Allen, Joe and I were heading on business trip to LA. I had pathetic luggage and asked Shorty if I could borrow his suitcase that had wheels. He told me to stop by that afternoon to pick it up.
I popped over and Short and Fee were lounging around watching TV (they were both unemployed at the time and I can only assume they were taking a break from masturbating.) Short said he forgot I was coming over and ran upstairs to get the bag. Twenty seconds later he was back down. I grabbed the bag, said thanks and started out the door. Shorty stopped me quickly and said, “Hey, you may want to check the bag to make sure there’s nothing in it.” I could only imagine the dirty sock and soiled underwear that might have been in the hidden pockets of the bag. I set it down and unzipped it.
The interior was empty and I gave a quick hand pass through the top pocket. My hand rammed something that was metal and gun like. I pulled it out and found out why it was gun shaped. It was a Beretta. A real Beretta.
Jerk.
Further inspection revealed a grenade. OK, a fake grenade, but it was metal and heavy. Not your bottom of the Capt. Crunch box grenade.
Fucker.
I searched every pocket as Shorty laughed. A small baggie with an unknown white powder was the last item found. Not sure if he meant it to be cocaine or anthrax. Knowing Shorty, probably anthrax.
Asshole!
We actually had a good laugh devising the possible scenarios of my passing through airport security. Luckily I know show tunes.
The next day we met at the airport. Allen had three bags and asked me to carry his bag with the scripts. I only had the one bag so it wasn’t a problem. On the plane I threw it in the overhead along with my other bag that was now not filled with guns and anthrax.
Take off. Peanuts. Land.
We had a two hour layover in St. Louis so we went to our gate and found a seat. Joe suggested we go over the scripts. “I’ll get the scripts out of the bag! The non-descript bag that looks like any other bag.”
The contents of the bag had magically changed from papers to medical equipment and prescription drugs. That or I grabbed the wrong bag off the plane. Joe and Allen were a bit unhappy but slightly amused. I went to ticket counter where three airline women were working. I sheepishly told them what happened and they scolded me! “You did what?” “Didn’t you look to see if the bag was yours?” “Don’t you know your own bag?” They called the gate where we landed. “There is a very upset woman looking for her bag. Go to the baggage claim office.” I slithered off.
As I waited at baggage claim, I listened to a pissed off chick from some other flight argue with an attendant about a lost bag. They would not give her any vouchers for her lost luggage because she lived in St. Louis. She was coming home from college and didn’t have any clothes or toiletries at her parents’ home. The airline couldn’t help her and the attendant made her quota of un-happy customers.
I knew immediately that the extremely upset woman striding towards me was the owner of the bag I held. She threw my bag to the ground and ripped her bag from my hand. She sat it down on a chair and opened it up to examine what I had stolen or broken. I tried to apologize, but she didn’t say a word and stomped off when she was satisfied I had not disturbed her possessions.
I took the bag back to our gate. We reviewed the script.
To this day, I couldn’t tell you what that medical equipment was. There was something that looked like a saline drip IV bag with fluid in it and a lot of stainless steel rods with plastic or Teflon bits. There were at least four bottles of medicine.
I am now one of those fools with the big ribbon tied to my bags. Just so I know exactly where my gun, grenade and anthrax are.
Moving on up
The good news is that our house is in contract. The bad news is that our house is in contract. We need to get out by the end of the month. We have three options:
1. Buy a house and move in by the end of the month.
2. Rent an apartment. Buy a house at our convenience.
3. Move in with Miss Sally’s mom or my mom. Buy a house before we kill mother/in-law.
Option one would be the best we could hope for, but trying to find a home, sign papers, get inspections and have the current occupants move out by the end of the month will be almost impossible. We have a house that we really, really like. I think we will be making an offer tomorrow. Four bedrooms, two and a half baths. Let’s see if handsome Joe can work some magic for us.
Option two is such a pain in the ass. It would require two moves and all the hassle that is buried in with switching utilities, mail and two cats. It is a good option so that we don’t rush into a house that we haven’t researched or can’t afford. It’s a costly option for the reasons I mentioned above, plus we do not know how long we’ll be staying and could have moving out early fees. What a pain. I forget what apartment life is like. I remember liking it 10 years ago with no kids, cats or sobriety.
Option three makes my bowels turn to water. We would not have to worry about apartment woes, but holy crap what a nightmare. My whole routine would be screwed up. It would be a 45 – 60 minute drive to work every day. I wouldn’t be going out in Columbus at all. My masturbation schedule would be completely whacked. And there’s nothing worse than getting nagged in person rather than over the phone. (Just kidding ma!) It’s a cheap option… but at what cost?
