Which character does not belong with the others?
Greg and I were playing Garbage Masher on the starwars.com website when this quiz question came up:
And of course the answer was obvious:
And of course the answer was obvious:
Tips for Meeting Your Future Self
At some point, time travel will be invented and your future self will come back to warn you about something. Be prepared by following these tips.
1. Have a secret question
Be wary of evil future selves or clones. If it is actually your future self, they will know the answer to the secret question; something only you would know. Like where you masturbated for the first time (in a bedroom closet.) Don’t make up a secret word (this can be figured out with future technology and “ditto” has been taken.) If your future self doesn’t remember the secret question, kill them with the really sharp knife in your boot.
2. Always carry a sharp knife in your boot.
See #1
3. Immediately ask for the winner of the 20XX Super Bowl.
Time travel will not be cheap and the only way you are going to make enough money to travel back in time is to make a shit load of money betting on sports. That will only happen if you know the actual results of the future games. Your future self will know this and they will have a prepared list of sporting events from the future (their past.) If your future self gives you some bullshit excuse like that it is against the “Laws of Time Travel” or that they are coming back in time to keep you from winning all that money and becoming a rich prick, kill them and analyze their blood to siphon off some futuristic antibiotic or cure-all medicines.
4. Cross your arms and give your future self a disapproving look.
It worked for my friend Erik.
5. Kill your future self
Your future self is nothing but trouble. They’re all full of “doom and gloom” and “don’t do this” and “don’t eradicate that race of peoples.” As soon as your future self answers the secret question, get the future sports questions from them and then kill them with the gun in your other boot (they will know that you keep a knife in your boot and have some sort of futuristic knife protection on.) Collect their blood for testing and then dispose of the body.
6. Always carry a gun in your boot, but forget about it so your future self won’t know you have it.
(See #5.)
7. Get a shit load of insurance on yourself.
Once your future self arrives and before you kill them with the boot gun that you have forgotten about, have them over to your crappy apartment/house and while they are asleep, get a whole lot of insurance out on yourself. Get an ungodly amount of coverage and name yourself as the beneficiary (most insurance companies will completely go for this as they will think it is impossible for you to collect on your own death.) Go back and complete step #5 (except for the dispose of the body) and collect the money for your own death. And don’t let the insurance company claim that it was suicide because you killed yourself.
8. On second thought, kill your future self immediately
Your future self is older and cannot get the level of chick/guy you are dating/married to. In their future, they are having sex with an older, uglier, fatter version of your current lover. They will feel inclined to have sex with your current significant lover because banging your lover in the past is not cheating. Kill them before they have a chance to kill you and get their hands on your younger, hotter, less fat suitor. Use the grenade you have in your back pocket that you must forget about because you can’t seem to forget the gun and the knife and your future self is wearing a bullet proof vest with futuristic knife proof clothing.
9. (I was kidding about the grenade… make it a crossbow)
See #8. Your future self will plan for the grenade and you can surprise them with the crossbow. REALLY...FORGET ABOUT THE CROSSBOW NOW to trick your future self!
10. Plan ahead
The fact that your future self does appear means that at some time in your future you will travel back in time. BE PREPARED! Wear knife proof clothing (available in the future) and a bullet proof vest as well as a nano grenade shield. Take condoms so you can bang your past lover when they were younger and hotter and thinner. Ensure that you send a clone first to make sure your past self is not going to kill you. Before you travel back in time, ingest a boat load of gingko biloba so that if you do die, people in the past will analyze your blood and think it is a cure-all. Write down the past ten years of Super Bowl scores and then change them to fuck with your past self. Lastly, remember that your past self has some kind of medieval weapon strapped to his/her back… I can’t remember which one for some reason, but be prepared for anything.
1. Have a secret question
Be wary of evil future selves or clones. If it is actually your future self, they will know the answer to the secret question; something only you would know. Like where you masturbated for the first time (in a bedroom closet.) Don’t make up a secret word (this can be figured out with future technology and “ditto” has been taken.) If your future self doesn’t remember the secret question, kill them with the really sharp knife in your boot.
