when I reach the top.

Monday, June 11, 2007

Concert, Graduation, and 30th B-day Party

Unlike most weekends, this past weekend I actually had plans. I like going into weekends not having anything lined up so I can do whatever the hell I please but this was not the case. The three events I was expected to attend were:

FA’s wife’s brother’s concert

Sister’s high school graduation

Friend’s 30th surprise birthday party

The concert was on Friday and supposedly started at 9:00. I got home from the parent’s house and went directly to the bar. I figured I could get a couple pitchers of cheap beer in me before the concert was supposed to start. The Renter swung by a little before 9:00 and we were off to downtown.

At 9:15 the concert hall was empty except for four or five people. I got a text message from the FA stating that he was upstairs eating. The FA has his ups and downs and after looking around for a while I eventually found him downstairs eating with his wife, wife’s friend, and two of the FA’s friends (yeah, I was surprised too, FA actually has friends). We sat and chilled for a bit as the concert was now supposed to start at 10:00. I had two or three 20 oz beers and was starting to get in my comfort zone. This was not a good thing. When I get into my comfort zone, that’s exactly what it is, my comfort zone. Being in my comfort zone usually takes other people out of their comfort zone. So wouldn’t you know it, I had to bring up one of the friend’s old boyfriends. I assure you I had nothing but good intentions. I knew that they had a hard time breaking up, but I just wanted to politely ask how she was doing. What I didn’t take into account was that they had a REALLY hard time breaking up and that this happened over five years ago. My concerns were met with scowls and mean looks. Then, instead of backpedaling, I pushed a little further, still thinking that I was just voicing my concern for her. I finally stopped after getting punched and pinched by the Renter and just shut my yap.

The group made it upstairs to the concert hall where we found out you couldn’t smoke. A little bummed I grabbed a beer and chatted for a bit with whoever would still talk to me. And then, out of the blue, the wife’s friend asked me if I wanted to go back downstairs for a cigarette. Surprised, I said sure and we ended up talking for five minutes at the bar. The conversation was relatively tame (although I can’t remember much of it) until I stuck my foot in my mouth again and we went back upstairs. Around 11:00 the Renter and I went down for a cigarette.

Renter: Dude, she doesn’t like you that much.

Me: No, not really. I think she said I was more annoying than anything. Am I annoying?

Renter: Sometime you certainly can be, kind of like when you brought up her old boyfriend.

Me: Yeah, well, I guess I can see that. Oh well, she’s never liked me. I think I just like giving her shit.

(The fact that I feel the need to define “giving her shit” on this stupid website is kind of disturbing. “Giving her shit” is just joking or kidding with and has nothing to do with actual feces.)

The Renter and I went back upstairs to say goodbye to everyone. The concert was good, great songs and stage presence, but the acoustics just weren’t the greatest for the vocals. The bass was thumping, the guitars were cranking, and the vocals were right on pitch, just couldn’t quite pick the words out.

Saturday morning I woke up fairly early and mowed the lawn. I sat down on the deck for a break and felt the need to fart. After letting a small one slide I realized that it was missing the main component that makes up a fart: gas. I quickly got up and ran for the bathroom with the Renter about to throw up her lunch when she saw the wet spot on the back of my shorts. I literally had crap spread from cheek to cheek. Totally fucking gross, I know, but I can’t try to be high and mighty telling of my heroic drinking stories without letting you in on the not so high and mighty stories of me crapping my pants. And yes, if you’re keeping a running total, that would be the second time that I crapped my pants in a week.