To top all this off, Miss Sally is due September 21st. Even if we signed papers tomorrow, we still would be very lucky to be settled in and building a nest by that date. With our luck, Miss Sally will go into labor caused by hauling my computer monitor up the stairs. I’ll be searching through all the moving boxes, opening the linens box for blankets and the boiling water box for boiling water. Months later we’ll find the Midwife box and laugh about how it could have made things so much easier.
Wish us luck.
1. Buy a house and move in by the end of the month.
2. Rent an apartment. Buy a house at our convenience.
3. Move in with Miss Sally’s mom or my mom. Buy a house before we kill mother/in-law.
Option one would be the best we could hope for, but trying to find a home, sign papers, get inspections and have the current occupants move out by the end of the month will be almost impossible. We have a house that we really, really like. I think we will be making an offer tomorrow. Four bedrooms, two and a half baths. Let’s see if handsome Joe can work some magic for us.
Option two is such a pain in the ass. It would require two moves and all the hassle that is buried in with switching utilities, mail and two cats. It is a good option so that we don’t rush into a house that we haven’t researched or can’t afford. It’s a costly option for the reasons I mentioned above, plus we do not know how long we’ll be staying and could have moving out early fees. What a pain. I forget what apartment life is like. I remember liking it 10 years ago with no kids, cats or sobriety.
Option three makes my bowels turn to water. We would not have to worry about apartment woes, but holy crap what a nightmare. My whole routine would be screwed up. It would be a 45 – 60 minute drive to work every day. I wouldn’t be going out in Columbus at all. My masturbation schedule would be completely whacked. And there’s nothing worse than getting nagged in person rather than over the phone. (Just kidding ma!) It’s a cheap option… but at what cost?
To top all this off, Miss Sally is due September 21st. Even if we signed papers tomorrow, we still would be very lucky to be settled in and building a nest by that date. With our luck, Miss Sally will go into labor caused by hauling my computer monitor up the stairs. I’ll be searching through all the moving boxes, opening the linens box for blankets and the boiling water box for boiling water. Months later we’ll find the Midwife box and laugh about how it could have made things so much easier.
Wish us luck.
David Banner doesn't have to feed the Hulk soup
I hope that Miss Sally remembers that we went through a period of don’t ask, don’t tell when we first met. It was very early on in our relationship and we were long distance dating and I’m sure she didn’t have insurance.
Omaha, Nebraska. I won’t beat the town up too much. I arrived there after spending a summer in Boston. No comparison. It was also fall rolling into winter. Not the most gleeful time of year. When I would arrive in a new town, my first goal was to represent my company in the most professional and engaging manner. My 0.5 goal was to find who drank and when and could I buy them a drink. Enter Jane. She worked at the museum as an operations/education type. She was about my age and she had friends that liked to drink. It seemed that many of the people in Omaha were just as depressed as I was about being there. We all drank together. Me and Jane’s friends. And Julie, too. Especially Julie.
I knew that Jane’s friend Julie and I were going to hit it off when we argued the entire first night we met. My take on women is that the more you can aggravate them, the more they like you. (Except Freckled Jen’s friend Tracey. Man, she really hates me.) The second clue was when Julie mooned a group of us as they drove by at the end of the night. The third clue was when we hooked up two nights later.
It was a very casual relationship. We’d go out for drinks and make out back at her place. We’d lie in bed and she’d tell me stories about some guy she dated nicknamed Peanut. He was born several weeks premature and the poor guy was cursed with a small weenier. But she said that when he came, he would shoot either across the room or on to the ceiling depending on the angle and if the fan was on. She was a very fun girl.
The best part about Omaha was leaving to go home and visit Sally. After a month in Omaha, I went home and hung out with Miss Sally for a few days. I really started to like Miss Sally a lot more after that trip home (you should read my journal… I was pathetically in love.) When I went back to Omaha, I told Julie that I still wanted to hang out, but that I was in love with Miss Sally and I couldn’t continue our current relationship. (i.e. I can’t let you suck my dick anymore. Sorry.) She was very understanding. (i.e. Fine. You can’t eat my pussy.) And that was that.
Except for this side note: You will soon be familiar with a Seinfeld episode called “The Alternate Side.” In that episode, amongst other things, Elaine dates an older man named Owen. She was about five seconds from breaking up with Owen when he has a stroke. Because they were still dating, Elaine was obligated to sit with him in his vegetative state, stay by his side and feed him Yankee bean soup. Several weeks after I returned from Ohio with excuses to call off my half-assed relationship with Julie, she had a very traumatic day at work. Julie worked for a company that would collect used American clothing and ship them overseas. The clothes were gathered in huge bundles that weighed over a ton and stacked in a warehouse before shipping. Julie was in the warehouse when a forklift operator on the opposite side of a stack of clothes bundles knocked one over on top of her. This was a ONE TON bundle of cloth that fell from at least 8’ up and she was trapped underneath. The driver, only knowing he had knocked something over, walked to the other side of the stacks to see her unconscious under the ONE TON bundle. The guy then picked up the one ton stack of clothes and moved it off of her. (One of those David Banner wishes he could lift the car off his wife moments.) Paramedics were called and she was taken to the hospital with head injuries. When she got out a few weeks later, she was just not the same. Very functional, just a different personality from the girl I’d met three months prior.