2. Always carry a sharp knife in your boot.
See #1
3. Immediately ask for the winner of the 20XX Super Bowl.
Time travel will not be cheap and the only way you are going to make enough money to travel back in time is to make a shit load of money betting on sports. That will only happen if you know the actual results of the future games. Your future self will know this and they will have a prepared list of sporting events from the future (their past.) If your future self gives you some bullshit excuse like that it is against the “Laws of Time Travel” or that they are coming back in time to keep you from winning all that money and becoming a rich prick, kill them and analyze their blood to siphon off some futuristic antibiotic or cure-all medicines.
4. Cross your arms and give your future self a disapproving look.
It worked for my friend Erik.
5. Kill your future self
Your future self is nothing but trouble. They’re all full of “doom and gloom” and “don’t do this” and “don’t eradicate that race of peoples.” As soon as your future self answers the secret question, get the future sports questions from them and then kill them with the gun in your other boot (they will know that you keep a knife in your boot and have some sort of futuristic knife protection on.) Collect their blood for testing and then dispose of the body.
6. Always carry a gun in your boot, but forget about it so your future self won’t know you have it.
(See #5.)
7. Get a shit load of insurance on yourself.
Once your future self arrives and before you kill them with the boot gun that you have forgotten about, have them over to your crappy apartment/house and while they are asleep, get a whole lot of insurance out on yourself. Get an ungodly amount of coverage and name yourself as the beneficiary (most insurance companies will completely go for this as they will think it is impossible for you to collect on your own death.) Go back and complete step #5 (except for the dispose of the body) and collect the money for your own death. And don’t let the insurance company claim that it was suicide because you killed yourself.
8. On second thought, kill your future self immediately
Your future self is older and cannot get the level of chick/guy you are dating/married to. In their future, they are having sex with an older, uglier, fatter version of your current lover. They will feel inclined to have sex with your current significant lover because banging your lover in the past is not cheating. Kill them before they have a chance to kill you and get their hands on your younger, hotter, less fat suitor. Use the grenade you have in your back pocket that you must forget about because you can’t seem to forget the gun and the knife and your future self is wearing a bullet proof vest with futuristic knife proof clothing.
9. (I was kidding about the grenade… make it a crossbow)
See #8. Your future self will plan for the grenade and you can surprise them with the crossbow. REALLY...FORGET ABOUT THE CROSSBOW NOW to trick your future self!
10. Plan ahead
The fact that your future self does appear means that at some time in your future you will travel back in time. BE PREPARED! Wear knife proof clothing (available in the future) and a bullet proof vest as well as a nano grenade shield. Take condoms so you can bang your past lover when they were younger and hotter and thinner. Ensure that you send a clone first to make sure your past self is not going to kill you. Before you travel back in time, ingest a boat load of gingko biloba so that if you do die, people in the past will analyze your blood and think it is a cure-all. Write down the past ten years of Super Bowl scores and then change them to fuck with your past self. Lastly, remember that your past self has some kind of medieval weapon strapped to his/her back… I can’t remember which one for some reason, but be prepared for anything.
Insight Communications Deceptive Envelope
My friend Keegan shared with me a few weeks ago about a deceptive envelope he received from Insight Communications on the same day he received a letter from the IRS concerning his Economic Stimulus Payment.
Here are the letters side by side:
Which is which?
Here is the Insight Communications letter with call outs:
Real "detach along perforation" strips, too! I hope that cost them extra.
When the Insight Communications letter was opened, it revealed some bullshit advertisement for saving $575 on a bundled cable/internet/phone package.
Though no old ladies are going to get scammed from this advertisement, I am against anything that is so obviously misleading. There was an obvious attempt to make consumers think that this envelope contained IRS information and it's unfortunate that they would think that any consumer would be dumb enough to be fooled once the letter was un-perforated along the edges and opened.
Keegan, though, was not so fortunate and signed up for the cable deal, thinking that it was required to receive his stimulus check. He now has HBO, HBO1, HBO2, HBO beta and HBOh Shit.
Here are the letters side by side:
Which is which?
