Showing posts with label handsome joe. Show all posts
Showing posts with label handsome joe. Show all posts

Half Tie, Beer Leg... Two Tales of Friction

Here are two related tales that I like to call, "Half Tie" and "Beer Leg" which both hold hands with our good friend, friction. Enjoy.

Half Tie
Handsome Joe and I used to wear ties out on the town at Ohio University. It seemed like a good way to pick up classy chicks. I had an awesome flowered tie that was obnoxious and suave. I wore it out one snowy night in Athens.

The ties didn't work and Handsome Joe and I headed home alone together. On the way, we ran into a number of students who were sliding down Jeff Hill on stolen cafeteria trays and cardboard boxes. Half drunk kids would slide down the frozen, brick street, screaming the whole way. At the bottom, they would generously hand off their makeshift sleds, giving guys in ties a chance to sled down.

We ran up the stairs that paralleled the street with drunken stamina. At the top of the brick street I took a running dive and flew down the hill. It was exhilarating.

At the bottom, I handed off the tray to another student. Handsome Joe almost took me out as he flew by. He handed off his sled and noticed that my tie was sticking half out of my jacket. Actually it was all sticking out of my jacket, just that half of it was missing.

My tie got caught under the tray. The brick street, though nicely iced, caused a bit of friction. The tie was frayed. It was destroyed. I still wonder why I didn't choke to death. God bless the Double Windsor.

Beer Leg
One beautiful snowy Athens evening, Joe, Knitter and I were stealing beer out of a friend’s screened porch. It wasn’t really stealing because it was rightfully ours. Had we been inside the house at the party, we would have polished the entire case of beer. Since we didn’t like anyone at the party, we took our beer to go.

The porch was locked, but the window was not. I crawled through the narrow, screened window, flopped on the porch floor and passed the case of beer out to Knitter and Handsome Joe. Someone from the inside started to come outside so I dove out the window and we ran laughing through the back yards.

At Mill Street Hill, I took the case of beer from Knitter and did a running dive down the icy sidewalk on top the case of beer. It was just like a sled! I made it about half way down the hill before I ran out of ice. Knitter and Joe caught up and we continued home.

Once we got back to 19 Palmer Street, I made two observations and one conclusion: 1. My right pants leg was wet. 2. Eight beers had holes in the bottom of them. Conclusion: The cardboard was eaten through in half circles by the ice and sidewalk and the little smiling faces were drooling beer. The case somehow retained structural integrity so that the beer could leak out and on to my jeans. 16 beers is not as good as 24, but always better than zero.

Friction is a bitch.

Skully’s Sign Language

Skully’s is a very loud place and communication can be difficult. Yelling, “You are smoking hot!” to a chick can be easily misinterpreted as, “I have dog shit on my foot!”

To avoid confusion, we have developed a series of hand gestures to help you communicate during your time of need.

I can drink a lot more
A very common question at Skully's is, "You want another drink?" This is non-verbally communicated through one of several common gestures. The answer, though, should not be passed off with a simple "yes" head bob. Instead, try the following:

Hands to the sides and say, “I can drink…….”

(Pause for effect) Raise them above your head, “A LOT MORE!”

Back off Bitch!
Sometimes a woman cannot control herself and will attack you bodily on the dance floor. If she cannot hear you yell at her to back the fuck off, whip off your belt and give her this non-verbal signal to the head.

Punch to the Bald Head

Are you sick and tired of bald guys getting all the hot chicks? What I really hate is when two of them show up to the bar and exponentially scoop up all the hotties. When you finally grow weary of this, pop the following hand gesture on the hairless bastards to break things up.

I'm Married
Skully's is a dangerous place for a married man. Young, hot chicks can smell a keeper and they will thrust themselves upon you. When you find yourself in this situation below:

Pull back and point at the ring:

You might break the youngin's heart, but it's best to get it over quickly.

You might have to repeat this often throughout the night in different situations.

