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 27, 2006
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Merry Christmas!
Merry Christmas Landlord.
Renter
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.
Renter
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.)
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?
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.
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.
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
Almost...Kissed...A...Girl...
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!”
“Ok.”
“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.
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!”
“Ok.”
“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.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Back In The Saddle
Sorry, been busy lately.
Emails with Yahoo Personals girl
Me: I don't suppose you're free tonight from 6:00 to 8:00? I'm sorry but I need to use you for sex, er, I mean dinner at a very high class restaurant like Fudruckers or something. Ok, Fudruckers isn't high class but I haven't been there for a while and a nice juicy burger that drips down your shirt is always good. Oh yeah, and please decline this offer so I don't have to worry about keeping a beautiful woman entertained tonight, otherwise my stomach will be in knots all day. Or accept, that would be ok, too. Goodness, I think I'm still loaded.
[If you haven’t noticed I have a special way with women, I’ll let you in on the secret later.]
Yahoo girl: Hey! I'm sorry but I'm not available. I have Samantha and we're watching/babysitting a dog. She's getting dropped off tonight. :( Otherwise you bet I would! Hey - you may want to lay off the sauce a bit! You're always loaded or hung over! LOL
[And my attempt to excuse myself for the utterly stupid email…]
Me: I was using the "loaded" thing to maybe excuse myself for a really weird email that went this way and that way when it could have been just "6:00 dinner at Fuds." I mean, the email even had "sex" in there and I'm not even sure what that is anymore, at least with another person. It is like riding a bike, right? And to think I was once a porn star (at least in my mind). I'll just shut up now, close my office door and take a nap. And no, I'm really not all that weird, just trying to make you laugh, even if you're just laughing at me and not with me. Have a very wonderful Thanksgiving (puke) if I don't hear from you. I will be cleaning out the gutters and enjoying the Thanksgiving dinner at Potowatomi with a group of people who are bigger losers than me, if that's possible. (I hear you laughing!)
Fudruckers some other time.
[Like that email was any better than the first one.]
Yahoo girl: I don't think that you would even qualify for "the biggest loser" show. You have nothing to worry about, I laugh at you all the time! Hahahehe
Two good deeds of the day:
Walking around downtown today I noticed a woman walking in front of me. Not hot, not at all, maybe 50 with gray hair.
“Mam?”
She turns her head, looks up at me and starts veering away from me with this frightened look on her face. Yeah, that’s what happens when tall white guys say “mam” in downtown Milwaukee.
“I think your skirt is hooked on something.”
She feels around her backside and realizes that yes, her backside is quite exposed. I guess her skirt was tucked in her underwear or pantyhose or something, how would I know.
“You’re right, they are! Thank you very much! I’m sure that wasn’t easy for you to point it out.”
If only she really knew me and the crap I say.
And the second good deed? I left this for the Renter.
And that was the second one of the day.
And yes that is sticking out of the water.
Emails with Yahoo Personals girl
Me: I don't suppose you're free tonight from 6:00 to 8:00? I'm sorry but I need to use you for sex, er, I mean dinner at a very high class restaurant like Fudruckers or something. Ok, Fudruckers isn't high class but I haven't been there for a while and a nice juicy burger that drips down your shirt is always good. Oh yeah, and please decline this offer so I don't have to worry about keeping a beautiful woman entertained tonight, otherwise my stomach will be in knots all day. Or accept, that would be ok, too. Goodness, I think I'm still loaded.
[If you haven’t noticed I have a special way with women, I’ll let you in on the secret later.]
Yahoo girl: Hey! I'm sorry but I'm not available. I have Samantha and we're watching/babysitting a dog. She's getting dropped off tonight. :( Otherwise you bet I would! Hey - you may want to lay off the sauce a bit! You're always loaded or hung over! LOL
[And my attempt to excuse myself for the utterly stupid email…]
Me: I was using the "loaded" thing to maybe excuse myself for a really weird email that went this way and that way when it could have been just "6:00 dinner at Fuds." I mean, the email even had "sex" in there and I'm not even sure what that is anymore, at least with another person. It is like riding a bike, right? And to think I was once a porn star (at least in my mind). I'll just shut up now, close my office door and take a nap. And no, I'm really not all that weird, just trying to make you laugh, even if you're just laughing at me and not with me. Have a very wonderful Thanksgiving (puke) if I don't hear from you. I will be cleaning out the gutters and enjoying the Thanksgiving dinner at Potowatomi with a group of people who are bigger losers than me, if that's possible. (I hear you laughing!)
Fudruckers some other time.
[Like that email was any better than the first one.]
Yahoo girl: I don't think that you would even qualify for "the biggest loser" show. You have nothing to worry about, I laugh at you all the time! Hahahehe
Two good deeds of the day:
Walking around downtown today I noticed a woman walking in front of me. Not hot, not at all, maybe 50 with gray hair.
“Mam?”
She turns her head, looks up at me and starts veering away from me with this frightened look on her face. Yeah, that’s what happens when tall white guys say “mam” in downtown Milwaukee.
“I think your skirt is hooked on something.”
She feels around her backside and realizes that yes, her backside is quite exposed. I guess her skirt was tucked in her underwear or pantyhose or something, how would I know.
“You’re right, they are! Thank you very much! I’m sure that wasn’t easy for you to point it out.”
If only she really knew me and the crap I say.
And the second good deed? I left this for the Renter.
And that was the second one of the day.
And yes that is sticking out of the water.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Thanksgiving Sucks Ass
I received an email from the tall chic I met through Yahoo Personals this morning. It was something pretty lame mentioning “Happy Holidays!” and included some attachment which I of course did not open after reading “Happy Holidays!” My response back to her:
“Bah, humbug. I'm already ditching the family for Thanksgiving and the 2.5 hour car ride to Wisconsin Rapids to see my neanderthal cousins and watch my dad pretend to sleep on the couch when he's really awake and just doesn't want to talk to anyone.”
Her response back: “Eeks! Sorry to hear about that! I'm trying to decide just which side of the family I'm going to see and if I'm traveling. I LOVE the holidays!”
And my way-too-personal email back to her that I wished I hadn’t sent the moment “your message has been sent” popped up on my screen: “Women usually do like the holidays. So why is it for the past five years I have been single for the holiday season? Is it that I subconsciously will myself to be single that time of year or that I consciously ditch whatever hoochie is letting me stick my dick in her when the holiday season approaches?”
Now I’m thinking I should have re-worded that just a little bit as I haven’t gotten an email back from her since. Yes, I have MAD social skills, especially with members of the opposite sex.
The last girlfriend I had over the holidays was the psycho one who tried drinking my beer (that’s a no no) and threw insults at me for three hours while she got totally obliterated at MY corner bar. I just brushed off everything she said which pissed her off even more but anyway, back to the holidays.
You see, I don’t like the holidays. Not that the holidays are bad, but it’s the mandatory family gatherings that I am forced to attend that I hate with a passion. When I informed the family this week that I wouldn’t be joining them for Thanksgiving my mother told me, “Don’t turn your back on your family. You only get to see these people twice a year.” Uh, ya think there’s a reason I only see them twice a year? If they had any resemblance to normal people I’d be hanging out with them and going to Brewers games or something. But that is not the case, far, far from it. Let’s see here, two cousins who are twins, 26 years old, 6’5” and 250 lbs, who have never had girlfriends, let alone kissed a girl, who bought THEIR first car TOGETHER and split the payments, and shockingly, they still live at home with mom and pop (nimrods forced me to flip through their trading card collection last year). Then there’s the family with 6 or 7 kids (I lost track a while back), three of which are adopted, one whose wife up and left him with two kids while she moved back to Kentucky (and one of the kids was from HER previous marriage), one whose wife looks strikingly similar to him, one who is the overly ambitious type who’s trying to find a cure for cancer while she’s still in high school (you know my sister LOVES being compared to her), another that has issues so severe I can’t even write about them without feeling somewhat guilty (I’m guilt free up this point), and lastly, the hot Korean cousin who I wouldn’t mind getting freaky with (it’s ok, she’s adopted, that is ok, right?) (ok, maybe I feel a little guilty now). Not surprisingly these people are all on one side of the family, mom’s side. Dad’s side is fucking cool and a blast to hang out with even though they do the hunting/fishing thing to the extreme (but they do have some funny ass stories!).
Hanging out with the afore mentioned people is quite painful on Thanksgivings. First you have the mandatory small talk, the how are you, how’s your job, do you have a girlfriend (oh I love that one but I can’t reply “Fuck no” in front of the family), how’s the new house, have you managed to fill that five gallon pail with semen yet, you know, just the standard interrogation questions. Please, all I want to do is get in the door so I can sit in the corner and look at my watch every five minutes.
Then there’s the meal at which I’m supposed to talk with family members and try to seem interested in their lives when I’m really just checking out the hot Korean’s thong sticking out the back of her pants (it was purple last year). Not wanting to partake in any of the conversations about how XYZ is studying German, Russian, and Chinese or how ABC and DEF just got engaged (or avoiding beeing caught ogling the cousin’s ass), I always eat as quickly as possible and excuse myself by either saying, “Oh, I’m full.” or “Oh, I have to go masturbate while the image of my cousin’s thong is still fresh in my memory.”
Escaping early from the feasting has two advantages: the first being I get out of the conversations, the second being I then get the choice couch right in front of where a TV should be located. Yes my friends, “where the TV should be located” because there is no TV in the living room. The TV is in the basement. I don’t know too many people who would be comfortable going into someone’s house and sitting alone in their basement to watch the football games which inevitably will be blasted with world record snow storms. Not that it’s actually snowing in the cities holding the games (how often does it snow in Dallas?) but the TV reception is so bad and fuzzy it looks like the heavens opened up and said “fuck you” to Thanksgiving football. Technically it would be “fuck you and go talk to your anything-but-normal relatives and try to be pleasant and don’t leave any sperm deposits on their toothbrushes,” but you get the point.
After the meal everyone I am trying to avoid manage to wedge their asses in the couch I am sitting on in a manner which hip/shoulder/leg touching is unavoidable. Just because we aren’t on a city bus doesn’t mean it’s ok to sit that close to me. Of course this is ok if the hot Korean is sitting next to me but it’s not ok when everyone notices the erection in my pants. “Uh, excuse me, I have to go masturbate again.”
Then the “game of the year” (being the new and hot board game that everyone is talking about) is introduced and everyone gets excited and claps like the Energizer Bunny. Not me. I always have to politely decline offers to play the game as that would require more interaction the clan. It’s not exactly like city folk (me) getting along with country folk (them), but more like city folk (me) getting along with people from Angola who kill their pets for food and stay virgins till they get married (yeah, that would be them). And usually it takes these Angolans at least an hour to get the hang of the game and I certainly don’t have the patience for that.