Moral to this story? I’m a shallow son of a bitch because I got to deal with that situation as a guy who was leaving town in a month, rather than as a boyfriend. I’m sure I would have used the “moving on to the next town” excuse to break things off when the time came. I’m just happy I didn’t have to feed her soup.
Damn. I am a complete asshole.
Oh yeah. In that Seinfeld episode, Elaine does break up with Owen while he was still in a vegetative state. Later, she bumps into him on the subway where she learns that he has had an almost full recovery. That’s also when she learns that he was just using her for the sex. Maybe I’m not such an asshole.
Omaha, Nebraska. I won’t beat the town up too much. I arrived there after spending a summer in Boston. No comparison. It was also fall rolling into winter. Not the most gleeful time of year. When I would arrive in a new town, my first goal was to represent my company in the most professional and engaging manner. My 0.5 goal was to find who drank and when and could I buy them a drink. Enter Jane. She worked at the museum as an operations/education type. She was about my age and she had friends that liked to drink. It seemed that many of the people in Omaha were just as depressed as I was about being there. We all drank together. Me and Jane’s friends. And Julie, too. Especially Julie.
I knew that Jane’s friend Julie and I were going to hit it off when we argued the entire first night we met. My take on women is that the more you can aggravate them, the more they like you. (Except Freckled Jen’s friend Tracey. Man, she really hates me.) The second clue was when Julie mooned a group of us as they drove by at the end of the night. The third clue was when we hooked up two nights later.
It was a very casual relationship. We’d go out for drinks and make out back at her place. We’d lie in bed and she’d tell me stories about some guy she dated nicknamed Peanut. He was born several weeks premature and the poor guy was cursed with a small weenier. But she said that when he came, he would shoot either across the room or on to the ceiling depending on the angle and if the fan was on. She was a very fun girl.
The best part about Omaha was leaving to go home and visit Sally. After a month in Omaha, I went home and hung out with Miss Sally for a few days. I really started to like Miss Sally a lot more after that trip home (you should read my journal… I was pathetically in love.) When I went back to Omaha, I told Julie that I still wanted to hang out, but that I was in love with Miss Sally and I couldn’t continue our current relationship. (i.e. I can’t let you suck my dick anymore. Sorry.) She was very understanding. (i.e. Fine. You can’t eat my pussy.) And that was that.
Except for this side note: You will soon be familiar with a Seinfeld episode called “The Alternate Side.” In that episode, amongst other things, Elaine dates an older man named Owen. She was about five seconds from breaking up with Owen when he has a stroke. Because they were still dating, Elaine was obligated to sit with him in his vegetative state, stay by his side and feed him Yankee bean soup. Several weeks after I returned from Ohio with excuses to call off my half-assed relationship with Julie, she had a very traumatic day at work. Julie worked for a company that would collect used American clothing and ship them overseas. The clothes were gathered in huge bundles that weighed over a ton and stacked in a warehouse before shipping. Julie was in the warehouse when a forklift operator on the opposite side of a stack of clothes bundles knocked one over on top of her. This was a ONE TON bundle of cloth that fell from at least 8’ up and she was trapped underneath. The driver, only knowing he had knocked something over, walked to the other side of the stacks to see her unconscious under the ONE TON bundle. The guy then picked up the one ton stack of clothes and moved it off of her. (One of those David Banner wishes he could lift the car off his wife moments.) Paramedics were called and she was taken to the hospital with head injuries. When she got out a few weeks later, she was just not the same. Very functional, just a different personality from the girl I’d met three months prior.
Moral to this story? I’m a shallow son of a bitch because I got to deal with that situation as a guy who was leaving town in a month, rather than as a boyfriend. I’m sure I would have used the “moving on to the next town” excuse to break things off when the time came. I’m just happy I didn’t have to feed her soup.
Damn. I am a complete asshole.
Oh yeah. In that Seinfeld episode, Elaine does break up with Owen while he was still in a vegetative state. Later, she bumps into him on the subway where she learns that he has had an almost full recovery. That’s also when she learns that he was just using her for the sex. Maybe I’m not such an asshole.
ComFest 2006
I would like to think that this year’s ComFest was supposed to be about music, community and the celebration of diversity. The most entertaining part of it for me was what happened after ComFest while people were leaving and how they interacted with a shopping cart and two hula hoops. Please allow me to present my first photo heavy entry.