Here is the Insight Communications letter with call outs:
Real "detach along perforation" strips, too! I hope that cost them extra.
When the Insight Communications letter was opened, it revealed some bullshit advertisement for saving $575 on a bundled cable/internet/phone package.
Though no old ladies are going to get scammed from this advertisement, I am against anything that is so obviously misleading. There was an obvious attempt to make consumers think that this envelope contained IRS information and it's unfortunate that they would think that any consumer would be dumb enough to be fooled once the letter was un-perforated along the edges and opened.
Keegan, though, was not so fortunate and signed up for the cable deal, thinking that it was required to receive his stimulus check. He now has HBO, HBO1, HBO2, HBO beta and HBOh Shit.
Just when you thought you would never meet that perfect someone
CLICK TO ENLARGE
I saw these two folks at Comfest 2008 in Columbus, OH. I'm all about personal freedoms, but damn... that's just gross.
Forehead Spider Tattoo
In the springtime at OU, it was very easy to spend hours in the doorway that led to Dominic, John and Chris’ apartment above Mountain Leather. Sunday afternoons were especially good as many locals would roam the downtown sidewalks and the echoes of my hangover would sweat out and down the back of my shirt. There were several doorways and stoops going up and down the street. You could nestle back in one and watch the flesh go by for hours.
On this particular afternoon, there were several of us loitering on the sidewalk as we spilled out from the doorway. We formed a human speed bump and people had to slow down as they navigated around us.
I was reminiscing with Dominic when I noticed two dudes sauntering down the sidewalk with their shirts off. They had various tattoos and spiky piercings on them. Kids.
The walked around us and continued on their way. I turned and watched them head down the street. When they were out of earshot, Dominic leaned in and whispered, “Did you see this guy with the spider tattoo on his forehead?” I guess I spent too much time checking out their other arm and body tats to notice a spider on whichever’s forehead. I waited until they were out of earshot before starting my tirade.
“Who the hell gets a tattoo of a spider on their forehead?!”
Dominic immediately gave me the wide eyes and whispered “Shhhhhh!”
The dudes were more that half a block away and there was no way I was going to be heard by them so I continued.
“How’s that going to work out in a job interview! Idiot! Which one was it?”
Dominic grabbed me by the shoulders and whispered, “Doug! Shut up!”
Dominic has a soft heart for others and I could understand why he might want me to keep it down, but come on!
That, of course, is when I noticed the guy sitting 10 feet from us in the door stoop next to John’s. He was disheveled. He had crazy eyes. He had a spider tattoo on his forehead.
He also looked very self conscious. If not embarrassed.
I said over my shoulder in the direction of the spider tattoo guy, “But you know what? That takes fucking balls. You’ve got to be a bad mother fucker to get a tattoo on your forehead. Nobody’s going to mess with you!”
And then I ran off like a little girl through the open door and straight up the stairs to their apartment.
I’ve got to feel bad for the dude because it takes some heavy shit falling on your shoulders to get a tattoo on your forehead. Nothing says “I’m fucked up,” more than that. I know there are people out there who get certain tattoos just to have a permanent visible middle finger up to the world. This guy, in the five seconds I looked at him, seemed different. Like he’d been in a Russian prison or a mental facility where the arts and crafts counselor accidentally scheduled painting and needlepoint during the same day of the week.
Or just maybe that dude was just a bad-ass motherfucker and he feels sorry for me.
On this particular afternoon, there were several of us loitering on the sidewalk as we spilled out from the doorway. We formed a human speed bump and people had to slow down as they navigated around us.
I was reminiscing with Dominic when I noticed two dudes sauntering down the sidewalk with their shirts off. They had various tattoos and spiky piercings on them. Kids.
The walked around us and continued on their way. I turned and watched them head down the street. When they were out of earshot, Dominic leaned in and whispered, “Did you see this guy with the spider tattoo on his forehead?” I guess I spent too much time checking out their other arm and body tats to notice a spider on whichever’s forehead. I waited until they were out of earshot before starting my tirade.
“Who the hell gets a tattoo of a spider on their forehead?!”
Dominic immediately gave me the wide eyes and whispered “Shhhhhh!”
