Our Thursday

Month: October 2010

  • It Can Happen to You

    The gambling bug had taken control yet again. After going 0 for 20 at Club Jet, I left alone with an eye for the dice. Fortunately, I had barely slept the night before, so my body had placed a limit on my night. An hour later, the craps table was taking me nowhere. My $100 had dwindled down to $70, and I had to find my bed. I took my two green and four red chips and left. I didn’t even cash in.

    I walked the crowded streets feeling unsatisfied. I walked past drunk guys, drunk chicks, couples, and soon-to-be one-night stands. Despite the effects of a 0 for 20 night, I had a good buzz. My weary body didn’t let the buzz ever get past “above average,” but I wasn’t complaining.

    Ten minutes into my walk back to the Excalibur, I looked to my left and saw a van with an attractive chick-driver smiling at me. I didn’t smile back. I just stared at her. Eyes locked with mine, she patted her seat. I assumed it was a motion for me to get in. Fuck it. I had nothing to lose. I got in.

    I was welcomed to her van with crazed laughter as she watched me sit down. It was a strange laugh, hysterical yet nervous, like I was a clumsy stray dog. I glanced at the brunette driver. She wore a black top with giant, fake breasts, to go with long, red nails. A devastatingly strong perfume permeated the air. Laughing, the long-haired beauty asked, “Where are you off to?”

    “I’m going wherever you’re going,” I replied casually, keeping my poise.

    Seconds later, she reached over and started fooling with my pants, fondling my dick through my pants, up and down. There was no way she’d be able to take my pants off one-handed, so I helped out. Even though I was several beers deep, I could feel a hard-on as I unbuckled my belt, unzipped my fly, and began taking off my pants. She laughed again, this time wilder, her head bucking. Used to a planned strategy, I couldn’t believe how easy this encounter was turning out to be. When I pulled down my boxers, my dick sprang out like a jack-in-the-box. When we hit a red light, she bent down, grabbed it, and started sucking. I sat there more in shock than pleasure. Just a minute ago I was walking home in shame, and now I had this fake-breasted hottie blowing me in her van. And she was driving. Twice I have caught girls giving a guy “road head,” but the guy was always driving. I’d never seen or heard of driver sucking passenger.  This had to be a new frontier.

    The light remained red for a couple minutes. When it turned green she took her lips away from my lap and drove. “We need to go somewhere,” she said. Fuck yeah we did.   

    A couple blocks down, she made a right turn into an alley. After driving for about sixty feet, she stopped, got out of the van, and walked over to my side. Unaware of her plans, I got out and stood by my door. The narrow alley had a casino wall on one side and a fence on the other. On the other side of the fence was a small deserted parking lot. Just sixty feet from the Las Vegas strip, we had the dark alley to ourselves, not a soul in sight, the only noise the honking of the passing cars on Las Vegas Boulevard.

    She sauntered up to me. She was much taller than I’d thought she’d be–a few inches taller than me in her clunky heels. She had an awkward gait; I couldn’t tell if it was discomfort or self-consciousness. When she reached me, she appeared oddly apprehensive, as if she were planning her next move in a game of chess.  Her erratic laughing had transformed to a half smile. She adroitly got on her knees and pulled down my now belt-less pants while looking up at me seductively. The whole scene had me believing that perhaps some pornos were real accounts. Something was too surreal for this to be happening.

     When my pants reached the ground, my already moist non-discriminating penis was making its rendezvous with her mouth. Unlike the initial shock I’d felt in the car, I was preparing to actually enjoy this blowjob. And I did, at first. Suddenly, the blowjob felt awful, her teeth venturing in. I’ve had some biters in my day, but this was something else. It almost seemed like she was doing it on purpose, as if it were some new pleasure tactic. I grabbed her by the hand–which was bigger than mine–and pulled her up. As she regained her heel-wearing balance, she grabbed my hands and put them on her breasts. I felt the urge to finger her, so I reached for her skirt, which was held up by some sort of waistband. She was slightly resistant, leaning away from my reaching hands, but I managed to yank it down anyway.

    My life was about to change.  

    I felt numb, in limbo. The movie of my life was on pause for a moment, as if I were watching the scene in slow motion. It didn’t feel real. 

    But it was real. I pulled down her skirt, and through a pair of white panties I saw a distinctly unfeminine bulge. I saw a flash of the last scene from Ace Ventura when Lois Einhorn turned around and everyone witnessed the bulge in the back of her panties–Finkle is Einhorn. But this bulge was in front. Situations like this hadn’t even been in my nightmares until this night, terrorizing my senses, haunting my future. 
     
    She stood there waiting for my reaction, staring at me as if I were a child who’d just spilled a large soda. She didn’t try and kiss me. She didn’t reach for my dick. She was a guy. I freaked out. I didn’t need to vomit. I just wanted her/him to go away, so I could put my hands on my knees, put my head down, and maybe cry. “WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SHIT?!” I blurted out in disgust and anger. “Hmf” she replied haughtily–the same noise rich girls make when their daddy didn’t buy them the car they wanted for their 16th birthday. She walked hurriedly–in that same awkward guy-in-heels walk as before–around the van, slammed the door, and drove off quickly.