Miss Sally, Greg and I drove down to ComFest and I sold what was left of my soul for an awesome parking spot. We loaded Greg and the goods into the little red wagon and rolled into the crowds. Greg got his first sight of hippy and his first smell of weed. We spread out a blanket and listened to music for a few hours. It was a good time. Russ, Cheri and Reed joined us and we all shared grapes, juice and squirt guns.
Reed got to see a spiky, blonde haired lesbian throw up. Greg and I threw a Frisbee with a mentally disabled kid.
Um, at a mentally disabled kid.
Around 8:00pm, Miss Sally had to make water and we did not have the 30 minutes to wait in line at the porta potty. Instead we packed up and wagoned over to my friend Meshell’s house to meet up with some friends. They were all surprised to see Miss Sally’s pregnant belly. (Miss Sally is at best 105 pounds with a wet winter jacket on. The baby has decided to grow straight out and so she only looks pregnant from two angles.) While we were there, Shorty taught my kid how to karate chop an inflatable palm tree.
I took Miss Sally and Greg home and returned to Meshell’s around 10:00pm. I noticed a shopping cart.
“Hey, that’s a shopping cart.”
Earlier in the day, the folks at Meshell’s watched stunned as a man with a broken arm, broken leg and numerous head stitches lurched down the brick paved street with a walker. He and his girlfriend were not making much progress. This dude was a wreck. Someone came by with a shopping cart and offered it up to the guy. With a little careful lifting and tucking, the guy was loaded inside. Girlfriend rumbled him down the street and to ComFest. Hours later they returned, poured the guy out of the cart and headed back the way they came. A true American story of heroism, ingenuity and a guy that got the smoke beat out of him by a baseball bat.
The shopping cart remained a focal point for all those who passed. Some would jump in it and scream. Others would team up and push eachother in circles. Some would just push the empty cart. For something that was obviously stolen, people seemed intent on returning it to its unrightful owners. It never was more than five hula hoops away.
“Hey, those are hula hoops.”
Taresa had brought two hula hoops to Meshell's. They were in use from noon until 2:00am. Taresa was either hooping or helping someone else to hoop all night long. She was really good. Here you can see how good I was. That is until you compare it to these other photos. It only took 8 shots to get one photo that made me look good. The only good thing was that Shorty was as bad as me. We had several hoop offs that consisted of us holding beers and cigarettes while dropping the hoops to the ground at our feet. Repeat. We sucked.
Josh had it going on, though.
Throughout the night, people would random walk up to the hoops and try them out. Others were coaxed in by one of the resident barkers. As the night wore on and beer sales finished at ComFest, many were conned into foolishness with the allure of free beer to anyone who could hula for more than x amount of seconds. (I’m no programmer, but the hula timing went like this: if hula person = chick then x = 3, if hula person = dude then x = 50)
We had one woman drop her top while hula hooping.
We had another without a shirt whose naughty bits were covered by post-its (postits?)and red marker. I think x for her equaled what she had stuck in her mouth three hours earlier.
All in all, a beautiful night. From the guy who couldn’t find his buddy’s house (it was just on the left of the CVS) to the 24+ guys who humped the traffic cones to the dude who actually ran down the street at full speed with a hula hoop around his waist and performed for five minutes straight.
Other photos from ComFest 2006 can be found here:ComFest 2006 photos
Miss Sally, Greg and I drove down to ComFest and I sold what was left of my soul for an awesome parking spot. We loaded Greg and the goods into the little red wagon and rolled into the crowds. Greg got his first sight of hippy and his first smell of weed. We spread out a blanket and listened to music for a few hours. It was a good time. Russ, Cheri and Reed joined us and we all shared grapes, juice and squirt guns.
Reed got to see a spiky, blonde haired lesbian throw up. Greg and I threw a Frisbee with a mentally disabled kid.
Um, at a mentally disabled kid.
Around 8:00pm, Miss Sally had to make water and we did not have the 30 minutes to wait in line at the porta potty. Instead we packed up and wagoned over to my friend Meshell’s house to meet up with some friends. They were all surprised to see Miss Sally’s pregnant belly. (Miss Sally is at best 105 pounds with a wet winter jacket on. The baby has decided to grow straight out and so she only looks pregnant from two angles.) While we were there, Shorty taught my kid how to karate chop an inflatable palm tree.
I took Miss Sally and Greg home and returned to Meshell’s around 10:00pm. I noticed a shopping cart.
“Hey, that’s a shopping cart.”