Three hours later and I’ll try to talk to pops and he’ll ignore me to keep his cover of “sleeping” alive. That leaves me stuck talking to the twins because even though their foreheads protrude at an astonishing angle, there isn’t any extra brain matter to fill the space. I can’t even recall one meaningful conversation I’ve had with them besides the trading card incident. “Oh, that Hayward Workman card from 1997 might be worth something.” Oh yes, memorable conversation indeed.
So I get insanely bored, more bored than an inmate on death row (hey, at least they have weight rooms and stuff). But the boredom is not entirely based on the picture I have painted for you. No, it is also influenced by my own daydreaming, thinking about the things I could be doing if I was not there, and maybe more importantly, things I could be having. You see, nobody smokes (cigarettes) and nobody drinks. If you have read anything about me on any random post you will know that I like beer. A lot. I like cheap vodka and lemonade. I like shots of Southern Comfort. I like test tube shots of some fruity beverage stuck in between two perfectly rounded fake breasts and having my face engulfed in boobies. Sorry, I digressed a bit there. But sad to say, I crave beer just to get me through Thanksgiving. Alcohol might make the situation just a bit more bearable, depending on the level of consumption I deem appropriate, and then doubling that level just to make sure. I can hear the stories now, “Remember that time B got totally wasted and fucked the cat and had to be taken to the hospital because he was allergic to it?” or “Remember that time B got totally wasted and grabbed his adopted cousin’s boob and tried to make out with her?” or “Remember that time B got totally wasted and peed his pants and puked in the washer he was trying to wash his pants in?” But no, my family would not find this funny at all or tell jokes about it in the future. It would be more like, “We need to get B some serious help,” because that’s how they are.
I think you can get my point on why Thanksgiving is such a painful holiday for me. This year it’s supposed to be 60 degrees here so I’m going to mow the lawn and clean out the gutters, oh, and drink some beer. Everyone have a fun and safe Thanksgiving.
“Bah, humbug. I'm already ditching the family for Thanksgiving and the 2.5 hour car ride to Wisconsin Rapids to see my neanderthal cousins and watch my dad pretend to sleep on the couch when he's really awake and just doesn't want to talk to anyone.”
Her response back: “Eeks! Sorry to hear about that! I'm trying to decide just which side of the family I'm going to see and if I'm traveling. I LOVE the holidays!”
And my way-too-personal email back to her that I wished I hadn’t sent the moment “your message has been sent” popped up on my screen: “Women usually do like the holidays. So why is it for the past five years I have been single for the holiday season? Is it that I subconsciously will myself to be single that time of year or that I consciously ditch whatever hoochie is letting me stick my dick in her when the holiday season approaches?”
Now I’m thinking I should have re-worded that just a little bit as I haven’t gotten an email back from her since. Yes, I have MAD social skills, especially with members of the opposite sex.
The last girlfriend I had over the holidays was the psycho one who tried drinking my beer (that’s a no no) and threw insults at me for three hours while she got totally obliterated at MY corner bar. I just brushed off everything she said which pissed her off even more but anyway, back to the holidays.
You see, I don’t like the holidays. Not that the holidays are bad, but it’s the mandatory family gatherings that I am forced to attend that I hate with a passion. When I informed the family this week that I wouldn’t be joining them for Thanksgiving my mother told me, “Don’t turn your back on your family. You only get to see these people twice a year.” Uh, ya think there’s a reason I only see them twice a year? If they had any resemblance to normal people I’d be hanging out with them and going to Brewers games or something. But that is not the case, far, far from it. Let’s see here, two cousins who are twins, 26 years old, 6’5” and 250 lbs, who have never had girlfriends, let alone kissed a girl, who bought THEIR first car TOGETHER and split the payments, and shockingly, they still live at home with mom and pop (nimrods forced me to flip through their trading card collection last year). Then there’s the family with 6 or 7 kids (I lost track a while back), three of which are adopted, one whose wife up and left him with two kids while she moved back to Kentucky (and one of the kids was from HER previous marriage), one whose wife looks strikingly similar to him, one who is the overly ambitious type who’s trying to find a cure for cancer while she’s still in high school (you know my sister LOVES being compared to her), another that has issues so severe I can’t even write about them without feeling somewhat guilty (I’m guilt free up this point), and lastly, the hot Korean cousin who I wouldn’t mind getting freaky with (it’s ok, she’s adopted, that is ok, right?) (ok, maybe I feel a little guilty now). Not surprisingly these people are all on one side of the family, mom’s side. Dad’s side is fucking cool and a blast to hang out with even though they do the hunting/fishing thing to the extreme (but they do have some funny ass stories!).
Hanging out with the afore mentioned people is quite painful on Thanksgivings. First you have the mandatory small talk, the how are you, how’s your job, do you have a girlfriend (oh I love that one but I can’t reply “Fuck no” in front of the family), how’s the new house, have you managed to fill that five gallon pail with semen yet, you know, just the standard interrogation questions. Please, all I want to do is get in the door so I can sit in the corner and look at my watch every five minutes.
Then there’s the meal at which I’m supposed to talk with family members and try to seem interested in their lives when I’m really just checking out the hot Korean’s thong sticking out the back of her pants (it was purple last year). Not wanting to partake in any of the conversations about how XYZ is studying German, Russian, and Chinese or how ABC and DEF just got engaged (or avoiding beeing caught ogling the cousin’s ass), I always eat as quickly as possible and excuse myself by either saying, “Oh, I’m full.” or “Oh, I have to go masturbate while the image of my cousin’s thong is still fresh in my memory.”
Escaping early from the feasting has two advantages: the first being I get out of the conversations, the second being I then get the choice couch right in front of where a TV should be located. Yes my friends, “where the TV should be located” because there is no TV in the living room. The TV is in the basement. I don’t know too many people who would be comfortable going into someone’s house and sitting alone in their basement to watch the football games which inevitably will be blasted with world record snow storms. Not that it’s actually snowing in the cities holding the games (how often does it snow in Dallas?) but the TV reception is so bad and fuzzy it looks like the heavens opened up and said “fuck you” to Thanksgiving football. Technically it would be “fuck you and go talk to your anything-but-normal relatives and try to be pleasant and don’t leave any sperm deposits on their toothbrushes,” but you get the point.
After the meal everyone I am trying to avoid manage to wedge their asses in the couch I am sitting on in a manner which hip/shoulder/leg touching is unavoidable. Just because we aren’t on a city bus doesn’t mean it’s ok to sit that close to me. Of course this is ok if the hot Korean is sitting next to me but it’s not ok when everyone notices the erection in my pants. “Uh, excuse me, I have to go masturbate again.”
Then the “game of the year” (being the new and hot board game that everyone is talking about) is introduced and everyone gets excited and claps like the Energizer Bunny. Not me. I always have to politely decline offers to play the game as that would require more interaction the clan. It’s not exactly like city folk (me) getting along with country folk (them), but more like city folk (me) getting along with people from Angola who kill their pets for food and stay virgins till they get married (yeah, that would be them). And usually it takes these Angolans at least an hour to get the hang of the game and I certainly don’t have the patience for that.
Three hours later and I’ll try to talk to pops and he’ll ignore me to keep his cover of “sleeping” alive. That leaves me stuck talking to the twins because even though their foreheads protrude at an astonishing angle, there isn’t any extra brain matter to fill the space. I can’t even recall one meaningful conversation I’ve had with them besides the trading card incident. “Oh, that Hayward Workman card from 1997 might be worth something.” Oh yes, memorable conversation indeed.
So I get insanely bored, more bored than an inmate on death row (hey, at least they have weight rooms and stuff). But the boredom is not entirely based on the picture I have painted for you. No, it is also influenced by my own daydreaming, thinking about the things I could be doing if I was not there, and maybe more importantly, things I could be having. You see, nobody smokes (cigarettes) and nobody drinks. If you have read anything about me on any random post you will know that I like beer. A lot. I like cheap vodka and lemonade. I like shots of Southern Comfort. I like test tube shots of some fruity beverage stuck in between two perfectly rounded fake breasts and having my face engulfed in boobies. Sorry, I digressed a bit there. But sad to say, I crave beer just to get me through Thanksgiving. Alcohol might make the situation just a bit more bearable, depending on the level of consumption I deem appropriate, and then doubling that level just to make sure. I can hear the stories now, “Remember that time B got totally wasted and fucked the cat and had to be taken to the hospital because he was allergic to it?” or “Remember that time B got totally wasted and grabbed his adopted cousin’s boob and tried to make out with her?” or “Remember that time B got totally wasted and peed his pants and puked in the washer he was trying to wash his pants in?” But no, my family would not find this funny at all or tell jokes about it in the future. It would be more like, “We need to get B some serious help,” because that’s how they are.
I think you can get my point on why Thanksgiving is such a painful holiday for me. This year it’s supposed to be 60 degrees here so I’m going to mow the lawn and clean out the gutters, oh, and drink some beer. Everyone have a fun and safe Thanksgiving.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Threesome And The Runs (Sorry, Another Shit Story)
I did the right thing by turning down the threesome with the hot old girlfriend and some strange dude, right? I think so. I mean, I’ve done some stupid stuff in my life like allowing a friend to take pictures of me wearing women’s underwear and peeing in my pants more times this year than I did in kindergarten (come on, we were taking a test and the teacher said she didn’t want any interruptions!), but sex with another naked man in the room? I think that might have been a new high on the “What the FUCK Did I Do Last Night” scale or the “Who’s Hand Is That On My Ass” scale or the “Memorable Moments In My Sex Life For All the Wrong Reasons” scale, topping even the time I had the runs and crapped in some broad’s bed while I was on top and I think some of it might have run down her leg, too. Good thing she was either passed out (might have been the case) or passed out shortly after we finished doing it (more likely the first scenario) because I got my ass out of there pretty damn quickly and made a mental note to delete her number from my phone. If only this story wasn’t true…
And speaking of the runs… After a fun day of watching football and consuming large amounts of beer, the night bartender took over and offered to buy some food for the regulars. He threw out a couple options and finally decided on a shrimp dish that he spoke highly of. Might I add that the restaurant next door is not a place well known for seafood, but instead is a Mexican restaurant. He asked if we liked hot food and everyone agreed so he had the cooks add a little something special to make it spicy. When they brought out the plates everything looked absolutely wonderful. Plump shrimpies, green peppers, potatoes, and some other veggies, all covered in this red sauce that had a hint of spiciness to it. For those that know me, even a hint of spiciness is enough to make my head sweat, so you can picture me wiping my head down with napkins while I shoved this concoction in my mouth with reckless abandon. Not a bad meal, pretty tasty.