The sister’s graduation was at 1:30. It was a nice day so they decided to hold it out on the football field. Good idea in my mind if its 85 degrees out and sunny and you’re wearing a tank top and shorts. Horrible idea if you’re dressed in khakis and a collared shirt. Throughout the hour long ceremony I could feel sweat dripping down my chest and legs. Being 6’5” and sitting on bleachers ddidn’t help any either. I felt quite confined with some big fat dude sitting in front of me forcing me to put both legs out in the isle. But after they had three girls stand up and give their speeches (the last one being the class president who talked way too long) they managed to blow through the 200 students in just over 15 minutes. And no, I was not checking out the high school girls because that’s just wrong. Well, I wasn’t until after the ceremony when they unzipped the hot gowns to reveal hooters that belonged on much older women. They didn’t make them like that back when I was in high school. (I later asked a school teacher friend who informed me that the cut-off date for school is – some date I don’t remember – and that some of them could have been 17. But it’s not like I was checking them out hardcore, just a glance here and there so all is good. Right?)

After the graduation I had to go to TBird’s surprise birthday party. I kind of missed out on the surprise as I arrived late, but I guess he had absolutely no idea the party had been planned. They had quite the turnout and even had a pig roasting on a spigot. The old roommate told me earlier in the week that they were wondering how much beer to get. He said that whenever they get together everyone stuffs themselves with the food and they always have tons of beer left. So I found it quite funny at 5:30 to see him sitting in a chair with his hand covering his stomach and this dazed look on his face. I picked up the slack for everyone, chugging beers like there was no tomorrow. I would guess that I was in the cooler every fifteen minutes for the whole time I was there. After a while I started to avoid people I didn’t know that well trying to hide the fact that I was getting pretty fucked up. And then the vodka came out. The old roommate got some Red Bull in hopes of waking up and getting out of his slump. We used 16 ounce cups, filled them halfway with ice, up to the ice with vodka, and the rest with Red Bull. Actually, I’m not sure if that was the process as by this time I wouldn’t trust myself to pour out of the brand new bottle of Absolute, but they were strong even for my tastes. Of course I finished mine first and the Renter made me a vodka lemonade which was even stronger than the first drink. After another lemonade I was pretty much toast. I guess I said goodbye to everyone and stumbled out to the Renter’s car.

I didn’t do a damn thing on Sunday. I was supposed to get up early and usher in church but that didn’t happen. I don’t know but there’s something about getting up earlier on a weekend than you would normally get up on a weekday that I just can’t do. Weekends are made for getting up at noon, at least that’s what I think. So I sat on the couch and watched TV for a good solid twelve hours (while nursing just a bit of a headache). I only left the couch to pee or make food (whole frozen pizza). For some reason I had absolutely no problem farting and “voiced my opinion” as often as possible and eventually had to use air freshener on the couch. Clouds like the ones that followed Pig Pen when he walked in the Snoopy cartoons would rise up from the couch every time I moved. Renter: “And you wonder why you don’t have a girlfriend.” No, I don’t wonder, I pretty much know why already.

And lastly, I wrote about Genarlow Wilson a while ago. He was the high schooler who was given 10 years in prison for receiving oral sex from a 15 year old when he was 17. Now, not saying that I would approve of any of this, but I will express my concern with the way the laws were set up. The Georgia state law required his 10 year sentence while if he would have actually had sex with her it would have been 1 year. Anyway, you can check out the ESPN article here. He’s not out of the clear yet. A judge voided his sentence today but the state prosecutors are appealing it. I don’t know how they can appeal it with all the media coverage the story has received and all the hype Genarlow has on his side, but I guess that’s Georgia for you.

Thursday, June 07, 2007

Thank You Cubs Fans!!!

Thank you for leaving Milwaukee. Thank you for taking your asshole driving skills back home with you. You turned my 30 minute drive home into a 50 minute ride from hell. I'm not sure but I'm going to guess you have the little posts at intersections with the red, yello, and green lights on them. Just because you're from Illinios doesn't mean they don't apply to you, too. Fuck you for clogging up every street I tried to take. Every fucking street. Side streets, back roads, highways, every route I tried to take, you were there blocking my way.

Next time you come to Milwaukee take the fucking train.