Earlier in the day, the folks at Meshell’s watched stunned as a man with a broken arm, broken leg and numerous head stitches lurched down the brick paved street with a walker. He and his girlfriend were not making much progress. This dude was a wreck. Someone came by with a shopping cart and offered it up to the guy. With a little careful lifting and tucking, the guy was loaded inside. Girlfriend rumbled him down the street and to ComFest. Hours later they returned, poured the guy out of the cart and headed back the way they came. A true American story of heroism, ingenuity and a guy that got the smoke beat out of him by a baseball bat.
The shopping cart remained a focal point for all those who passed. Some would jump in it and scream. Others would team up and push eachother in circles. Some would just push the empty cart. For something that was obviously stolen, people seemed intent on returning it to its unrightful owners. It never was more than five hula hoops away.
“Hey, those are hula hoops.”
Taresa had brought two hula hoops to Meshell's. They were in use from noon until 2:00am. Taresa was either hooping or helping someone else to hoop all night long. She was really good. Here you can see how good I was. That is until you compare it to these other photos. It only took 8 shots to get one photo that made me look good. The only good thing was that Shorty was as bad as me. We had several hoop offs that consisted of us holding beers and cigarettes while dropping the hoops to the ground at our feet. Repeat. We sucked.
Josh had it going on, though.
Throughout the night, people would random walk up to the hoops and try them out. Others were coaxed in by one of the resident barkers. As the night wore on and beer sales finished at ComFest, many were conned into foolishness with the allure of free beer to anyone who could hula for more than x amount of seconds. (I’m no programmer, but the hula timing went like this: if hula person = chick then x = 3, if hula person = dude then x = 50)
We had one woman drop her top while hula hooping.
We had another without a shirt whose naughty bits were covered by post-its (postits?)and red marker. I think x for her equaled what she had stuck in her mouth three hours earlier.
All in all, a beautiful night. From the guy who couldn’t find his buddy’s house (it was just on the left of the CVS) to the 24+ guys who humped the traffic cones to the dude who actually ran down the street at full speed with a hula hoop around his waist and performed for five minutes straight.
Other photos from ComFest 2006 can be found here:
Passing the time
I understand that driving and boredom go hand in hand. Many would say that a good book on CD can help pass the time. Some people (like me) listen to Sirius Satellite radio. This woman, whom we saw driving in Atlanta, was passing her time by reading.
We were driving around 45 - 50 MPH through a construction zone at the time.
At least she's got both hands mostly on the wheel.
We were driving around 45 - 50 MPH through a construction zone at the time.
At least she's got both hands mostly on the wheel.
Three and out
A storm passed through our little corner of Columbus this afternoon and was kind enough to knock out the power to our office. All I have to ask is why didn’t it happen three hours earlier? As we sat in the dark and listened to the server backup battery beep, the question was raised if we should leave and get a drink. The answer was of course yes, but as the resident lush, I needed to wait for someone else to commit. It was 4:30 and everyone was hemmin’ and hawin’ about going home. Fortunately, vice-lush stepped up to the plate and we went to Doubles. Three beers and I went home. I knew that if I had four that I would have five which would give me the courage to call home and ask if it was ok to stay out for a little longer knowing full well that it was bath night and that I am going out tomorrow AND Saturday and so I left.
What do we do if we show up in the morning and the power is still off? Answer: Bloody Marys.
What do we do if we show up in the morning and the power is still off? Answer: Bloody Marys.
You look like someone famous
Allen and I went to LA. (There’s almost a palindrome in there somewhere.) We were there for work, but we were also there to drink. One place to drink is Trader Vic’s. It is located in the Beverly Hills Hilton. It’s a restaurant too, but we were not there to eat.
It was a Thursday and Thursdays are busy at Trader Vic’s. The lounge was full of people and every bar stool was occupied by a hottie or someone trying to pick up a hottie. We set up shop at a very small table that was created from a slice of log which had been drowned in resin.
Allen is very good at ordering drinks. I always fall back on the Captain and diet (then later I just fall over.) Allen is a fan of greyhounds and martinis. He’s the type of guy that puts salt in his beer. At trader Vic’s, there is a playground of drinks to choose from. He’s not one to mess with a Tiki Puka Puka, but he will drink Suffering Bastards until I start to look good. We racked up a $200 bar tab by the end of the night.
Our view over the shellacked table encompassed the corner of the bar and a few tables to our right. Right smack dab in front of us on a barstool was a chick with a lot of back showing. She was either wearing a thong that was riding way up her ass or her bra strap was slipping down. We realized what was happening when she went to adjust her pants. Sensing the 30 or so guys in the place burning a hole in her backside, the chick would blindly reach back to pull her pants up to hide he thong. What she was doing was the exact opposite by pulling her thong up even higher. This went on for at least fifteen minutes until she got up to go pee-pee. (Or to go shit out the part of the thong that was wedged up her butt.)