Fast forward to this morning. By 10:30 I had used the bathroom (i.e., bathroom stall) twice already. And when I say “used” the bathroom, I wasn’t just relieving my 8:30 coffee. No, no, my friends, I was in the stall gripping my ankles, praying for relief. Normally I’ll have one major “load” everyday just before leaving for the gym (wouldn’t want anything to accidentally happen there in front of the college girls). This major “load” will generally be a decent size and may or may not even stick out of the water. Once in the morning and my body is good for the rest of the day. Today I did that twice, within a two hour time span. Not just a little here and a little there but filling up the bowl each time, the second one being quite memorable as the guy in the stall next to me started making puking noises. For real. And of course I didn’t do the courtesy flush because I’m evil like that, ask the Renter.
This morning, while packing up the car with the gym bag and whatever else crap I had to take to work, I put the to-go box that contained the leftovers on the roof of my car. And I forgot about the to-go box that was on top of my car until I got to work and noticed my lunch was missing. Not like I was going to eat that stuff a second time anyway.
My asshole is currently sore and I’m contemplating using the Renter’s “puff” on it later in the shower to maybe ease the pain. Kidding.
And speaking of the runs… After a fun day of watching football and consuming large amounts of beer, the night bartender took over and offered to buy some food for the regulars. He threw out a couple options and finally decided on a shrimp dish that he spoke highly of. Might I add that the restaurant next door is not a place well known for seafood, but instead is a Mexican restaurant. He asked if we liked hot food and everyone agreed so he had the cooks add a little something special to make it spicy. When they brought out the plates everything looked absolutely wonderful. Plump shrimpies, green peppers, potatoes, and some other veggies, all covered in this red sauce that had a hint of spiciness to it. For those that know me, even a hint of spiciness is enough to make my head sweat, so you can picture me wiping my head down with napkins while I shoved this concoction in my mouth with reckless abandon. Not a bad meal, pretty tasty.
Fast forward to this morning. By 10:30 I had used the bathroom (i.e., bathroom stall) twice already. And when I say “used” the bathroom, I wasn’t just relieving my 8:30 coffee. No, no, my friends, I was in the stall gripping my ankles, praying for relief. Normally I’ll have one major “load” everyday just before leaving for the gym (wouldn’t want anything to accidentally happen there in front of the college girls). This major “load” will generally be a decent size and may or may not even stick out of the water. Once in the morning and my body is good for the rest of the day. Today I did that twice, within a two hour time span. Not just a little here and a little there but filling up the bowl each time, the second one being quite memorable as the guy in the stall next to me started making puking noises. For real. And of course I didn’t do the courtesy flush because I’m evil like that, ask the Renter.
This morning, while packing up the car with the gym bag and whatever else crap I had to take to work, I put the to-go box that contained the leftovers on the roof of my car. And I forgot about the to-go box that was on top of my car until I got to work and noticed my lunch was missing. Not like I was going to eat that stuff a second time anyway.
My asshole is currently sore and I’m contemplating using the Renter’s “puff” on it later in the shower to maybe ease the pain. Kidding.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Ok, I Fucked Up
Alright, so today I got somewhat fucked up. It's 3:30 in the morning as I write this so please bare with me (yes that means take your clothes off) and the spelling mistakes. I was supposed to work at the old folks show lounge tonight but instead got loaded watching the Buckeyes and slept till 11:00 (9:00 start time). I won a little money on the over which made up for not working, but... I still feel bad. So today...
I saw a Beamer that was dog tracking. Usually you only see old pickup trucks doing that, but it was nice to see some fuck in a Beamer doing it.
Back to tonight. When I woke up at 11:00 I called the Renter. I guess she was doing my job at the old folks place since I pulled a no-show. I thought about getting dressed and going in, but, that didn't happen. I saw the former roommate's car next to my house and called him. Yeah, he was at the bar and was all for finishing his beer and going somewhere else (since I couldn't rightly go up to MY BAR which is in the same building as the old folks lounge). We went to a bar down the road which we hadn't been to in a long time. We didn't know anyone there but there were a lot of hot women. And I mean a lot. We had a nice table right by the middle of the bar so everyone was walking right by us. One broad I recognized. I dated her five years ago. Angie, six feet tall, maybe 125 lbs, nice ass, no boobs, but hey.
Yes I'm drinking as I write this.
So Angie walks by and I grab her.
So how bad is this that I'm at another bar when I was supposed to be working?
Angie walks by. I grab her by the arm, not forcefully 'cause I'm not like that, but I get her attention. Turns out she's up for the weekend as she's living in St. Loius. She sat and talked with the old roommate and I for quite a while. Of course I was hitting on her but turns out she was there with a guy. She asked me a question and my response was, "Sure, why not?" A minute later, "What did I just agree to?" Yes, I was drinking, mighty well I must add, a goodly amount, if goodly is actually a word, it should be. You see, when she asked me the question, she went to her "man" and said something to him, which he gave a nod of approval to. I was invited for a threesome, but not the threessome every man dreams of.
Side note: pretty sure she broke up with me five years ago because I made out with her sister in the back of a cab. And her sister was at the bar tonight, should have asked if she wanted a one-some, much better than a guy-guy-girl threesome, ewu.
Oh yeah, Renter finally got a car, check out the rims.
I saw a Beamer that was dog tracking. Usually you only see old pickup trucks doing that, but it was nice to see some fuck in a Beamer doing it.
Back to tonight. When I woke up at 11:00 I called the Renter. I guess she was doing my job at the old folks place since I pulled a no-show. I thought about getting dressed and going in, but, that didn't happen. I saw the former roommate's car next to my house and called him. Yeah, he was at the bar and was all for finishing his beer and going somewhere else (since I couldn't rightly go up to MY BAR which is in the same building as the old folks lounge). We went to a bar down the road which we hadn't been to in a long time. We didn't know anyone there but there were a lot of hot women. And I mean a lot. We had a nice table right by the middle of the bar so everyone was walking right by us. One broad I recognized. I dated her five years ago. Angie, six feet tall, maybe 125 lbs, nice ass, no boobs, but hey.
Yes I'm drinking as I write this.
So Angie walks by and I grab her.
So how bad is this that I'm at another bar when I was supposed to be working?
Angie walks by. I grab her by the arm, not forcefully 'cause I'm not like that, but I get her attention. Turns out she's up for the weekend as she's living in St. Loius. She sat and talked with the old roommate and I for quite a while. Of course I was hitting on her but turns out she was there with a guy. She asked me a question and my response was, "Sure, why not?" A minute later, "What did I just agree to?" Yes, I was drinking, mighty well I must add, a goodly amount, if goodly is actually a word, it should be. You see, when she asked me the question, she went to her "man" and said something to him, which he gave a nod of approval to. I was invited for a threesome, but not the threessome every man dreams of.
Side note: pretty sure she broke up with me five years ago because I made out with her sister in the back of a cab. And her sister was at the bar tonight, should have asked if she wanted a one-some, much better than a guy-guy-girl threesome, ewu.
Oh yeah, Renter finally got a car, check out the rims.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Jumps Around Too Much For A Title
What is it with animosity? Why do 95% of people posting their thoughts, feelings, and daily activities on their internet diary choose to stay anonymous? We see “names” like Mahogany, Swandad, lawyergirl, The Doorman, and B to the… (aka shithead) listed as the “authors” (I use that term loosely based on the quality of some of the shit out there – not the afore mentioned names) on each individual’s weblog. Is it that we’re scared the real world will find out, that friends and family members might not exactly approve of what our fingers type and post on our sites? Is it that we’re afraid our places of employment might look at us in a different light, or, to an even greater extent, terminate our employment? (I really didn’t bang a stripper in Mexico, I was only kidding!) Or is it not a defense mechanism but a method to live out our fantasies and desires under the cover of some cleaver name? A method to let the alter ego out and vent whatever the fuck is trying to grinding our balls each day. Voicing the alter ego’s opinion to the world to see if by some chance another alter ego might share the same viewpoint and actually leave a note in the comment section. Or, in my case, hope some member of the opposite sex might find this crap somewhat funny and would like to show her appreciation by playing with my penis just a little bit. Really, I’ve played with it enough in my lifetime. Not that it’s getting old or anything, but… Yes, I am a pathetic individual.
But check this shit out.
Let me tell you, works wonders in the shower if you know what I mean.
In other news…
I’m in the locker room today at the gym and I hear “Brian!” Of course I turn around and see the old lawyer, who by the way was naked with a towel hanging on his shoulder (cover up, please!), walking up to the sink where I was washing my hands.
"Yeah, what’s up?"
"That guy in the weight room with the crew top, kind big, do you know if his name is Mike?"
"Hmm, oh that guy. No, I’m pretty sure it’s Mitch."
I don’t know the guy’s name and I don’t even know which guy he was talking about. Why am I like this?
On the Renter’s first day taking the bus I decided to take some pictures of her standing by the bus stop. I kind of felt like a loving mother sending her kid off to her first day of school. But then again, I don’t think a loving mother would tell her kid to “Straddle the pole like you’re a stripper!” And no, the Renter wouldn’t do it. And yes, the next day some guy pulled up next to the stop, rolled down his window, asked “Do you want to have some fun,” and drove off. 8:00 in the morning. True story.
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In other thoughts and musings, what is “third base”? You know, back in grade school everyone was like, “Dude, did you get to third base with her yet?” Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think the “bases” go like this:
First base: kissing
Second base: heavy petting
Third base: ?
Home plate: sex
So, what was third base? Sticking your hand down her pants and getting the fingers stinky? Having her stroke your schlong till some gooey shit came out? Back in those days B to the… wasn’t the playa that I am now (did I just refer to myself in the third person?) and wasn’t really “in” with the ladies. Ok fine, I’m still not “in” with the ladies, I lied. But I plan on stepping up my efforts shortly. My penis is threatening to go on strike, permanently, if I don’t do something soon.
Another question to ponder: Do these “bases” need to be updated to reflect the present day and generation? I mean, come on, everyone knows that kids are having sex at a younger age (don’t laugh, I think I was 19, and I “can’t remember” how old she was). So I’m going to propose an up to date version, let me know what you think.
First base: making out in a bar with a hand up the other person’s shirt or down their pants, not giving a shit who’s watching while you’re swapping spit.
Second base: engaging in drunken oral sex that leaves you gasping for air, finger in the butt optional.
Third base: fucking like porn starts for 45 minutes, in 45 different positions, falling off the bed only once.