The dudes were more that half a block away and there was no way I was going to be heard by them so I continued.
“How’s that going to work out in a job interview! Idiot! Which one was it?”
Dominic grabbed me by the shoulders and whispered, “Doug! Shut up!”
Dominic has a soft heart for others and I could understand why he might want me to keep it down, but come on!
That, of course, is when I noticed the guy sitting 10 feet from us in the door stoop next to John’s. He was disheveled. He had crazy eyes. He had a spider tattoo on his forehead.
He also looked very self conscious. If not embarrassed.
I said over my shoulder in the direction of the spider tattoo guy, “But you know what? That takes fucking balls. You’ve got to be a bad mother fucker to get a tattoo on your forehead. Nobody’s going to mess with you!”
And then I ran off like a little girl through the open door and straight up the stairs to their apartment.
I’ve got to feel bad for the dude because it takes some heavy shit falling on your shoulders to get a tattoo on your forehead. Nothing says “I’m fucked up,” more than that. I know there are people out there who get certain tattoos just to have a permanent visible middle finger up to the world. This guy, in the five seconds I looked at him, seemed different. Like he’d been in a Russian prison or a mental facility where the arts and crafts counselor accidentally scheduled painting and needlepoint during the same day of the week.
Or just maybe that dude was just a bad-ass motherfucker and he feels sorry for me.
The Worst Bachelor Party Ever
As a rule, bachelor parties cannot be discussed with anyone outside of other males. As a female, the answer you will get when asking what transpired at bachelor party is the standard issue, “Not much happened. The girls weren’t that hot. We just drank a lot. It was fun, but not crazy.”
An addendum to that law (which I made up) is that Bachelor Parties cannot be discussed until at least eight years have passed since said Bachelor Party. I’ve waited long enough.
Eight years ago, Bob* (most the names in this story have been changed to protect Erik's wife from embarrassment) got married and I was his best man. I planned his bachelor party. This is the mostly true story of what happened that night.
There are three types of bachelor parties. The first type involves a bunch of dudes getting together, drinking and then blowing way too much money at the nudie bar. The second type involves a bunch of dudes getting together, drinking, hiring a stripper(s), and then going out to the nudie bar and spending way too much money. The third type involves a few dudes flying to Vegas and whatever happens between the time when the plane touches down to when you hitchhike back to Ohio with implants and an Elvis riding a unicorn tattoo.
I wanted to throw Bachelor Bob the second type of bachelor party. To properly plan a number two bachelor party, you hire strippers by either randomly going through the yellow pages, by endlessly searching the internet or you need to know somebody. I knew somebody.
Tom* (name not changed because he deserves the credit) worked with Bob and I. Before Tom came to our place of employment, he co-managed several nudie bars in the Columbus area. Sometimes I would meet up with Tom at the nudie bar and he would always have a super hot chick sitting next to him while other super hot chicks would walk by and kiss him on the cheek. Tom was not an especially good looking guy, but the ladies loved Tom.
Since Tom knew all these hot chicks, I thought that maybe he might know one or two that would wear very skimpy clothes to a party, quickly remove them and then sit and wiggle on bachelor Bob's lap. About a month before the party, I asked Tom if he could help me out. “No problem, Dougie. I’ll set you up. As a matter of fact, I’ll be the chaperone and you won’t have to pay anything additional.” (The chaperone is usually the 6’ 8” tall dude with the disgustingly thick muscles that shows up with the girls and makes sure you don’t touch the goods and ensures prompt payment in cash.) Tom pulled out his cell phone and hit a number on speed dial. “Hey Lisa, it’s Tom. Yeah, a good friend is getting married. Can you hook me up with a couple girls for his bachelor party? Great!” We were set. The word went out. Two strippers. No chaperone. Anything could happen.
About ten days before the bachelor party, I started to get worried because I had not heard anything from Tom. We had the location of the party picked out. We arranged for transportation. Everything was set except for the entertainment. I stopped Tom in the hallway, almost exactly where he had made the phone call two weeks earlier. Again, Tom pulled out his phone. Speed dial. “Hey Lisa, it’s Tom. You still got two girls for next Saturday? Great!” We were still set. Tom would pick the girls up on Saturday and bring them to the party.