On the short side of the bar, there were two VERY attractive women. Coming from Ohio, I’d say these girls were 9 – 9.5s. I’m sure that in L.A. they were just 7s, but 90% of the guys out there are gay, preparing to be or acting like they are to get work so it doesn’t matter what they think. These two were hot. The 10% of guys in L.A. that weren’t gay showed up at Trader Vic’s that night to hit on these chicks. The girls were knocking them down left and right. We thought we were cool because we didn’t even attempt to get shot down. Out of the blue, the hotter of the two chicks stepped away from the bar and sat down next to Allen and me. She said hi. We said hi. Allen chatted her up in a very innocent way and she seemed to appreciate sentences that didn’t end with question marks.
After a bit, her friend came over from the bar and joined us. (I use “joined us” very loosely. She sat down at the next seat 10ft from me.) At this point, the first hottie looked at me and said, “You look like someone famous.” Get out of here. I do? Who? “I’m not going to tell you.” Come on. “I’ll tell your friend.”
At this, she leaned over and whispered into Allen ear. I can only imagine what her alcohol soaked breath smelled like. I like to imagine her lip glossed lips close up, breathing the name of the famous person that might get me in the sack with this chick. Allen listened and then looked at me with a, “Yeah. He does,” kind of look.
Allen wouldn’t give up this golden ticket of knowledge. If she thought I looked like some hot famous dude, I might have an in. I pressed him, he denied me. She wouldn’t tell me either. I had to know. Finally Allen leaned over and said…
Andy Richter
Fucking great.
Over to my right, Meredith Baxter sat at a table with five people. No one bothered her for an autograph.
Can you guess which is me and which is Andy?
It was a Thursday and Thursdays are busy at Trader Vic’s. The lounge was full of people and every bar stool was occupied by a hottie or someone trying to pick up a hottie. We set up shop at a very small table that was created from a slice of log which had been drowned in resin.
Allen is very good at ordering drinks. I always fall back on the Captain and diet (then later I just fall over.) Allen is a fan of greyhounds and martinis. He’s the type of guy that puts salt in his beer. At trader Vic’s, there is a playground of drinks to choose from. He’s not one to mess with a Tiki Puka Puka, but he will drink Suffering Bastards until I start to look good. We racked up a $200 bar tab by the end of the night.
Our view over the shellacked table encompassed the corner of the bar and a few tables to our right. Right smack dab in front of us on a barstool was a chick with a lot of back showing. She was either wearing a thong that was riding way up her ass or her bra strap was slipping down. We realized what was happening when she went to adjust her pants. Sensing the 30 or so guys in the place burning a hole in her backside, the chick would blindly reach back to pull her pants up to hide he thong. What she was doing was the exact opposite by pulling her thong up even higher. This went on for at least fifteen minutes until she got up to go pee-pee. (Or to go shit out the part of the thong that was wedged up her butt.)
On the short side of the bar, there were two VERY attractive women. Coming from Ohio, I’d say these girls were 9 – 9.5s. I’m sure that in L.A. they were just 7s, but 90% of the guys out there are gay, preparing to be or acting like they are to get work so it doesn’t matter what they think. These two were hot. The 10% of guys in L.A. that weren’t gay showed up at Trader Vic’s that night to hit on these chicks. The girls were knocking them down left and right. We thought we were cool because we didn’t even attempt to get shot down. Out of the blue, the hotter of the two chicks stepped away from the bar and sat down next to Allen and me. She said hi. We said hi. Allen chatted her up in a very innocent way and she seemed to appreciate sentences that didn’t end with question marks.
After a bit, her friend came over from the bar and joined us. (I use “joined us” very loosely. She sat down at the next seat 10ft from me.) At this point, the first hottie looked at me and said, “You look like someone famous.” Get out of here. I do? Who? “I’m not going to tell you.” Come on. “I’ll tell your friend.”
At this, she leaned over and whispered into Allen ear. I can only imagine what her alcohol soaked breath smelled like. I like to imagine her lip glossed lips close up, breathing the name of the famous person that might get me in the sack with this chick. Allen listened and then looked at me with a, “Yeah. He does,” kind of look.
Allen wouldn’t give up this golden ticket of knowledge. If she thought I looked like some hot famous dude, I might have an in. I pressed him, he denied me. She wouldn’t tell me either. I had to know. Finally Allen leaned over and said…
Andy Richter
Fucking great.
Over to my right, Meredith Baxter sat at a table with five people. No one bothered her for an autograph.
Can you guess which is me and which is Andy?
Pumpkin Guilt
Miss Sally, Greg and I were driving in the car on our way to or from somewhere. Greg said that he wanted to carve a pumpkin. I said that pumpkins only grow when it is cold and it was summer and he’d have to wait.