    I was an emotional wreck, my pants were around my ankles, feeling like the world’s biggest idiot. My dick was so limp it may as well have hid beneath my balls. Had my dick been a separate living organism, it would have detached itself from me and run into the street to get bashed by a car. I had betrayed its trust.

    I walked back to the hotel in shame, horrified at the incident. It was the ultimate humiliation to my manhood. Despite my buzz, I could sense how I would feel the next morning when I woke up. I reached into my pocket; something wasn’t right. I only had one chip left. I pulled it out, and it wasn’t even a green $25 chip. That girl…guy…IT…had stolen $65 from me. The night had spiraled downward into an abyss of nightmares, continuing to get worse. Why in the hell did IT leave me with $5? Was he/she nice? Did it have feelings? I tried to salvage any positives to take from the night, but came up blank.

    To recap my night: I went 0 for 20 at the club, I lost at the craps table, and I got head from a GUY who stole $65 from me. It had gotten to the point where I half expected to get hit by a meteor.

    Traumatized, I kept the incident to myself the remainder of the trip. I’m not a homophobe, but sexual contact with a man had caused the synapses of my brain to fire off lightning bolts of guilt and self-deprecation. I was convinced I was not only a bad person, but an absolute buffoon for not being able to discern woman from man. I wanted to tell my friends, but it was just too embarrassing. At least I had never kissed IT. That would have quadrupled the shame.

    I had to tell someone. Had my life been condensed into an essay, that night was in parentheses, and it was the last thing written. The experience was eating away at my insides. Finally, a week later I told four of my friends the story. After laughing for two minutes, they asked me how I didn’t realize she was a dude. To this day I ask myself the same question. It’s always the same three answers: She had a cute face; she had long hair; and she had big tits. How could I turn that down? 

    My friends and I brainstormed some plausible alternatives and came up with a few possibilities:

    1)      IT was an alien.

    2)      IT really was a girl but had some sort of deformity in her pelvic region.

    3)      IT really was a girl, and she didn’t have a deformity. She simply planted some bulgy-looking object down her panties to freak guys out so they’d run. All this occurring after she had already stolen their money.

    4)      IT was a dude.

             I can only pray that it was anything but scenario 4. Shit, I’d rather get head from an alien than a dude. Wouldn’t you?

     

     Epilogue

    The trauma I suffered from that night lasted over two months. Within that time frame, I met a model, normally an ideal prospect, and we went on a couple dates. I was quite attracted to her, but she was six feet tall and her voice wasn’t very feminine. One night, she slept over. We didn’t get naked, but the next day I was a paranoid basket case. I thought she had to be a dude. I saw her one more time. As we were making out, I stuck my knee in her crotch to see if there was anything bulgy. I felt nothing, but then I thought about all the advancements in genital transformation. What if she’d had a sex change? The question replayed in my mind hourly. I was out of control with my theories. She was obviously a girl and serious about me. She never let me get her naked in the three times we hung out, which didn’t help matters. I theorized she was only doing that so I would buy into her personality, and I’d see past all the sex change shit. I couldn’t take that risk. The trauma was too much. I ended it.

             
    Months passed. I got to thinking about her again and found her on MySpace. I messaged her, and we went on another date. She even ended a fling she’d had with some guy because she liked me more, but it was all for nothing. Even months later, just looking at her brought back memories of that awful Vegas night. I reluctantly made out with her when the night ended. But I was done; I couldn’t go through with it. The 1% chance that she was a dude was just too much. She messaged me and messaged me, but it was over. I needed a girl who was guaranteed to be a girl. She is still a MySpace friend and is now married to a guy who is clearly straight, and normal. Maybe I should have taken a chance on her. Or maybe not.

     

    Be careful. IT can happen to you.

  • Trick and/or Treat

    Trick and/or Treat

    Halloween has always held a special place in my senses.  The way the vast assortment of candy tickles my taste buds, the mystery behind selecting and crafting a unique costume, and the pure and distinct smell of a pillow case full of candy…MmmmMmm it surely is an appetizing holiday (with the exception of the gooey feel of carving a pumpkin- gross!).

    Wine bottle and glass pumpkin.
    Wine bottle and glass pumpkin. Carving (especially gutting it)- mundantory activity!!!!!

    I think we can all agree that there is that extraordinary house in the neighborhood memorable for one reason or another on Halloween. Some houses are appealing because of the extra large candy while others are appalling because of the extra small candy.  Some are attractive with their elaborate décor while others are repulsive with their lights off… 

    I want to be the house known for the crazy lady who answers the door. 

    A few years ago, I stayed home on Halloween due to some physical ailment (I’m a hypochondriac so who knows the diagnosis that particular day?!) and handed out candy.  The whole procedure of candy giving, as the giver, was incredibly boring.  The costumes were NOT cute (despite my most kind and insincere compliments with an encouraging smile), the kids seemed ungrateful (despite the king size candy I delicately dropped in their bags), and not one child shouted “trick or treat” with passion. 