Two Many Witnesses
Sometimes you will meet a hot chick that wants to ride you around the dance floor like an 120v electric bull on 220v. Sadly, many of the friends you came to Skully's with would disapprove of your contact with said young lady. To share your disappointment with a colleague who understands your predicament, use the following series of hang gestures




Chicks I've Banged Tonight
Sometimes it's OK to brag. Hold up those fingers and let the people know how many worlds you've rocked that night.

Marry Me
At Skully's, anything can happy. Love flows like melting records at a World Harvest Church Music Burning. If the moment is right and the love in your heart cannot be contained, buy a $5 rose from the guy with the bucket of $1 roses, drop to one knee and profess your silent love.

I am the Happiest Man in the World Right Now

Hard to arrange. Difficult not to get beat by your wife once she sees it. Worth every second.

The Official List of Nudie Bar Rules


2. All stripper perfume is allowed to initially smell like cotton candy or vanilla, but within five minutes of leaving the establishment, must transform to smell like church incense or library books.

3. Every private dance song will either be Alice’s Restaurant or In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.

4. Any garment that is not see through must be removed before the second song.

5. No dancing into the second trimester.

6. All stripper names must be named after cars. This will enable men to speak freely about their experiences and not get a beat down from the women folk.

7. No lactating. I mean it.

8. Before you leave the nudie bar, attendants will change back your ones for larger bills that are crisp with no folds or creases.

9. The following types of tattoos must be covered in lap dance proof makeup:
-other guys’ names
-Simpsons characters
-kids’ names
-any reference to Daddy
-“exit only”

10. No cesarean section scars over two feet long.

11. No piercings with sharp edges.

12. No biting. I know you might think that we think it is hot (it is), but it requires us have our buddies create larger, cover-up bruises and then excuses for the bruises.

13. All nipples should face forward between 15 degrees up and 35 degrees down. Any nipples facing more than 35 degrees down will be immediately fined $10 for every degree.

14. Any dance garment that is wider than 3” is completely illegal.

The Snowball Fight

Here is an entry for Handsome Joe, though you all have my permission to take a peek.

Joe, remember this night? See below for a translation.

2/25 - 2/26/93
Tonight was snowball heaven. Joe hit the dude that crossed over to the South Side and I hit the guy with the hat and knocked it off. We saw 2 or 3 guys arrested. We hit cops and went sledding down Music Building Hill. Who is the girl with the braces? We had a good time. Where's your bra. (I think it was about Lil' Deb.)

I'll re-tell this story tomorrow once I collaborate with Handsome Joe.

The B & B

I didn’t have a lot of sex in college. Most of my friends think I did. My MO was to hook up, make out for a while and stick around third base without trying to steal home. That was actually my selling point. After about an hour at the bar of “I think I like you” and the next hour of “I think you like me” and about an hour before “I think we should get out of here” I would drop the, “I don’t think we should have sex” line. I think it opened a lot of doors. And pantses.

Telling a girl that you don't want to have sex takes away the pressure and anxiety. It allows you to have fun and know that you all ready have some pre-determined boundaries that don't need to be discussed. When the anxiety and pressure are off, the girl will be relaxed and then hopefully have sex with you.

Of course, telling a girl you don’t want to have sex and then having her want sex removes all guilt (if any) associated with the act. If you say you don’t wanna, but then you do because she wanna, it’s not your fault. It’s not. Really.

My very good friend, Handsome Joe, had a theory about hooking up. Less of a theory and more of a goal. He called it “The Bed and Breakfast.” Any dude can hook up; leave a sock lost somewhere in bed and do the walk of shame home. It’s genetic and it’s easy. Getting the girl to make you breakfast, now that was classy. You couldn’t ask for breakfast either. She had to suggest it. She had to make it. Cold cereal in the living room would get you in the club. Bacon and eggs was golden. Going out for breakfast didn’t count, but it did if she made you a pop tart and shoved you out the door. The Bed and Breakfast. The B & B.

There were several offshoots from the B & B. Joe had a B, B & B when he stayed at the girl’s apartment through an early lunch (The Bed, Breakfast and Brunch.) I once had the B & B with Grocery after I spent the night at a girl’s apartment during finals before winter break. We made out (the not having sex line stuck) and the next morning she made me eggs. She then asked if I wanted any food from her refrigerator as her finals were up and she was heading home. All that food would go to waste. Would I like to take it home? Of course I would. The B & B Grocery.