Home plate: her best friend joins in for “anal night.”
I made my yearly doctor appointment this week. I made the appointment just so I could have a woman touch my balls. Ok, not really, but I do force myself to go once a year and speaking of balls, I need to make a note to shower beforehand and throw on some smelly stuff so while she’s down there she won’t be able to resist the thought of my cock in the back of her throat. Good lord, did I just write that? That was really gross, sorry. But, the reason I actually will take a shower is that my appointment is at 4:00 in the evening and after lifting weights and all even I don’t like to touch my balls. The other problem? I’m not supposed to eat for twelve hours before the visit. And I’ll be at work all day. Not eating for twelve hours isn’t a big deal if you have a 9:00 am appointment and stop eating at 9:00 pm the day before. Hell, you’re sleeping for eight of those hours. But twelve hours that span over breakfast and lunch? That’s going to be a little bit tougher. Wish me luck. Maybe I’ll just beat off all day to keep my mind off of food. Fuck! I’ll be at work, that won’t work. I’m screwed.
Couple pictures to share with you. First, some hot 20 yr old I found on Yahoo personals.
Talk about some nice cleavage!!! Just wanted to share.
Second, check out how big this friggin' head is!!!
Sorry, Renter, but I thought they were funny. Kind of like when you called me when the guy asked you if you wanted to have some fun, and I laughed my ass off. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!!!
But check this shit out.
Let me tell you, works wonders in the shower if you know what I mean. In other news…
I’m in the locker room today at the gym and I hear “Brian!” Of course I turn around and see the old lawyer, who by the way was naked with a towel hanging on his shoulder (cover up, please!), walking up to the sink where I was washing my hands.
"Yeah, what’s up?"
"That guy in the weight room with the crew top, kind big, do you know if his name is Mike?"
"Hmm, oh that guy. No, I’m pretty sure it’s Mitch."
I don’t know the guy’s name and I don’t even know which guy he was talking about. Why am I like this?
On the Renter’s first day taking the bus I decided to take some pictures of her standing by the bus stop. I kind of felt like a loving mother sending her kid off to her first day of school. But then again, I don’t think a loving mother would tell her kid to “Straddle the pole like you’re a stripper!” And no, the Renter wouldn’t do it. And yes, the next day some guy pulled up next to the stop, rolled down his window, asked “Do you want to have some fun,” and drove off. 8:00 in the morning. True story.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
In other thoughts and musings, what is “third base”? You know, back in grade school everyone was like, “Dude, did you get to third base with her yet?” Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think the “bases” go like this:
First base: kissing
Second base: heavy petting
Third base: ?
Home plate: sex
So, what was third base? Sticking your hand down her pants and getting the fingers stinky? Having her stroke your schlong till some gooey shit came out? Back in those days B to the… wasn’t the playa that I am now (did I just refer to myself in the third person?) and wasn’t really “in” with the ladies. Ok fine, I’m still not “in” with the ladies, I lied. But I plan on stepping up my efforts shortly. My penis is threatening to go on strike, permanently, if I don’t do something soon.
Another question to ponder: Do these “bases” need to be updated to reflect the present day and generation? I mean, come on, everyone knows that kids are having sex at a younger age (don’t laugh, I think I was 19, and I “can’t remember” how old she was). So I’m going to propose an up to date version, let me know what you think.
First base: making out in a bar with a hand up the other person’s shirt or down their pants, not giving a shit who’s watching while you’re swapping spit.
Second base: engaging in drunken oral sex that leaves you gasping for air, finger in the butt optional.
Third base: fucking like porn starts for 45 minutes, in 45 different positions, falling off the bed only once.
Home plate: her best friend joins in for “anal night.”
I made my yearly doctor appointment this week. I made the appointment just so I could have a woman touch my balls. Ok, not really, but I do force myself to go once a year and speaking of balls, I need to make a note to shower beforehand and throw on some smelly stuff so while she’s down there she won’t be able to resist the thought of my cock in the back of her throat. Good lord, did I just write that? That was really gross, sorry. But, the reason I actually will take a shower is that my appointment is at 4:00 in the evening and after lifting weights and all even I don’t like to touch my balls. The other problem? I’m not supposed to eat for twelve hours before the visit. And I’ll be at work all day. Not eating for twelve hours isn’t a big deal if you have a 9:00 am appointment and stop eating at 9:00 pm the day before. Hell, you’re sleeping for eight of those hours. But twelve hours that span over breakfast and lunch? That’s going to be a little bit tougher. Wish me luck. Maybe I’ll just beat off all day to keep my mind off of food. Fuck! I’ll be at work, that won’t work. I’m screwed.
Couple pictures to share with you. First, some hot 20 yr old I found on Yahoo personals.
Talk about some nice cleavage!!! Just wanted to share.Second, check out how big this friggin' head is!!!
Sorry, Renter, but I thought they were funny. Kind of like when you called me when the guy asked you if you wanted to have some fun, and I laughed my ass off. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!!!
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Clublife
I completely finished reading Clublife over the weekend. Quite an interesting read but if you get too engulfed in it you will have a severely tainted attitude afterwards, despising every moron that crosses your path. The Doorman used to post links to pictures of the “guidos” that would go to his club and cause trouble. So Saturday I was playing around and explored the website a little and found some very disturbing pictures. Not disturbing as in gross or inappropriate, but in more of a “where did our society go wrong” kind of way. Ok, are you ready? Please view this website… now.
Can you believe the photos? Why does every freaking one of them have waxed eyebrows and hair that flare/stands straight up? And what’s with the flexing and weird facial expressions? How about a little individuality? Or does that consist of a different colored headband? Anyone just a little concerned? Granted you might not be if you live in Jersey or someplace out east, but you don’t see this shit in Milwaukee, at least not at the places I hang out at or walking around downtown. Do the women really go for this? “Yeah, I’m going with by boy to get our eyebrows waxed, want to come?” I can’t see a Midwest girl saying that without getting a what-the-fuck look from her girlfriend. Who brainwashed these idiots to think they’re so fucking cool? And how many of these fools are out there that this site had 550,000 or so hits? Unbelievable.
Anyway, check out Clublife, I highly recommend it.
Oh, and sorry Milwaukee for the rain on Monday. I washed my car on Saturday so it’s all my fault.
Can you believe the photos? Why does every freaking one of them have waxed eyebrows and hair that flare/stands straight up? And what’s with the flexing and weird facial expressions? How about a little individuality? Or does that consist of a different colored headband? Anyone just a little concerned? Granted you might not be if you live in Jersey or someplace out east, but you don’t see this shit in Milwaukee, at least not at the places I hang out at or walking around downtown. Do the women really go for this? “Yeah, I’m going with by boy to get our eyebrows waxed, want to come?” I can’t see a Midwest girl saying that without getting a what-the-fuck look from her girlfriend. Who brainwashed these idiots to think they’re so fucking cool? And how many of these fools are out there that this site had 550,000 or so hits? Unbelievable.
Anyway, check out Clublife, I highly recommend it.
Oh, and sorry Milwaukee for the rain on Monday. I washed my car on Saturday so it’s all my fault.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Contest And Crazy Women
A local radio station here in Milwaukee is running this contest, Squeal or No Squeal (a play off of Deal or No Deal and since the station is called the Hog…). The 29th caller has the option to take $100 or take “No Squeal” and get what’s in briefcase number 2. The prizes in the second briefcase range anywhere from $1 to $5,000. When it first started weeks ago I heard one woman take “Squeal” ($100) and they opened the second briefcase just to see what was in it. And wouldn’t you know it, $5,000. She lost out on $5,000 just to get the guaranteed $100. I don’t know about you but I’d be hurling chunks into my garbage can for the rest of the day. Last week Thursday a guy passed on the $100 and won $5,000. Talk about making your day. But this morning the DJs brought in a new twist. Like usual, they offered the caller $100 or take the second briefcase. The caller passed on it and wanted the other case. The morning DJs have been on the air for many years and have a lot of pull if you know what I mean. So they offered him $200 instead of the $100 and the caller still passed on it. $300, pass. $400, pass. $450 and a six pack of beer. Pass. Are you fucking kidding me? This guy passed on $450, which he didn’t have when he woke up this morning, and wanted the other case which may have had just a dollar in it. Of course it could have had $1,000 or $5,000 in it, but come on, $450 guaranteed is still $450 guaranteed (which calculates to roughly $450). Dumb ass took the other case and won $5. Schmuck. (Yeah, I call this guy a schmuck as I sit here with a decent amount of credit card debt (at 4%) not because I shop or live the lifestyle of a celebrity but because I was addicted to the blackjack tables in Vegas four years ago.)
Last night I walked in to the bar only to hear the bartender tell some woman, “That is B to the…” Apparently she had been reading the Rules of the Bar and asked who #7 was. I had talked with this woman before on a different occasion. She was nice but a little loony. One time G the hairdresser tried to get me to go home with her while he was going to take her mom (because we’re cool like that) but for some reason it didn’t pan out. So after the bartender points me out she said, “I know you. You work next door on Saturday nights. You’re nice in here but you’re an asshole when you’re working.” Sorry bitch, just doing my job. Over the next couple hours she called me an asshole numerous times. When she left for the bathroom I pointed out to the Renter that she had four lighters sitting by her purse. The Renter grabbed one and gave it to me but I told her to put it back because that is just wrong. When loony woman came back the Renter said something to her and she gave me three lighters. Huh? And not just old lighters on their last legs, these were completely full lighters. Again, huh? You just called me an asshole at least four times and now you’re handing over your lighters? I didn’t get it but of course I quickly pocketed them incase she was going to change her mind.
At one point in the evening an even more loony woman walked in the bar. I’m pretty sure she was on something and not just drunk. She walked in yelling on her phone, hung up, and walked right up to Loony #1. “I can trust you, can’t I?” Then she started putting all of her stuff in Loony #1’s purse. Loony #1 didn’t know what the hell to do but pick her shit out of her purse item by item. Crack woman then accused her of taking her money or something like that. Thankfully the bartender kicked her out otherwise I was going to have to take her home and let her blow me for $20. Kidding. I would have given her at least $25. Again, kidding.
And then tonight the Renter and I went shopping at Kohls for some clothes. I got a 20% off coupon in the mail and I needed some work clothes and the Renter needed a winter coat. But… when we were standing in line the Renter decided to switch lines since one appeared to be going faster than ours. Then I smiled at her and waived the 20% off coupon at her. Instead of switching back to my line (I had people behind me) she opted to stay in hers and pay an extra $48 for her shit. I will never understand.