I called Tom the day of the party. He would be picking up the girls at 8:00pm and have them over to the apartment around 8:45pm.
At the apartment, our friends were cleaning up. Bottles of liquor and mixers were arranged. The refrigerator and two coolers were filled with various beers. We hid a sheet of plastic behind the couch in case things got interesting. As an added bonus, we set up a video camera in an empty beer case. Hidden on top the TV, it had a perfect vantage point to the center of the living room.
Guests started to arrive and the bachelor was not far behind. We drank, smoked and reveled in our great friend and resource, Tom. Boobies.
Tom called around 8:00. He had just got to the place to pick up the girls. He was a little hesitant. His statement to me was, “One of the girls has a little meat on her bones, but she’s still pretty good looking. She’s experienced. The other girl is really hot.” OK. I can live with that. Meat on bones and pretty good looking means fat and ugly. But really hot means really hot. One hot and one not. I could keep one eye closed.
We continued to drink. Tom called and gave us a 10 minute warning.
The guys circled up in the living room. The middle of the room was cleared out. We turned on the video camera.
Tom called… they were coming up to the front door.
The first girl walked in. Hmmmmm.
The first girl walked in and I thought to myself, “Hmmmmm. Well, she is a bit fat and a bit not so good looking.” Not a problem. Save the best for last. Here comes the hottie. Then the second girl walked in.
Oh, SHE was the fat and ugly one. Oh Christ.
The room was dead quiet when Tom walked in behind the girls. “Hey! Let’s party! Get these girls a drink.”
The girls were dressed in various bits of tight animal skin prints and pink and stuff with sequence. Their handbags were made of similar mis-matched materials. These girls were not pretty. Not at all.
Now is a good time to salvage the party. Bring in “Doug’s Stripper Chart.” My stripper chart goes a little like this. Down at the bottom along the X axis, you got a range of looks from “I Just Threw Up In My Mouth Ugly” to “Super Freaking Hot.” Along the vertical Y axis, you’ve got a range of Whoreditude from “Only Takes Top Off” to “Sex With Donkey While Blowing the Groom.” All strippers fall somewhere within the chart. Sometimes you get really hot strippers that only take off their tops. It kind sucks, but you can plot a point outside of the average. Sometimes you get decent looking strippers that do crazy stuff with toys and then put ice down the bachelor’s pants. Plot it! And then sometimes you get what we had… ugly girls.
There was only one thing that could save this party. These girls would have to be off the charts crazy. I waited for them to bring a donkey in the house.
There was no donkey.
What happened that night was the most pathetic bachelor party ever. The girls went upstairs with some alcohol to “change.” They asked for weed. Someone had a little and gave it up. Fifteen minutes later they came back down. They pranced around the room collecting dollars from guys. Before any clothes came off, they ran back upstairs to smoke some more weed.
They came down again ten minutes later and the guys chanted, (we were drunk and I was one of them) “Take it off!” The girls said they would take off their tops only after all the guys did. (Do not imagine it. Just read it.) Eighteen guys, in various stages of beer gut with body hair ranging from pre-pubescent teen to Ron Jeremy, sitting around two really ugly chicks, waiting for them to actually take off a piece of clothing.
The girls suggested a set up for Bob the Bachelor. We laid out the plastic from behind the couch and stuck a chair in the middle. He was blindfolded with his arms tied behind his back. (I’m sure he is still thankful to this day for the blindfold.) His shirt was mostly removed and the girls rubbed some whipped cream from the refrigerator, peaches from the cupboard and I think some shoe polish. They then took off their tops for a few minutes and rubbed their boobies in his face. Whoopie.
Seeing that this is my recollection, I will not bring up the rumor that I jumped in and was rubbing him down with peaches when the blindfold was removed.