One fine spring evening at Ohio University, Handsome Joe and I went out to the bars. While having a few beers, a young lady that Joe knew came up and started talking to us. Joe quickly disappeared to the back of the crowded bar with her (The Good Cop always gets the first girl) and I was left mostly alone. As it turned out, my friend Greg was sitting up at the bar. This was a good sign. Greg and I were friends from high school, but we never saw each other out much at Ohio University. It was a good sign because the other two times I saw Greg out at the bars, I hooked up soon afterwards. I’d cut his foot off and wear it around my neck if it weren’t so big. And I guess it would be pretty bloody and stumpy, too.

As Greg and I drank at the bar, Trobes showed up. Trobes was 6’0” of long blonde hair and German ancestry. Trobes kinda liked me. I kinda liked Trobes. We had hooked up in the past (no breakfast yet.) As she sat in my lap at the bar (which was an odd combination of pleasure and boner crushing pain) she told Greg the 2nd greatest compliment I’ve ever received.

“Doug is the best necker in the world.” Wow. Honestly, I consider that a great compliment.

Several drinks afterwards, we left the bar. I had not seen Joe since he walked off and he could take care of himself. I asked Trobes if I could walk her home. She said yes. We walked back to her apartment.

Neither of Trobes' two roommates were home. We went to her bedroom.

{I need to note here that Trobes had a king sized bed. It took up most the room and shit it was big. I think she had an automatic sheet dispenser under the end because you could pull and pull at the sheets and they would just keep coming and coming.}

As we were making out, we heard one of Trobes’ roommates come in. Alone. A few minutes later her other roommate came home. Not so alone. They hung out in the kitchen for a few minutes and then retired to the room next door.

The making of the out continued and my Jedi mind trick about not wanting to have sex worked too well. Oh well… we had fun. I guess that’s what you get for being the best necker.

The next morning we woke up and chatted as we lounged around on the Eastern Plains of her bed. We could hear the lucky roommate chatting with her man. I did the “Shave and a Hair Cut” knock on the wall. They replied with a punctual “knock, knock.” Here is where you learn that I have a distinctive laugh. One that can be heard through a wall. One that Handsome Joe knows well. I laughed. The guy from the other side of the wall said, “Doug?”


A minute later we were mostly dressed (where was my sock?) and all in the roommate’s room laughing and figuring out what happened the previous night. At some point, the roommate asked, “Do you guys want breakfast?”

Eggs. Bacon. Pancakes. The Bed Bed & Breakfast Breakfast. Or the Double B & B as it’s known in some circles. We couldn’t stop grinning as we sat, scrunched at the small round table in their kitchen, fork and knife in hand. Waiting. Watching the girls’ backs as they cooked at the stove.


Open up any phone book to the yellow pages and you’ll see some sort of B & B business. Usually it’s a B and B Lawn Service or a B & B Auto Repair Shop. While you are driving around the city or through some small town, you’ll see the B & B on a slick, produced graphic or hand painted sign. It always takes me back.

Damn! I hope it ain't skunk

I was looking for an easy way out of writing tonight and did so by sifting through a bunch of old crap in a file called “Comics and Keepers.” Within that horrible file folder I found one small nugget of gold.

This is an invitation to a party that Handsome Joe and I threw to celebrate our moving in together into 18 ½ Palmer Street, behind Mr. Fee’s house. It was a 40oz party. I remember putting the two Bs on the label in hopes of getting some B & B.

Little did Joe know that a week later I would move out to take an internship at Lyon Video in Columbus. Joe had to scramble to get another roommate. Scary Gary. Then Knitter. Joe has never really forgiven me.

That apartment had the warmest toilet seat in town due to the location of a wall mounted heating vent right at bowl height. I would go back down to OU to visit and Mr. Fee would get pissed that I was sleeping in the apartment that I ran out on and subsequently was not paying rent on. I had to sneak in and out.

That invitation was created on an Amiga 2000 that I bought from Acton, but I don’t think I ever paid him for it.

Wow. Turns out I am a real asshole.