He accepted that. Then I felt guilty for some reason and I ended up buying round watermelons that we carved.
The best part about it was cutting off the top and digging in with our hands and eating the red gobs of sweet. We got sticky juice everywhere. Luckily mom was asleep.
He accepted that. Then I felt guilty for some reason and I ended up buying round watermelons that we carved.
The best part about it was cutting off the top and digging in with our hands and eating the red gobs of sweet. We got sticky juice everywhere. Luckily mom was asleep.
Sucks To Be You
What do you do when you see someone broken down along the side of the highway? Hood up. Steam pouring out. Talking on the cell phone to the spouse or AAA (or both if your spouse works at AAA.)
I usually think, “It sucks to be you,” as I speed by.
I fear stopping to help unfortunate souls for several reasons. The first being that I am always late and no one would believe that I stopped to help someone. I do have the ability to change a tire in about three minutes, but that’s three minutes on top of the 20 that I am all ready late. Even though I know there is no difference between 20 and 23 minutes late, I don’t want to clutter up my sorry excuse with a plausible one.
Another reason is that people are scared of me. As a white male in my thirties, I fit the perfect stereotype of the guy that drives up, smiles, shoves you in my trunk, draws weird designs all over your body in magic marker and buries you in my mom’s crawlspace. I’d hate to freak anyone out. I’m sure most stranded people would rather wait for a sexy, 20 something in a red Mini Cooper to stop by and help them. You can’t shove a body in the trunk of a Mini Cooper. Unless you cut them up first and no 20 something hottie is going to get blood on her Blue Cult jeans.
If I did stop and help someone, they would probably need to use my cell phone. Just think of the complexity here. Roaming charges. Long distance charges. What if they text their mechanic? Now all of a sudden, my phone number is known by all sorts of freaks. I don’t want Ed from Ed’s Garage calling me. That dude is white and in his thirties. Not to mention what will happen if my wife casually searches my recent calls and finds a number that isn’t one of the ten that I am allowed to call. She wouldn’t believe the “I helped someone” excuse either. I’d get beat with the phone and have to sleep in the garage again.
I would also hate to help someone and spend all that time getting thanked and accepting gifts from the broken-downee. Many people are trained in the art of annoying thankfulness and feel it necessary to give you a gift of thanks. Sadly, most people don’t have gifts in their cars and you end up getting a White Castle box filled with flowering weeds from the side of the road. Just so everyone knows; cash is not insulting.
As I write this I’m realizing that I have the trifecta of car-breaking-downage in effect. My car is paid off. My engine light is on (but may be going off as it has been on for three months and that bulb ain’t getting any younger.) I do not have a spare tire. You can’t ask for a better combination of reasons for my 1995 Honda to give up on life and die on 270 in the morning/afternoon on my way to work. Oh yeah. I need an oil change bad. 10,000 miles bad.
Tomorrow morning/afternoon, as I am pulled off to the side of the road, please stop and help me. But only if you are a 20 something and wearing Blue Cult jeans. Can you drop me off at my mom’s house? I can write you directions on the back of this white castle box with this magic marker. My, what a small trunk you have.
I usually think, “It sucks to be you,” as I speed by.
I fear stopping to help unfortunate souls for several reasons. The first being that I am always late and no one would believe that I stopped to help someone. I do have the ability to change a tire in about three minutes, but that’s three minutes on top of the 20 that I am all ready late. Even though I know there is no difference between 20 and 23 minutes late, I don’t want to clutter up my sorry excuse with a plausible one.
Another reason is that people are scared of me. As a white male in my thirties, I fit the perfect stereotype of the guy that drives up, smiles, shoves you in my trunk, draws weird designs all over your body in magic marker and buries you in my mom’s crawlspace. I’d hate to freak anyone out. I’m sure most stranded people would rather wait for a sexy, 20 something in a red Mini Cooper to stop by and help them. You can’t shove a body in the trunk of a Mini Cooper. Unless you cut them up first and no 20 something hottie is going to get blood on her Blue Cult jeans.
If I did stop and help someone, they would probably need to use my cell phone. Just think of the complexity here. Roaming charges. Long distance charges. What if they text their mechanic? Now all of a sudden, my phone number is known by all sorts of freaks. I don’t want Ed from Ed’s Garage calling me. That dude is white and in his thirties. Not to mention what will happen if my wife casually searches my recent calls and finds a number that isn’t one of the ten that I am allowed to call. She wouldn’t believe the “I helped someone” excuse either. I’d get beat with the phone and have to sleep in the garage again.
I would also hate to help someone and spend all that time getting thanked and accepting gifts from the broken-downee. Many people are trained in the art of annoying thankfulness and feel it necessary to give you a gift of thanks. Sadly, most people don’t have gifts in their cars and you end up getting a White Castle box filled with flowering weeds from the side of the road. Just so everyone knows; cash is not insulting.