Last night I walked in to the bar only to hear the bartender tell some woman, “That is B to the…” Apparently she had been reading the Rules of the Bar and asked who #7 was. I had talked with this woman before on a different occasion. She was nice but a little loony. One time G the hairdresser tried to get me to go home with her while he was going to take her mom (because we’re cool like that) but for some reason it didn’t pan out. So after the bartender points me out she said, “I know you. You work next door on Saturday nights. You’re nice in here but you’re an asshole when you’re working.” Sorry bitch, just doing my job. Over the next couple hours she called me an asshole numerous times. When she left for the bathroom I pointed out to the Renter that she had four lighters sitting by her purse. The Renter grabbed one and gave it to me but I told her to put it back because that is just wrong. When loony woman came back the Renter said something to her and she gave me three lighters. Huh? And not just old lighters on their last legs, these were completely full lighters. Again, huh? You just called me an asshole at least four times and now you’re handing over your lighters? I didn’t get it but of course I quickly pocketed them incase she was going to change her mind.
At one point in the evening an even more loony woman walked in the bar. I’m pretty sure she was on something and not just drunk. She walked in yelling on her phone, hung up, and walked right up to Loony #1. “I can trust you, can’t I?” Then she started putting all of her stuff in Loony #1’s purse. Loony #1 didn’t know what the hell to do but pick her shit out of her purse item by item. Crack woman then accused her of taking her money or something like that. Thankfully the bartender kicked her out otherwise I was going to have to take her home and let her blow me for $20. Kidding. I would have given her at least $25. Again, kidding.
And then tonight the Renter and I went shopping at Kohls for some clothes. I got a 20% off coupon in the mail and I needed some work clothes and the Renter needed a winter coat. But… when we were standing in line the Renter decided to switch lines since one appeared to be going faster than ours. Then I smiled at her and waived the 20% off coupon at her. Instead of switching back to my line (I had people behind me) she opted to stay in hers and pay an extra $48 for her shit. I will never understand.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Addicting Shit
Ok, so I stayed away for a day but this shit is addicting. So I'm back, for now...
Conversation with the Renter last night.
Renter: Who lives in Dunbar, Wisconsin?
B to the…: I had an ex-girlfriend who was from Dunbar. Why?
Renter: Someone from Dunbar posted a comment on my blog today.
B to the…: Really? That’s a tiny little hick town. I’m surprised someone up there owns a computer. I’m surprised they even offer internet access there.
Renter: Huh. He/she commented that I need to stop being a whiney bitch and just go pay for sex and get laid.
B to the…: Er, sorry, but that was my comment. I didn’t feel like logging in so I did the anonymous comment. So fork over the $100 and bend over.
This morning at work:
Boss Man: B to the…, why were you late today?
B to the…: Sorry Boss Man, I had a personal issue this morning, won’t happen again.
Boss Man: No, I want to hear this. What kind of a personal issue was it?
B to the…: I really don’t think you want to know.
Boss Man: If one of my employees comes in late I want to know the reason why. Now tell me.
B to the…: Well, my roommate has been leaving for work before me this week so it leaves me with a little personal time alone in the house. Well, I was feeling a little, er, frisky, if you will, this morning so I turned on my computer in hopes of spanking my monkey while viewing 16 year old virgins getting it up the ass. Only problem was my piece of shit computer crashed on me mid stroke so I had to put my only porn DVD on in the living room. For some reason I decided to go all out this morning and busted out the KY jelly to possibly quicken the process. Shortly after lubing up I encountered yet another problem: the calluses on my right hand that developed yesterday at the gym doing 200 lb back exercises did not produce the desired pleasurable feeling, actually caused me a little discomfort. But you know how it is, once you start you can’t stop so I dealt with the pain and continued beating off till the deed was done. Then I jumped in the shower and raced in to work at twice the speed limit in my effort to get here on time.
Boss Man: Oh my god, you are one sick pathetic individual. Go back to your cube. And wash your hands.
Ok, not all of that is completely true. I didn’t speed on the way to work as Jeep Wranglers are slower than fuck. I don’t have 16 year old virgins getting it up the ass on my computer (at least not that I know of, the roommate might have downloaded some, she’s like that). I think there’s one more thing that wasn’t true in there… Oh yeah, OF COURSE I DIDN’T REALLY HAVE THAT CONVERSATION WITH MY BOSS. But I thought it would sound better that way.
I have to start wearing gloves in the weight room if this is going to continue to happen. Or else stop lifting weights (see where my priorities are?).
How about a joke of the day?
A CORK radio station was running a competition – words that weren’t in the dectionalry yet could still be used in a sentence that would make logical sense. The prize was a trip to Bali.
DJ: 96FM here, what’s your name?
Caller: Hi, my name’s Dave.
DJ: Dave, what’s your word?
Caller: Goan. Spelled G-O-A-N, pronounced “go-an.”
DJ: Your are correct, Dave, “goan” is not in the dictionary. Now, for a trip to Bali: What sentence can you use that word in that would make sense?
Caller: Goan fuck yourself!
The DJ cut the caller short and took other calls, all unsuccessful until:
DJ: 96FM, what’s your name?
Caller: Hi, my name’s Jeff.
DJ: Jeff, what’s your word?
Caller: Smee. Spelled S-M-E-E, pronounced “smee.”
DJ: You are correct, Jeff, “smee” is not in the dictionary. Now, for a trip to Bali: What sentence can you use that word in that would make sense?
Caller: Smee again! Goan fuck yourself!
Conversation with the Renter last night.
Renter: Who lives in Dunbar, Wisconsin?
B to the…: I had an ex-girlfriend who was from Dunbar. Why?
Renter: Someone from Dunbar posted a comment on my blog today.
B to the…: Really? That’s a tiny little hick town. I’m surprised someone up there owns a computer. I’m surprised they even offer internet access there.
Renter: Huh. He/she commented that I need to stop being a whiney bitch and just go pay for sex and get laid.
B to the…: Er, sorry, but that was my comment. I didn’t feel like logging in so I did the anonymous comment. So fork over the $100 and bend over.
This morning at work:
Boss Man: B to the…, why were you late today?
B to the…: Sorry Boss Man, I had a personal issue this morning, won’t happen again.
Boss Man: No, I want to hear this. What kind of a personal issue was it?
B to the…: I really don’t think you want to know.
Boss Man: If one of my employees comes in late I want to know the reason why. Now tell me.
B to the…: Well, my roommate has been leaving for work before me this week so it leaves me with a little personal time alone in the house. Well, I was feeling a little, er, frisky, if you will, this morning so I turned on my computer in hopes of spanking my monkey while viewing 16 year old virgins getting it up the ass. Only problem was my piece of shit computer crashed on me mid stroke so I had to put my only porn DVD on in the living room. For some reason I decided to go all out this morning and busted out the KY jelly to possibly quicken the process. Shortly after lubing up I encountered yet another problem: the calluses on my right hand that developed yesterday at the gym doing 200 lb back exercises did not produce the desired pleasurable feeling, actually caused me a little discomfort. But you know how it is, once you start you can’t stop so I dealt with the pain and continued beating off till the deed was done. Then I jumped in the shower and raced in to work at twice the speed limit in my effort to get here on time.
Boss Man: Oh my god, you are one sick pathetic individual. Go back to your cube. And wash your hands.
Ok, not all of that is completely true. I didn’t speed on the way to work as Jeep Wranglers are slower than fuck. I don’t have 16 year old virgins getting it up the ass on my computer (at least not that I know of, the roommate might have downloaded some, she’s like that). I think there’s one more thing that wasn’t true in there… Oh yeah, OF COURSE I DIDN’T REALLY HAVE THAT CONVERSATION WITH MY BOSS. But I thought it would sound better that way.
I have to start wearing gloves in the weight room if this is going to continue to happen. Or else stop lifting weights (see where my priorities are?).
How about a joke of the day?
A CORK radio station was running a competition – words that weren’t in the dectionalry yet could still be used in a sentence that would make logical sense. The prize was a trip to Bali.
DJ: 96FM here, what’s your name?
Caller: Hi, my name’s Dave.
DJ: Dave, what’s your word?
Caller: Goan. Spelled G-O-A-N, pronounced “go-an.”
DJ: Your are correct, Dave, “goan” is not in the dictionary. Now, for a trip to Bali: What sentence can you use that word in that would make sense?
Caller: Goan fuck yourself!
The DJ cut the caller short and took other calls, all unsuccessful until:
DJ: 96FM, what’s your name?
Caller: Hi, my name’s Jeff.
DJ: Jeff, what’s your word?
Caller: Smee. Spelled S-M-E-E, pronounced “smee.”
DJ: You are correct, Jeff, “smee” is not in the dictionary. Now, for a trip to Bali: What sentence can you use that word in that would make sense?
Caller: Smee again! Goan fuck yourself!
Monday, November 06, 2006
Last Post?
That last post was done on Sunday morning at 4:00 am and it was lame.
Friday night at the bar was a little different from the usual hang out and chat Fridays. Almost as soon as I walked in the door the old roommate and I were paired up to play pool against two other regulars, one being the weird/obnoxious/loud/annoying kid that lives across the street from me (I call him kid even though he’s as old as I am). Kid is not the most mature of individuals. Besides still living with his parents he might be considered a little slow, not due to any major defects but more so from his educational background or lack there of. Kid isn’t that well off financially, not that I’m putting him down for that as I don’t judge people in that way, but it comes into play in this weekend recap. Overall Kid is a decent guy with good intentions.
So the Old Roommate and I are playing pool on Friday night. Old Roommate is a decent shot whereas I suck ass since I rarely play. But for some reason we were able to hold our own after starting out slowly. A guy and his girlfriend showed up and we ended up playing them for a couple hours. The girlfriend was pretty hot and she had an awesome personality returning all of our barbs with one of her own. I made sure to check out the abundant cleavage when she was shooting, being careful to avoid detection by the boyfriend.
Around 11:00 the following took place at the bar while Old Roommate and I were still shooting.
Bartender: Hey Kid, I dare you to go over and kiss B to the…
Bar Reg #1: Hell, I’ll even give you $5.
Bar Reg #2: I’ve got $3 to put in the pot.
Bartender: Come Kid, I dare you. I’ll give you another $5.
Bar Reg #3: I’ll put in $3, that puts the pot at $16.
I’m back by the pool table sitting down drinking beer since we lost the table and some other people are playing. Then I feel a tap on my shoulder. Last time that happened it was the bitch who moved out on me while I was at work handing me $200 that she owed me. This tap on the shoulder did not turn out in the same fashion. As I turned my head I see Kid standing unusually close to me. Then I feel my arms being locked up behind my chair. Kid grabs my face and plants a wet stubbly five second kiss on me right there with the whole bar watching, laughing and howling. I tried to get free with all my strength but I was locked in pretty well. When he was finished he ran off leaving me wiping my lips with anything I could get my hands on. Is it really worth $16 to kiss another man? He later offered me $5 for it and I initially took it but later I gave it back to him as he needs it more than I. I did get a free pitcher of beer for it from the instigator but let me tell you, it certainly wasn’t worth it.