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

(Un)Painfully True

When I go out drinking (rare) I would think it’s safe to say that I consume a decent quantity of beer. I believe the pitchers of beer at the corner bar hold 42 ounces and on a good night I might go through four or five or six of them. Running the numbers through my head (calculator), this would amount to anywhere from 168 to 252 ounces of beer over a five hour time period. 252 ounces of any liquid will not get processed (expelled) from your system in five hours. So when I go to bed I usually have quite the tummy full that has to wait till the morning to be released (kind of like catch and release?). The result is whatever is left in my system pushes against my stomach walls stretching my abs outward that leaves me feeling like I did 500 sit-ups in the morning. No matter where I poke on my stomach it will hurt, all the way from top to bottom to side to side. I usually sleep on my side which allows the tub of beer to expand outward to its full extent. This does not help in the matter.

However, recently I tried something new. I can’t sleep on my back because I snore like a mother fucker. The only other alternative to sleeping on my side would be sleeping on my stomach. And you know what? I woke up without any ab pain. The fact that I was sleeping on my stomach kept my stomach muscles from expanding outward leaving me pain free. This, my friends, is pretty fucking cool in my book. Now the only pain I feel is the slight soreness from doing the 5.5 sit-ups every night. Sweet.

Yes, I am a wealth of knowledge. But yet today I farted at the parent's house and crapped in my pants. Now that is painfully true.

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

Minor Dilemma

I have a minor dilemma here. Either:

1. Nothing has happened in the past five days that would be remotely blog worthy or

2. I do not remember any blog worthy events happening due to my high level of intoxication.

Like seriously folks. I do not go shopping, I do not spend money on CDs or DVDs, I don’t spend any money on material objects. I start Fridays with $200 in my pocket and before you know it it’s Sunday night and I’m down to $26.75. That’s how every weekend goes. I spend my two week allowance in three days on beer and food (oh, and I failed to mention the two or three times the credit card gets swiped). And it’s not even all the much food, maybe two trips to taco bell, some $.25 wings, and $10 worth of steaks. This might explain why I don’t remember anything worth writing about in the last five days.

Or maybe not much has happened lately.

So, today I decided I’d post this story about a little weekend getaway I had in October 2005.

Around a year and a half ago the one month love (San), G the hairdresser and I took a weekend trip north to some small hick town with three other couples. B the neighbor brought his kids so we had 11 people total. San, G and I loaded up the car with beer, vodka, sloppy joes and fishing gear and headed off after work on a Friday. I should have known the weekend was not going to go well after we got lost about 10 miles from the town. We were told they’d have a fire going by the time we got there so we stopped at this huge house with a bonfire in the front yard. The huge house fit the description as we were looking for an old mill. Of course now that I think of it there wasn’t any water near this house so obviously it wasn’t it. G and I rang the doorbell only to find this humongous dog ready to tear our arms off. After the woman opened the door the dog seemed fairly calm and we asked if we were at the right place (not) and if they could give us directions based on the sketchy notes we had. They tried to help and said if we couldn’t find it to bring the cooler of beer back and they’d help us finish it. In hind sight that’s what we should have done. But no, we drove on and found a place that looked like it might be it but we weren’t sure. We decided to go in the bar next door and wait to see if B the neighbor’s minivan showed up or not. At the bar we were informed that the old mill was indeed the place we drove by but we decided to have a couple pitchers anyway.
After the pitchers we wandered over to the mill and the familiar minivan in the driveway so we knew it was the right place. We met everyone else and settled in to the loft above the living room (two beds, San and I on one, G on the other). And then the beer came out. Sitting by the campfire, chugging beers, what could be better? Someone suggested we go over to the bar so the herd marched over. G played the locals for $20 a game in pool (and kicked their asses) while the rest of us sat at a table telling jokes. Pretty quiet night, San and I snuck off early and head back to the mill only to have G walk up the stairs as we’re smacking some ass (I guess technically I was smacking her ass, but whatever). A little while later the rest of the group came over and we all sat around the campfire chugging even more beer. At one point in the evening B asked me to help him with this gigantic cooler, frickin’ huge. I think I made it ten steps before the ground began to spin which sent me crashing to the ground on my shoulder (no, I wasn’t drunk, the ground was really spinning). That was pretty much the Friday night. You think it’s going well so far, eh?
Saturday we wake up to the smell of bacon and eggs (oh thank you!). Well, for me, eggs and beer. Come on, it’s vacation! Around noon the rum comes out of the closet. San got mad at me for taking sips from her drink and headed up to the bar for a while (oh well). G brought out his fishing gear and found a boat to go out on the lake in. One of the couples is a little older, maybe 45, and the wife is a beast. Maybe 5’9” and a good 200 lbs, but solid (just how you want your wife described). She helped G get the boat out in the water and G paddled off with his vodka and water by his side. A little while later San came back and yelled at me a little. We had some sloppy joes and some more beer. An hour later I looked to my right only to see G walking up the bank completely drenched. The story goes he hadn’t had a bite for an hour and then got a decent pull on the rod. As a true fisherman, G stood up in the boat to reel it in and managed to tip the boat over. G fell in the water, the boat filled up to the brim and the paddles were slowly floated away. With the anchor rope wrapped around his leg, G managed to retrieve the paddles and dragged the boat back to the shore. Using his fish cooler he bailed all the water out of the boat and rowed it back to the mill. By the time he got to the front steps everyone was laughing at him and his sopping wet clothes. The women made him strip right on the front porch down to his underwear before they’d let him in. They even pulled out some weeds that were stuck in his ass crack!