As I write this I’m realizing that I have the trifecta of car-breaking-downage in effect. My car is paid off. My engine light is on (but may be going off as it has been on for three months and that bulb ain’t getting any younger.) I do not have a spare tire. You can’t ask for a better combination of reasons for my 1995 Honda to give up on life and die on 270 in the morning/afternoon on my way to work. Oh yeah. I need an oil change bad. 10,000 miles bad.
Tomorrow morning/afternoon, as I am pulled off to the side of the road, please stop and help me. But only if you are a 20 something and wearing Blue Cult jeans. Can you drop me off at my mom’s house? I can write you directions on the back of this white castle box with this magic marker. My, what a small trunk you have.
John's 32nd Birthday Suprise
I was just reminded of John’s 32nd birthday party. Wait. Let me rephrase. John’s 32nd surprise birthday party. No one told me it was a surprise until after I asked John about his party. I was scorned and accused of anti-suprisism. Screw them. No one told me.
The next weekend, something else was planned. This time I wasn’t given any details. Probably a smart move. I was told to go to John’s apartment where a new surprise was going to take place. Miss Sally and I headed over. I decided to wear my orange sweater with a blue stripe. John and his brother Chris were hanging out. We chit chatted for a few minutes, acting casual and waiting for a stripper or a horse or whatever to show up at the door.
There was a ruckus at the back door and in through the kitchen stormed eight chicks dressed in black and wearing masks and bandanas. John was quickly subdued, handcuffed and blindfolded. This was going to be interesting.
Until they did the same to me.
As I was cuffed and blindfolded, I was called a traitor and a sneak. Submerged in total darkness and tightly bound, we were dragged out of the house and put in separate cars.
The rest of the night went like this:
1. The cars would stop (unbeknownst to John and I) at landmark locations around Columbus
2. We would be pulled out
3. Compromising positions were created using John’s and my body
3a. Compromising positions were created using John’s and my and a male stripper’s body
4. There would be several flashes
5. We would be thrown back in the cars
We stopped about five or six times. At the end of the night, we were walked across a busy street, into a crowded bar and unmasked. Many of our friends were there. A cake and gifts for John were spread out along with 30 or so Polaroid photos from the evening.
It was a very memorable night. And I’m sure I was supposed to have learned a lesson from the evening, but I can’t tell you what it was.
Later on I realized that Miss Sally knew what was going to happen that night and she didn’t let on. I’m not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing.
……..
Oh yeah. I changed a few facts in this story.
A. It was actually seven girls and one gay guy that kidnapped us
B. I wore a blue sweater with an orange stripe
C. The handcuffs were the really cheap plastic variety and the blindfolds were the type Mrs. Howell would have worn. I had to re-snap my cuffs on every three minutes. We were very willing participants.
See the photos of the night here:John's 32nd Birthday Photos on Flickr
The next weekend, something else was planned. This time I wasn’t given any details. Probably a smart move. I was told to go to John’s apartment where a new surprise was going to take place. Miss Sally and I headed over. I decided to wear my orange sweater with a blue stripe. John and his brother Chris were hanging out. We chit chatted for a few minutes, acting casual and waiting for a stripper or a horse or whatever to show up at the door.
There was a ruckus at the back door and in through the kitchen stormed eight chicks dressed in black and wearing masks and bandanas. John was quickly subdued, handcuffed and blindfolded. This was going to be interesting.
Until they did the same to me.
As I was cuffed and blindfolded, I was called a traitor and a sneak. Submerged in total darkness and tightly bound, we were dragged out of the house and put in separate cars.
The rest of the night went like this:
1. The cars would stop (unbeknownst to John and I) at landmark locations around Columbus
2. We would be pulled out
3. Compromising positions were created using John’s and my body
3a. Compromising positions were created using John’s and my and a male stripper’s body
4. There would be several flashes
5. We would be thrown back in the cars
We stopped about five or six times. At the end of the night, we were walked across a busy street, into a crowded bar and unmasked. Many of our friends were there. A cake and gifts for John were spread out along with 30 or so Polaroid photos from the evening.
It was a very memorable night. And I’m sure I was supposed to have learned a lesson from the evening, but I can’t tell you what it was.
Later on I realized that Miss Sally knew what was going to happen that night and she didn’t let on. I’m not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing.
……..
Oh yeah. I changed a few facts in this story.
A. It was actually seven girls and one gay guy that kidnapped us
B. I wore a blue sweater with an orange stripe
C. The handcuffs were the really cheap plastic variety and the blindfolds were the type Mrs. Howell would have worn. I had to re-snap my cuffs on every three minutes. We were very willing participants.
See the photos of the night here:
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