But wait, the story continues. Saturday I was sitting at the bar watching college football with the gang (Kid included). The bartender from Friday walks over and tells a recap of the story to the people who weren’t there to witness it. Everyone’s laughing at me and giving me shit when the bartender decides to take it one notch further.
Bartender: Hey Kid, how much would you need to give B to the… a blow job?
Kid: Shit, I’d want at least $100 for that!
The bar erupts in laughter and within 30 seconds the bartender has collected the required $100. Immediately thoughts of being held down with Kid doing the nasty to me flash through my head. Of course nothing happened, but what the hell? $16 to kiss another man and $100 to go down on him? My new name for him is Cash Whore.
Later that night working the door I fucked up on the register. The regular cashier girl must have been in the bathroom or something and I was manning her spot. For some reason I punched in the $3 key by mistake and, not knowing how to clear it out, rang it through. This was easily fixed by ringing up $5 on the next person who walked in to total the required $8 cover charge. But as the night went on I started to wonder if I had punched the $3 key or the $30 key which is right next to it (the registers must be from 1920 or something like that, they’re ancient). I couldn’t believe how much of a fuss the manager and cashier girl had over this mistake. At the end of the night all they’d have to do is look at the tape and see whatever number I actually did hit (since the cover charge was $8 it would be the only entry with a “3” in it) and make a note that it was a mistake. I mean, in the 100 times more complex world of accounting all you have to do is a journal entry to fix a mistake. In the end everything balanced out correctly.
Sunday morning I was up till 4:00am posting the previous post. As I re-read it today all I can think of is where the hell did all that shit come from? I don’t even remember writing about the kiss so I guess I wrote about it twice. Deal with it. And what’s all that crap about dating and how I think it might actually work out? Could that have been any more sappy? And who wants to hear about working the door of some small show lounge? Just freaking lame if you ask me.
11:00 Sunday morning I forced myself out of bed for the Packer game. The game sucked but everyone still had fun. I must have still been feeling the effects from Sunday morning because at 5:00 I was back home drunk texting Red. I remember one text came in something like “are you drunk?” to which I answered “not really.” Yeah right. I slept from 5:00 till 10:30, thought about getting up but just rolled over and went back to sleep. I woke up at 2:30 and thought fuck, now the bar is closed, rolled over and went back to sleep. 7:30 I woke up 15 minutes before my alarm was set to go off and had to count on my fingers the number of hours I had just slept. 14 and a half hours of pretty much continuous sleep. I usually go to bed pretty early on Sundays, not really by choice but more by necessity, and I generally sleep a good amount of time, but 14.5 hours waking up only twice just to roll over and fall back to sleep? I didn’t even think that was possible.
I battled with a chili dog today. I won with only minor casualties. Except I wasn’t aware of the fact that we were going to battle again three hours later. As you can guess, the chili dog lit my ass up, literally.
I think I’m going to stop posting crap to this for a while. It really hasn’t brought me that much pleasure lately and its kind of a pain in the butt to keep writing about my lame existence and making it sound somewhat interesting. Besides, how many people look this up on purpose and actually find it entertaining on some level or another? Feel free to voice your opinions/requests and I’ll take them into consideration in determining whether “The Gravitation To The Corner Bar” will continue on or die by the roadside.
Friday night at the bar was a little different from the usual hang out and chat Fridays. Almost as soon as I walked in the door the old roommate and I were paired up to play pool against two other regulars, one being the weird/obnoxious/loud/annoying kid that lives across the street from me (I call him kid even though he’s as old as I am). Kid is not the most mature of individuals. Besides still living with his parents he might be considered a little slow, not due to any major defects but more so from his educational background or lack there of. Kid isn’t that well off financially, not that I’m putting him down for that as I don’t judge people in that way, but it comes into play in this weekend recap. Overall Kid is a decent guy with good intentions.
So the Old Roommate and I are playing pool on Friday night. Old Roommate is a decent shot whereas I suck ass since I rarely play. But for some reason we were able to hold our own after starting out slowly. A guy and his girlfriend showed up and we ended up playing them for a couple hours. The girlfriend was pretty hot and she had an awesome personality returning all of our barbs with one of her own. I made sure to check out the abundant cleavage when she was shooting, being careful to avoid detection by the boyfriend.
Around 11:00 the following took place at the bar while Old Roommate and I were still shooting.
Bartender: Hey Kid, I dare you to go over and kiss B to the…
Bar Reg #1: Hell, I’ll even give you $5.
Bar Reg #2: I’ve got $3 to put in the pot.
Bartender: Come Kid, I dare you. I’ll give you another $5.
Bar Reg #3: I’ll put in $3, that puts the pot at $16.
I’m back by the pool table sitting down drinking beer since we lost the table and some other people are playing. Then I feel a tap on my shoulder. Last time that happened it was the bitch who moved out on me while I was at work handing me $200 that she owed me. This tap on the shoulder did not turn out in the same fashion. As I turned my head I see Kid standing unusually close to me. Then I feel my arms being locked up behind my chair. Kid grabs my face and plants a wet stubbly five second kiss on me right there with the whole bar watching, laughing and howling. I tried to get free with all my strength but I was locked in pretty well. When he was finished he ran off leaving me wiping my lips with anything I could get my hands on. Is it really worth $16 to kiss another man? He later offered me $5 for it and I initially took it but later I gave it back to him as he needs it more than I. I did get a free pitcher of beer for it from the instigator but let me tell you, it certainly wasn’t worth it.
But wait, the story continues. Saturday I was sitting at the bar watching college football with the gang (Kid included). The bartender from Friday walks over and tells a recap of the story to the people who weren’t there to witness it. Everyone’s laughing at me and giving me shit when the bartender decides to take it one notch further.
Bartender: Hey Kid, how much would you need to give B to the… a blow job?
Kid: Shit, I’d want at least $100 for that!
The bar erupts in laughter and within 30 seconds the bartender has collected the required $100. Immediately thoughts of being held down with Kid doing the nasty to me flash through my head. Of course nothing happened, but what the hell? $16 to kiss another man and $100 to go down on him? My new name for him is Cash Whore.
Later that night working the door I fucked up on the register. The regular cashier girl must have been in the bathroom or something and I was manning her spot. For some reason I punched in the $3 key by mistake and, not knowing how to clear it out, rang it through. This was easily fixed by ringing up $5 on the next person who walked in to total the required $8 cover charge. But as the night went on I started to wonder if I had punched the $3 key or the $30 key which is right next to it (the registers must be from 1920 or something like that, they’re ancient). I couldn’t believe how much of a fuss the manager and cashier girl had over this mistake. At the end of the night all they’d have to do is look at the tape and see whatever number I actually did hit (since the cover charge was $8 it would be the only entry with a “3” in it) and make a note that it was a mistake. I mean, in the 100 times more complex world of accounting all you have to do is a journal entry to fix a mistake. In the end everything balanced out correctly.
Sunday morning I was up till 4:00am posting the previous post. As I re-read it today all I can think of is where the hell did all that shit come from? I don’t even remember writing about the kiss so I guess I wrote about it twice. Deal with it. And what’s all that crap about dating and how I think it might actually work out? Could that have been any more sappy? And who wants to hear about working the door of some small show lounge? Just freaking lame if you ask me.
11:00 Sunday morning I forced myself out of bed for the Packer game. The game sucked but everyone still had fun. I must have still been feeling the effects from Sunday morning because at 5:00 I was back home drunk texting Red. I remember one text came in something like “are you drunk?” to which I answered “not really.” Yeah right. I slept from 5:00 till 10:30, thought about getting up but just rolled over and went back to sleep. I woke up at 2:30 and thought fuck, now the bar is closed, rolled over and went back to sleep. 7:30 I woke up 15 minutes before my alarm was set to go off and had to count on my fingers the number of hours I had just slept. 14 and a half hours of pretty much continuous sleep. I usually go to bed pretty early on Sundays, not really by choice but more by necessity, and I generally sleep a good amount of time, but 14.5 hours waking up only twice just to roll over and fall back to sleep? I didn’t even think that was possible.
I battled with a chili dog today. I won with only minor casualties. Except I wasn’t aware of the fact that we were going to battle again three hours later. As you can guess, the chili dog lit my ass up, literally.
I think I’m going to stop posting crap to this for a while. It really hasn’t brought me that much pleasure lately and its kind of a pain in the butt to keep writing about my lame existence and making it sound somewhat interesting. Besides, how many people look this up on purpose and actually find it entertaining on some level or another? Feel free to voice your opinions/requests and I’ll take them into consideration in determining whether “The Gravitation To The Corner Bar” will continue on or die by the roadside.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Red
Ok, someone had "Red's" name down and I don't see that I posted that, so posting it might have been not exactly the right thing to do (we'll see if she cancels on me, hope not, really hope not, she has a special spot in my heart).
Friday night at the bar was a little interesting. The former roommate and I were partners playing pool and let me tell you, I don't play pool. I fucking suck. I think it might go back to the days in high school when the geometry teacher didn't want homework handed in if you got A's on every test (which I did, I was smart like that). Kinda like when I was taking the SATs and everyone busted out their calculators for the math section and dumbass me forgot mine, still got a 96 on it. The angles for pool just don't come to me. I have my moments, but... Anyway, I'm sitting by the pool table when I feel my arms get pinned behind me. Next thing I know I have Richie's lips on mine as he's planting a wet kiss on my lips. What the hell, I can't do anything to stop this and his fucking subbly lip is touching mine. Not good. Appearantly he was dared and paid $17 to kiss me so I don't blame him too much since he's a cash whore, but still. So I was kissed by a dude. Yuck.
Second issue of the day: why does working at the door of the old folks lounge turn me into a horn ball/asshole? Generally I talk to all the women, young or old, and I try to be nice, but the sex craved (deprived) B to the... comes out every once in a while. But what I don't understand is the asshole coming out. What the...? I'm not an asshole, but when people try to get in for free or bitch and moan about the cover charge, I get really fucking unhappy. Usually I'm a very happy-go-lucky guy, but when people are stupid and try to pull shit I'm not game. I think I've been reading "Club Life" too much. Granted we don't have shitheads starting shit and I've never had to kick anyone out, but still. The day that happens I will be a changed man. I can easily toss anyone out who walks in that bar but I'd rather not. I'd rather do it in a peaceful, quiet matter but if it comes to physically removing someone I will, and that will be the changing point. I've always been afraid of hitting someone as hard as I could, and I would not do that working the door. I'd much rather grab the individual, arms behind the back, and lead them out. But if shit's going down... The day I get phyasical with an individual will change me life, and trust me, I will come out on top.