The evening started out like Friday with everyone heading back up to the bar. Someone had the great idea of playing games for shots and everyone got pretty lit. Lit to the point where the old lady who was bartending told me to go and get G (who was sitting a little bit away from the rest of us) because the 20 yr old girl who was taking over wouldn’t be able to handle him. Back then he was a sour old man, wait, he still is an old bastard. San and I snuck off a little early and I was treated to a blow job by the campfire. You would think that would be when the fun started, right? No, not even close. While we were fooling around B’s girlfriend got knocked over (we think it was by big woman) and hit her head on the bottom rung of a bar stool on the way down. She instantly went out cold to the horror of everyone standing around her. Fortunately there were some EMT’s in the house, dressed up for Halloween with fake blood if you can believe that. They had a helicopter fly in and whisked them away to the nearest hospital.

G came stumbling home a bit later, only to puke in the loft like a water spout that wouldn’t shut off. We had to haul this 14’ by 20’ rug outside as the whole house stunk. And then the real shit happened. The horse woman had an argument with her husband. Well, maybe like more of a UFC fight than an argument. His left eye was swollen and black and blue; she had a chipped tooth when he couldn’t take it anymore. Somehow he managed to go into hiding and she went on a rampage looking for him. I was sitting at the kitchen table eating a sloppy joe when she walked by my, took a huge bite of my sandwich with meat tumbling out the sides, put it back on my plate and took off outside. I had had just about enough of this and after peering out the window I quietly snuck outside for a beer and cigarette. Well, wouldn’t you know it, she came storming around the corner screaming her husband’s name. She asked me if I knew where he was and not satisfied with my answer punched out the front door window.

Another couple that was with us called the cops. She eventually found her husband in their van. After they were in there rocking the van back and forth (I’m guessing it wasn’t from passionate sex), the cops finally showed up. We showed them the glass and pointed to the van. After 30 minutes of questioning they hauled her off to the station. Now, this was all entertaining and all, but the other innocent people I was with wouldn’t let me have a beer in front of the cops. It’s not like I was driving anywhere, didn’t even have keys for any of the cars in the driveway, but I waited till they were done and finished off two more, you know, just to cap the night off.

Or at least I thought we were capping the night off. After the cops left the others quickly gathered up their things wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible. I finished off my beer, packed up my bag and did the same. G and I slept most of the way home with G still smelling like lake water (or something else that old men smell like).

For months afterward we were still telling stories, though as time went on the stories got a little bigger than they actually were.