In the end, the girls had their tops off for about five minutes. All the time, Tom was watching from the side, yelling at the guys when they started to beg to see a little of the copious amounts of flesh that were stuffed in that spandex. Thanks Tom. The girls left. We found out later that Tom was dating the less ugly one. Thanks Tom you awful bastard. We ended up going to a nudie bar, which helped to wipe those girls from our minds. But I will always be the one to blame for that horrible, horrible bachelor party.
So when I went home and Miss Sally asked how things went, I looked at her right in the eyes and said, "Not much happened. The girls weren’t that hot. We just drank a lot. It was fun, but not crazy.” Sigh.
I’ve spent the last eight years attempting to make up for that debacle. I haven’t been a best man since (word gets out) and I doubt I ever will again.
******
Oh, the video tape. Thank you God for our inability to line up the lens. The camera was focused on the edge of the beer case. There was sixty minutes of out of focus pink and tiger striped blobs. Or maybe the camera was in focus.
An addendum to that law (which I made up) is that Bachelor Parties cannot be discussed until at least eight years have passed since said Bachelor Party. I’ve waited long enough.
Eight years ago, Bob* (most the names in this story have been changed to protect Erik's wife from embarrassment) got married and I was his best man. I planned his bachelor party. This is the mostly true story of what happened that night.
There are three types of bachelor parties. The first type involves a bunch of dudes getting together, drinking and then blowing way too much money at the nudie bar. The second type involves a bunch of dudes getting together, drinking, hiring a stripper(s), and then going out to the nudie bar and spending way too much money. The third type involves a few dudes flying to Vegas and whatever happens between the time when the plane touches down to when you hitchhike back to Ohio with implants and an Elvis riding a unicorn tattoo.
I wanted to throw Bachelor Bob the second type of bachelor party. To properly plan a number two bachelor party, you hire strippers by either randomly going through the yellow pages, by endlessly searching the internet or you need to know somebody. I knew somebody.
Tom* (name not changed because he deserves the credit) worked with Bob and I. Before Tom came to our place of employment, he co-managed several nudie bars in the Columbus area. Sometimes I would meet up with Tom at the nudie bar and he would always have a super hot chick sitting next to him while other super hot chicks would walk by and kiss him on the cheek. Tom was not an especially good looking guy, but the ladies loved Tom.
Since Tom knew all these hot chicks, I thought that maybe he might know one or two that would wear very skimpy clothes to a party, quickly remove them and then sit and wiggle on bachelor Bob's lap. About a month before the party, I asked Tom if he could help me out. “No problem, Dougie. I’ll set you up. As a matter of fact, I’ll be the chaperone and you won’t have to pay anything additional.” (The chaperone is usually the 6’ 8” tall dude with the disgustingly thick muscles that shows up with the girls and makes sure you don’t touch the goods and ensures prompt payment in cash.) Tom pulled out his cell phone and hit a number on speed dial. “Hey Lisa, it’s Tom. Yeah, a good friend is getting married. Can you hook me up with a couple girls for his bachelor party? Great!” We were set. The word went out. Two strippers. No chaperone. Anything could happen.
About ten days before the bachelor party, I started to get worried because I had not heard anything from Tom. We had the location of the party picked out. We arranged for transportation. Everything was set except for the entertainment. I stopped Tom in the hallway, almost exactly where he had made the phone call two weeks earlier. Again, Tom pulled out his phone. Speed dial. “Hey Lisa, it’s Tom. You still got two girls for next Saturday? Great!” We were still set. Tom would pick the girls up on Saturday and bring them to the party.
I called Tom the day of the party. He would be picking up the girls at 8:00pm and have them over to the apartment around 8:45pm.
At the apartment, our friends were cleaning up. Bottles of liquor and mixers were arranged. The refrigerator and two coolers were filled with various beers. We hid a sheet of plastic behind the couch in case things got interesting. As an added bonus, we set up a video camera in an empty beer case. Hidden on top the TV, it had a perfect vantage point to the center of the living room.
Guests started to arrive and the bachelor was not far behind. We drank, smoked and reveled in our great friend and resource, Tom. Boobies.