Which is part of the reason why I've taken lifting weights to a new level. On the plane flights to and fro Cancun I was reading an issue of Flex magazine. Good shit, let me tell you. So when I got back I bought six chicken breasts, a dozen eggs, three cans of fruit, and two bags of salad. And I gained two pounds on this "diet" the first week back from vacation. Think that was all musclue? Is it wrong that for this $8 an hour job that I'm trying to improve my physique to be more imposing? $8 an hour isn't worth it, but if you figure the money that I'm saving by not being on the other side of the bar it works out. $8 an hour and I'm back doing bench presses (which fucked up my shoulder) just to be a bigger man. Not that I need to be a bigger man socially, everyone loves me. But those fucks who don't know me, who try to get in for free, who complain about not having a chair to sit in (happened tonight, and yeah, fuck, you, I don't care, until someone stole my chair), screw you and I'm not putting up with it. What are you getting for the $6-$8 cover charge? You're getting in the fucking door, you're getting past me, you're getting the opportunity ot have a beverage and listen to a good band, what the fuck else do you want? You ain't getting sex, that'll cost you $150 in Cancun. I think this night job has tainted me just a little bit. One of these days I wil grab some mother fucker by his collar and lead his ass out. When that day comes, B to the... will be a different man.
But then again, I just stepped outside for a cig and had some deep thoughts. Why do I whore myself out for $8 an hour? [changing subject] Would having a "real" girlfeind really be that bad? Could I handle having someone be my "partner" (female mind you) for more than two months? I think "Red" might be up for that, but can I? Or am I just going to fuck it up just like every other relationship that I've had? Which is why I'm hessitant with "Red", she's technically the one that got away (and came back), and we'd be perfect together. But with my dating history (not good), I'm afraid I'd fuck it all up like usual. Would it be better to keep her as a very good freind or to step out on the ledge (I'm not suicidal, serious) and see what might happen? I'm leaning towards going for it, I don't see any reasone why not to. She's very nice, maybe a little insecure, but she has a good heart and I know she isn't up to any shnanigans. She's honest (I'm getting her to shed the layers, I hope), and I trust her completely. I think it would take a lot of effot on both our parts to make it work, but hey, it might be worth it. I'm 100% sure it would if we both put the effort in, but...
Sucks getting burned in love, really sucks.
Friday night at the bar was a little interesting. The former roommate and I were partners playing pool and let me tell you, I don't play pool. I fucking suck. I think it might go back to the days in high school when the geometry teacher didn't want homework handed in if you got A's on every test (which I did, I was smart like that). Kinda like when I was taking the SATs and everyone busted out their calculators for the math section and dumbass me forgot mine, still got a 96 on it. The angles for pool just don't come to me. I have my moments, but... Anyway, I'm sitting by the pool table when I feel my arms get pinned behind me. Next thing I know I have Richie's lips on mine as he's planting a wet kiss on my lips. What the hell, I can't do anything to stop this and his fucking subbly lip is touching mine. Not good. Appearantly he was dared and paid $17 to kiss me so I don't blame him too much since he's a cash whore, but still. So I was kissed by a dude. Yuck.
Second issue of the day: why does working at the door of the old folks lounge turn me into a horn ball/asshole? Generally I talk to all the women, young or old, and I try to be nice, but the sex craved (deprived) B to the... comes out every once in a while. But what I don't understand is the asshole coming out. What the...? I'm not an asshole, but when people try to get in for free or bitch and moan about the cover charge, I get really fucking unhappy. Usually I'm a very happy-go-lucky guy, but when people are stupid and try to pull shit I'm not game. I think I've been reading "Club Life" too much. Granted we don't have shitheads starting shit and I've never had to kick anyone out, but still. The day that happens I will be a changed man. I can easily toss anyone out who walks in that bar but I'd rather not. I'd rather do it in a peaceful, quiet matter but if it comes to physically removing someone I will, and that will be the changing point. I've always been afraid of hitting someone as hard as I could, and I would not do that working the door. I'd much rather grab the individual, arms behind the back, and lead them out. But if shit's going down... The day I get phyasical with an individual will change me life, and trust me, I will come out on top.
Which is part of the reason why I've taken lifting weights to a new level. On the plane flights to and fro Cancun I was reading an issue of Flex magazine. Good shit, let me tell you. So when I got back I bought six chicken breasts, a dozen eggs, three cans of fruit, and two bags of salad. And I gained two pounds on this "diet" the first week back from vacation. Think that was all musclue? Is it wrong that for this $8 an hour job that I'm trying to improve my physique to be more imposing? $8 an hour isn't worth it, but if you figure the money that I'm saving by not being on the other side of the bar it works out. $8 an hour and I'm back doing bench presses (which fucked up my shoulder) just to be a bigger man. Not that I need to be a bigger man socially, everyone loves me. But those fucks who don't know me, who try to get in for free, who complain about not having a chair to sit in (happened tonight, and yeah, fuck, you, I don't care, until someone stole my chair), screw you and I'm not putting up with it. What are you getting for the $6-$8 cover charge? You're getting in the fucking door, you're getting past me, you're getting the opportunity ot have a beverage and listen to a good band, what the fuck else do you want? You ain't getting sex, that'll cost you $150 in Cancun. I think this night job has tainted me just a little bit. One of these days I wil grab some mother fucker by his collar and lead his ass out. When that day comes, B to the... will be a different man.
But then again, I just stepped outside for a cig and had some deep thoughts. Why do I whore myself out for $8 an hour? [changing subject] Would having a "real" girlfeind really be that bad? Could I handle having someone be my "partner" (female mind you) for more than two months? I think "Red" might be up for that, but can I? Or am I just going to fuck it up just like every other relationship that I've had? Which is why I'm hessitant with "Red", she's technically the one that got away (and came back), and we'd be perfect together. But with my dating history (not good), I'm afraid I'd fuck it all up like usual. Would it be better to keep her as a very good freind or to step out on the ledge (I'm not suicidal, serious) and see what might happen? I'm leaning towards going for it, I don't see any reasone why not to. She's very nice, maybe a little insecure, but she has a good heart and I know she isn't up to any shnanigans. She's honest (I'm getting her to shed the layers, I hope), and I trust her completely. I think it would take a lot of effot on both our parts to make it work, but hey, it might be worth it. I'm 100% sure it would if we both put the effort in, but...
Sucks getting burned in love, really sucks.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Emails
I’m going to do something today that I don’t usually do and it may or may not piss a certain individual off. But then again this individual doesn’t like to read the blog since she thinks I sound like an asshole or something to that nature. So here it goes: the email conversation.
Red: Are you online today? Talk to me, please, I’m so bored. You didn’t even comment on my pix? [I hate it when people abbreviate stuff like that and “u” and “ur” and all that shit, but oh well] Did you get them?
B to the…: Yeah I'm onlne. What's up? Do I have to comment on your pictures? Do you need to have someone tell you that you’re pretty and hot to make you feel better or something? You should know that you are both of those. And yes, I did like the red hair. Would look better spread out on my white sheets, but a guy can only dream… [actually my sheets are blue but that wouldn’t have the same effect]
Red: I have a love-hate response to your insistent honesty.
B to the…: Hey, it’s better than lying, playing games, and sugar coating things. It’s a lot easier, too. Maybe that’s why I’m always honest, I’m lazy.
Red: I like the honesty because I trust you and your opinions more than most people I know and that feels good. However there are times, when the calling out of the truth makes me feel embarrassed and exposed, which are not comfortable feelings, thus the hate. I never heard someone say that honesty was easier before. But I think you’re right, which is why my life always seems complicated. I’ve got a lot of layers between me and other people….more space for smoke and mirrors….its a lot of up-keep. So, is the blog you at your most exposed? Are you really about beer and poop and the next lay? You’re a puzzle to me for some reason.
B to the…: How can you feel embarrassed about who you are? I mean, that is the truth, isn’t that what you want people to know you for? For example, me, I’m a lazy accountant [not lazy at work of course] who has very little ambition to study and take the CPA test, partakes in a beverage or two or three on a regular basis (wink), pretty much set in my ways doing things that may or may not be wholesome but bring me a sense of contentment. How would you describe yourself deep down inside once the smoke clears? I’m not sure if I’m glad that I puzzle you (am I a man of intrigue? Cool.) but I’m really not that hard to figure out.
Red: Maybe I don’t like the person that I see when the smoke clears, and maybe I can never fully see through the smoke…it’s just become part of my reality. Maybe the tricks seem easier to me than changing what I don’t like about myself because that would involve the possibility of failure. I also put too much stock on what the people around me will think of the real heather. They might not like her and then leave her. You seem like you’re not that hard to figure out, but are you totally content? I don’t know. It’s probably just me looking into something that’s not there. Sometimes you seem like this interesting guy with a huge heart and sometimes you seem like a shallow asshole. Your eyes say one thing and your actions another. But I guess it’s the actions that count. And if you’re content, then who gives a crap(edit) what other people think. I’d give my left foot to be content. No joke.
My current situation: crazy in love with this guy who breaks my heart on a regular basis because he requires a certain level of honesty that I, in my present state of self-denial, cannot give him. So really it’s me breaking my own heart, and yet I continue to act the same way over and over.
B to the…: Who would this “crazy in love with” guy be?
I can see where you’re coming from I think. I used to try to be “cool” and maybe say or do things that weren’t who I actually was. But that sucked, wondering what people thought of you and if they liked you or not, you have enough stuff to worry about other than that. Ok here, another truth, I can honestly say that I don’t have a whole lot of friends. I have a lot of acquaintances at the bar and hang out with some of them on the outside (real life), but I’m not sure if I’d call them friends. Do I care what they think about me? When I let out a really raunchy fart at the bar do I wonder what’s going through their heads (besides vomiting)? No, not really, that’s who I am. They know I openly fart there (geez, no wonder why I’m single). Do they actually want me to sit next to them and chat or are they just putting up with me? Doesn’t matter, I’m going to sit there and talk no matter what. Are the bartenders just being nice to me because that’s their job and they want a good tip? As long as they give me beer and don’t spit in it I’m happy, doesn’t matter if they were actually laughing at my jokes or just laughing at me because I am who I am. Thing is I’m me and I’m not going to change that to make other people think more highly of me. I can be an asshole at times (usually not) but that doesn’t happen often. People can think of me anyway they want.
I would suggest (although taking advice from me is probably not a good idea) clearing the smoke just a little at a time, put the fan on low and see what happens. What’s there to lose? I think you’ll have more fun and satisfaction saying and doing things you want to say and do deep down inside, throwing caution out the window along with the smoke. Hey, you never know, maybe the “real” Red is totally fucking cool, maybe even cooler than “please tell me I’m pretty” Red, maybe even prettier and more confident (confidence is always sexy). So you tell me I’m fat and my stomach hangs over my belt when I’m sitting at work. Ok, fine, it does, want to see it [it flattens out when I stand up, I swear!]? Do you have any diet suggestions? So you tell me smoking is nasty and stinky. Yeah it is but what am I going to do, quit? Ha!
Are we still up for Monday? We can go to a place on Greenfield right down the road, I’ve never been there.
(Actually, looking back through the lines I only deleted one of hers. Hopefully she won’t get upset with me or anything. I just wanted to let you in behind the scenes of my world, maybe a little peak into the cavity where the brain should be located. Yeah, with my luck she will read this and cancel on me, which would be really sad because she is super cool. And super hot to boot. And she said she wants to make out with me and making out is always good. We did that once and it was a very special moment for me, passionate and long overdue.)
Red: Are you online today? Talk to me, please, I’m so bored. You didn’t even comment on my pix? [I hate it when people abbreviate stuff like that and “u” and “ur” and all that shit, but oh well] Did you get them?
B to the…: Yeah I'm onlne. What's up? Do I have to comment on your pictures? Do you need to have someone tell you that you’re pretty and hot to make you feel better or something? You should know that you are both of those. And yes, I did like the red hair. Would look better spread out on my white sheets, but a guy can only dream… [actually my sheets are blue but that wouldn’t have the same effect]
Red: I have a love-hate response to your insistent honesty.
B to the…: Hey, it’s better than lying, playing games, and sugar coating things. It’s a lot easier, too. Maybe that’s why I’m always honest, I’m lazy.
Red: I like the honesty because I trust you and your opinions more than most people I know and that feels good. However there are times, when the calling out of the truth makes me feel embarrassed and exposed, which are not comfortable feelings, thus the hate. I never heard someone say that honesty was easier before. But I think you’re right, which is why my life always seems complicated. I’ve got a lot of layers between me and other people….more space for smoke and mirrors….its a lot of up-keep. So, is the blog you at your most exposed? Are you really about beer and poop and the next lay? You’re a puzzle to me for some reason.
B to the…: How can you feel embarrassed about who you are? I mean, that is the truth, isn’t that what you want people to know you for? For example, me, I’m a lazy accountant [not lazy at work of course] who has very little ambition to study and take the CPA test, partakes in a beverage or two or three on a regular basis (wink), pretty much set in my ways doing things that may or may not be wholesome but bring me a sense of contentment. How would you describe yourself deep down inside once the smoke clears? I’m not sure if I’m glad that I puzzle you (am I a man of intrigue? Cool.) but I’m really not that hard to figure out.
Red: Maybe I don’t like the person that I see when the smoke clears, and maybe I can never fully see through the smoke…it’s just become part of my reality. Maybe the tricks seem easier to me than changing what I don’t like about myself because that would involve the possibility of failure. I also put too much stock on what the people around me will think of the real heather. They might not like her and then leave her. You seem like you’re not that hard to figure out, but are you totally content? I don’t know. It’s probably just me looking into something that’s not there. Sometimes you seem like this interesting guy with a huge heart and sometimes you seem like a shallow asshole. Your eyes say one thing and your actions another. But I guess it’s the actions that count. And if you’re content, then who gives a crap(edit) what other people think. I’d give my left foot to be content. No joke.
My current situation: crazy in love with this guy who breaks my heart on a regular basis because he requires a certain level of honesty that I, in my present state of self-denial, cannot give him. So really it’s me breaking my own heart, and yet I continue to act the same way over and over.
B to the…: Who would this “crazy in love with” guy be?
I can see where you’re coming from I think. I used to try to be “cool” and maybe say or do things that weren’t who I actually was. But that sucked, wondering what people thought of you and if they liked you or not, you have enough stuff to worry about other than that. Ok here, another truth, I can honestly say that I don’t have a whole lot of friends. I have a lot of acquaintances at the bar and hang out with some of them on the outside (real life), but I’m not sure if I’d call them friends. Do I care what they think about me? When I let out a really raunchy fart at the bar do I wonder what’s going through their heads (besides vomiting)? No, not really, that’s who I am. They know I openly fart there (geez, no wonder why I’m single). Do they actually want me to sit next to them and chat or are they just putting up with me? Doesn’t matter, I’m going to sit there and talk no matter what. Are the bartenders just being nice to me because that’s their job and they want a good tip? As long as they give me beer and don’t spit in it I’m happy, doesn’t matter if they were actually laughing at my jokes or just laughing at me because I am who I am. Thing is I’m me and I’m not going to change that to make other people think more highly of me. I can be an asshole at times (usually not) but that doesn’t happen often. People can think of me anyway they want.
I would suggest (although taking advice from me is probably not a good idea) clearing the smoke just a little at a time, put the fan on low and see what happens. What’s there to lose? I think you’ll have more fun and satisfaction saying and doing things you want to say and do deep down inside, throwing caution out the window along with the smoke. Hey, you never know, maybe the “real” Red is totally fucking cool, maybe even cooler than “please tell me I’m pretty” Red, maybe even prettier and more confident (confidence is always sexy). So you tell me I’m fat and my stomach hangs over my belt when I’m sitting at work. Ok, fine, it does, want to see it [it flattens out when I stand up, I swear!]? Do you have any diet suggestions? So you tell me smoking is nasty and stinky. Yeah it is but what am I going to do, quit? Ha!
Are we still up for Monday? We can go to a place on Greenfield right down the road, I’ve never been there.
(Actually, looking back through the lines I only deleted one of hers. Hopefully she won’t get upset with me or anything. I just wanted to let you in behind the scenes of my world, maybe a little peak into the cavity where the brain should be located. Yeah, with my luck she will read this and cancel on me, which would be really sad because she is super cool. And super hot to boot. And she said she wants to make out with me and making out is always good. We did that once and it was a very special moment for me, passionate and long overdue.)
Thursday, November 02, 2006
My Gym Shoes
See these shoes?
These are what the Fab Five of Michigan wore when they won the national championship in college basketball in 1992 (Chris Webber, Jalen Rose, Juwan Howard, Jimmy King, and Ray Jackson – who I couldn’t remember and had to look up – anyway, they were all freshmen). No, these are not 14 years old, Nike brought them out of the closet and remade them two years ago. When I was a sophomore in high school I had them when they first came out only to blow the air pocket in one of them and have Nike send me a brand new pair of the newer model (which weren’t as cool as these). So even though I rolled my ankles numerous times with these shoes they were still the ones that “got away” since I couldn’t find them anywhere back then. In 2004 when they came out again I bought the red and white ones, the black and blue ones pictured here, and a second pair of the black ones that have never been worn (sitting in my closet along with these which have never been worn).
So yeah, I’m a bit of a shoe freak. Which was ok back when I played basketball every freaking day, but I haven’t touched a ball since this summer and that was just at the park five blocks from my house shooting by myself. Ok, so what brings up the shoe topic? Well, I’m wearing these to the gym today because I PEED ON/IN THE REGULAR GYM SHOES.
Roommate and I got home from the bar last night and a scuffle developed in the bathroom. I’m not exactly sure what the circumstances were, but she wouldn’t let me use the toilet, and let me tell you, I had to go. I don’t know if I panicked because I couldn’t use it or what but right then you know what started flowing. Next thing I know I’m standing in the shower fully dressed peeing in my fucking shorts. Why I didn’t unzip the fly and just let er go in the shower I don’t know, my decision making abilities might have been clouded by a little thing called alcohol (damn it, I thought you were my friend!). So I turned the shower on and soaked my shorts and shoes (second time in a week for the shoes) and left the clothes in the shower. Pretty fucking gross, eh? Not exactly one of my better moments.
But that wasn’t the only shower incident in the past 24 hours. This morning the roommate and I were in the bathroom together again. I was trying to put in my contacts and she was doing her hair or something else anal that women have to do before they leave the house. For some reason I called her a midget and she laid into me. Not expecting it at all I lost my balance and tumble into the shower taking down the shower curtain and curtain rod with me. Little busty bitch can pack a punch.
These are what the Fab Five of Michigan wore when they won the national championship in college basketball in 1992 (Chris Webber, Jalen Rose, Juwan Howard, Jimmy King, and Ray Jackson – who I couldn’t remember and had to look up – anyway, they were all freshmen). No, these are not 14 years old, Nike brought them out of the closet and remade them two years ago. When I was a sophomore in high school I had them when they first came out only to blow the air pocket in one of them and have Nike send me a brand new pair of the newer model (which weren’t as cool as these). So even though I rolled my ankles numerous times with these shoes they were still the ones that “got away” since I couldn’t find them anywhere back then. In 2004 when they came out again I bought the red and white ones, the black and blue ones pictured here, and a second pair of the black ones that have never been worn (sitting in my closet along with these which have never been worn).
So yeah, I’m a bit of a shoe freak. Which was ok back when I played basketball every freaking day, but I haven’t touched a ball since this summer and that was just at the park five blocks from my house shooting by myself. Ok, so what brings up the shoe topic? Well, I’m wearing these to the gym today because I PEED ON/IN THE REGULAR GYM SHOES.
Roommate and I got home from the bar last night and a scuffle developed in the bathroom. I’m not exactly sure what the circumstances were, but she wouldn’t let me use the toilet, and let me tell you, I had to go. I don’t know if I panicked because I couldn’t use it or what but right then you know what started flowing. Next thing I know I’m standing in the shower fully dressed peeing in my fucking shorts. Why I didn’t unzip the fly and just let er go in the shower I don’t know, my decision making abilities might have been clouded by a little thing called alcohol (damn it, I thought you were my friend!). So I turned the shower on and soaked my shorts and shoes (second time in a week for the shoes) and left the clothes in the shower. Pretty fucking gross, eh? Not exactly one of my better moments.
But that wasn’t the only shower incident in the past 24 hours. This morning the roommate and I were in the bathroom together again. I was trying to put in my contacts and she was doing her hair or something else anal that women have to do before they leave the house. For some reason I called her a midget and she laid into me. Not expecting it at all I lost my balance and tumble into the shower taking down the shower curtain and curtain rod with me. Little busty bitch can pack a punch.
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