Tom called around 8:00. He had just got to the place to pick up the girls. He was a little hesitant. His statement to me was, “One of the girls has a little meat on her bones, but she’s still pretty good looking. She’s experienced. The other girl is really hot.” OK. I can live with that. Meat on bones and pretty good looking means fat and ugly. But really hot means really hot. One hot and one not. I could keep one eye closed.
We continued to drink. Tom called and gave us a 10 minute warning.
The guys circled up in the living room. The middle of the room was cleared out. We turned on the video camera.
Tom called… they were coming up to the front door.
The first girl walked in. Hmmmmm.
The first girl walked in and I thought to myself, “Hmmmmm. Well, she is a bit fat and a bit not so good looking.” Not a problem. Save the best for last. Here comes the hottie. Then the second girl walked in.
Oh, SHE was the fat and ugly one. Oh Christ.
The room was dead quiet when Tom walked in behind the girls. “Hey! Let’s party! Get these girls a drink.”
The girls were dressed in various bits of tight animal skin prints and pink and stuff with sequence. Their handbags were made of similar mis-matched materials. These girls were not pretty. Not at all.
Now is a good time to salvage the party. Bring in “Doug’s Stripper Chart.” My stripper chart goes a little like this. Down at the bottom along the X axis, you got a range of looks from “I Just Threw Up In My Mouth Ugly” to “Super Freaking Hot.” Along the vertical Y axis, you’ve got a range of Whoreditude from “Only Takes Top Off” to “Sex With Donkey While Blowing the Groom.” All strippers fall somewhere within the chart. Sometimes you get really hot strippers that only take off their tops. It kind sucks, but you can plot a point outside of the average. Sometimes you get decent looking strippers that do crazy stuff with toys and then put ice down the bachelor’s pants. Plot it! And then sometimes you get what we had… ugly girls.
There was only one thing that could save this party. These girls would have to be off the charts crazy. I waited for them to bring a donkey in the house.
There was no donkey.
What happened that night was the most pathetic bachelor party ever. The girls went upstairs with some alcohol to “change.” They asked for weed. Someone had a little and gave it up. Fifteen minutes later they came back down. They pranced around the room collecting dollars from guys. Before any clothes came off, they ran back upstairs to smoke some more weed.
They came down again ten minutes later and the guys chanted, (we were drunk and I was one of them) “Take it off!” The girls said they would take off their tops only after all the guys did. (Do not imagine it. Just read it.) Eighteen guys, in various stages of beer gut with body hair ranging from pre-pubescent teen to Ron Jeremy, sitting around two really ugly chicks, waiting for them to actually take off a piece of clothing.
The girls suggested a set up for Bob the Bachelor. We laid out the plastic from behind the couch and stuck a chair in the middle. He was blindfolded with his arms tied behind his back. (I’m sure he is still thankful to this day for the blindfold.) His shirt was mostly removed and the girls rubbed some whipped cream from the refrigerator, peaches from the cupboard and I think some shoe polish. They then took off their tops for a few minutes and rubbed their boobies in his face. Whoopie.
Seeing that this is my recollection, I will not bring up the rumor that I jumped in and was rubbing him down with peaches when the blindfold was removed.
In the end, the girls had their tops off for about five minutes. All the time, Tom was watching from the side, yelling at the guys when they started to beg to see a little of the copious amounts of flesh that were stuffed in that spandex. Thanks Tom. The girls left. We found out later that Tom was dating the less ugly one. Thanks Tom you awful bastard. We ended up going to a nudie bar, which helped to wipe those girls from our minds. But I will always be the one to blame for that horrible, horrible bachelor party.
So when I went home and Miss Sally asked how things went, I looked at her right in the eyes and said, "Not much happened. The girls weren’t that hot. We just drank a lot. It was fun, but not crazy.” Sigh.
I’ve spent the last eight years attempting to make up for that debacle. I haven’t been a best man since (word gets out) and I doubt I ever will again.
******
Oh, the video tape. Thank you God for our inability to line up the lens. The camera was focused on the edge of the beer case. There was sixty minutes of out of focus pink and tiger striped blobs. Or maybe the camera was in focus.
You suck, CNN camera symbol!
I read CNN.com because I don't have time to think about news and political debate, I just want to know how many people died and how good looking the teacher having sex with her students is.
But CNN has made my life difficult because of video. On their front page, they list their headlines and if there is a little camera symbol at the end, it means the link goes to a video. Even if you just click on the text, it goes to the video.
The video starts out with a 15 - 30 second commercial and then dumps into the news video clip from their channel. By the time they get to the goods, I've copied the headline of the news story, searched for it on Google News and found similar print stories.
What inevitably ends up happening is that the original video playing in the background rolls into the next news video in queue, which is more than likely a Nancy Grace bit and in a rush to make her go away, I reset the computer.
I like my local NBC affiliate website because they have the camera symbol, but it is a tabbed option.
But CNN has made my life difficult because of video. On their front page, they list their headlines and if there is a little camera symbol at the end, it means the link goes to a video. Even if you just click on the text, it goes to the video.
The video starts out with a 15 - 30 second commercial and then dumps into the news video clip from their channel. By the time they get to the goods, I've copied the headline of the news story, searched for it on Google News and found similar print stories.
What inevitably ends up happening is that the original video playing in the background rolls into the next news video in queue, which is more than likely a Nancy Grace bit and in a rush to make her go away, I reset the computer.
I like my local NBC affiliate website because they have the camera symbol, but it is a tabbed option.
You will have to wait until morning.
My friend Renee recently stayed at a La Quinta Inn in Mansfield, OH. She, along with her husband and son, had picked up some to go food and were getting ready to eat in the room. The father and son left the room to go get Cokes. When they came back, the boy was having trouble with the key card so Renee tried to open the door from the inside. As she turned the deadbolt, she heard a loud noise that sounded like the internal mechanisms of the lock dropping. The door would not open. The lock was completely jammed. She was stuck in a third story hotel room. It was 5:00pm.
A view out the window
She called down to the front desk and told them the lock on the door was broken. The front desk said they would send maintenance up to fix it.
When no one showed up after more than a half hour, she called the front desk again and they said, “Oh? You are locked IN the room?” As it turns out, the maintenance person was not on site and had to be called in. He showed up about another half hour later, fiddled around with the lock for a minute and determined that a locksmith would need to be called in. It was now 6:00pm.
The front desk called around for a locksmith. They called Renee back and said that a locksmith would not be available until tomorrow and she would have to wait, locked in her room, until the next morning. She said, (edited for brevity and to clean up the language) “No. Call the fire department.”
The fire department was called in. At first they were going to remove her from the room via the window, but firemen like to bust shit up so they got out the Jaws of Life and pried the door open. (Renee said, “I mean the whole door was moving it was awesome!!) The door opened up at 9:00pm and her son rushed in and gave her a big hug. (Awe!)
Here are the photos of the door.
From the outside
Jaws of Life'd!
From the inside
For her troubles, they got a different room, another free night at any other La Quinta Inn and a meal at The Cracker Barrel next door.
The hotel told Renee this was only the second time this had happened.
A view out the window
She called down to the front desk and told them the lock on the door was broken. The front desk said they would send maintenance up to fix it.
When no one showed up after more than a half hour, she called the front desk again and they said, “Oh? You are locked IN the room?” As it turns out, the maintenance person was not on site and had to be called in. He showed up about another half hour later, fiddled around with the lock for a minute and determined that a locksmith would need to be called in. It was now 6:00pm.
The front desk called around for a locksmith. They called Renee back and said that a locksmith would not be available until tomorrow and she would have to wait, locked in her room, until the next morning. She said, (edited for brevity and to clean up the language) “No. Call the fire department.”
The fire department was called in. At first they were going to remove her from the room via the window, but firemen like to bust shit up so they got out the Jaws of Life and pried the door open. (Renee said, “I mean the whole door was moving it was awesome!!) The door opened up at 9:00pm and her son rushed in and gave her a big hug. (Awe!)
Here are the photos of the door.
From the outside
Jaws of Life'd!
From the inside
For her troubles, they got a different room, another free night at any other La Quinta Inn and a meal at The Cracker Barrel next door.
The hotel told Renee this was only the second time this had happened.
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