    After noticing this decrepit pattern, my sister and I changed the pace immediately to save ourselves and Halloween with some tricks of our own. 

    Knock knock…We opened the door without a candy bowl: 

    “Trick or Treat…” they said. 

    “Trick,” as I solemnly pretended to pull my thumb apart from the middle. 

    The kids stood perplexed and clearly didn’t know whether to laugh or throw an egg at my face.  I caved and gave them candy that I enthusiastically made appear from the back of their ear! 

    “Well…you asked, and I chose trick…but here, take a candy” 

    Knock knock…We opened the door holding a bowl full of canned goods and gleaming with smiles from ear to ear: 

    “Trick or treat…” they said.  

    “Oh!! Hi! Snow White!  Ghost!  Here you go kids, pick a can! Any can! Personally, I like the garbanzo beans. They are SO versatile!  But it’s not my day, it’s yours! Hope you know how to use a can opener..” 

    As to not hurt my feelings, each kid slowly dipped their hand into the canned-bowl and chose between corn, pickled beets or chopped olives.  

    “Really?  Do you actually think a young lady like me is gonna hand out canned goods?  Take a candy…geez” 

    With the same confusion, they took the candy while we giggled. 

    Knock knock…We opened the door again, without a candy bowl: 

    “Trick or Treat…” they said….  

    “We’ll take a treat.  What you got?” 

    We then proceeded to rummage through their pillow cases for a Charleston Chew or Milk Duds.  Not one child seemed amused, nor did they actually let us take their candy, so I instead gave them two candies for the trouble. 

    Knock knock…Before opening the door, we made noises and flickered the lights on and off spastically like a spectacular spook fest: 

    “TRICCCKKK!!!”  We screamed before they could mutter it, opened the door and handed the candy to them with straight faces and no words. 

    Knock knock…We opened the door to a cluster of fresh faces, masks and ghouls:

    “Trick or Treat…” 

    “Wait a gosh darn second,” I said with utmost seriousness.  “I’ve seen you kids already!” 

    “No! I swear! This is the first time!!” 

    “It’s because of the huge candy isn’t it?  I knew this would happen,” I became very serious. “I hoped it wouldn’t but it did…Trick-or-Treaters lying and thieving my candy. Worst Halloween ever.” 

    “But!” 

    “It’s ok” 

    “We!” 

    “Take another” 

    “But” 

    “Have a good night.  Although I’m sure I’ll see you again.” 

    Knock knock…With a loaded candy bowl. 

    “Trick or treat!” 

    “Knock knock,” I responded after slightly opening the door. 

    Silence. 

    “Everyone circle your left arm over your head until the joke is over…Knock knock,” I repeated. 

    “Who’s there?” one child responded with grave hesitation while circling his arm. 

    “Yaw!” I said back. 

    “Yaw whoooo?” as they continued circling their arms. 

    I again gave them two candies because no one but me and my sister laughed. Yahoooo!!! Get it? No?

    Staying home to catch the looks on the kids’ faces when they see the bowl full of canned food is PRICELESS and I prefer that instead of a bar outting any time!  I will be in D.C. this year for this special day and will inevitably miss out on the buffoonery of handing out candy.  I hope dearly that someone will take my place as the crazy lady by implementing these tricks into the treat-giving experience and to make fools of themselves, the princesses, goblins and Harry Potter characters that beg for candy.  

    On a side note, if a kid ever knocks on my door dressed as Oliver Twist and says “Please, ma’am, may I have some more?”  I will dump the entire bowl of king sized Butterfingers into his pillow case without playing one trick.  How creative! Kids these days aren’t that smart though, are they?  No, they’re not…they just aren’t, and I blame the lack of quality television programing like You Can’t Do That On Television, Pete and Pete, and Doug.

    My Wine Bottle and Wine Glass pumpkin...Carving sucks!!
    Day 3- fermented wine glass a little too tipsy…worst EVER

  • Mundantory Activities

    Certain mandatory things in life make me absolutely cringe.  Although I understand the undeniable necessity of such things, I find them outright boring, mundane and a waste of my time.  

    1. Brushing my Teeth- It boggles my mind that people can brush their teeth longer than ten seconds without seeming to be irritated.  Personally, I can’t just stand in front of the sink while staring at myself in the mirror with foam dripping down my lip for a minute, or whatever the dentist recommends.  I become stir crazy.  So instead, I walk around my apartment and with my free hand I’ll fluff pillows, pour myself a glass of water, lay out my clothes for the next day…even then, that minute would be more efficient with the other hand.  (Side note: I floss my teeth in the car with those tiny floss picks. Yah, I know it’s gross! So is my car! Judge me…)
    2. Taking a Shower- I don’t take anything from the shower…it takes me! TWENTY MINUTES (start to finish…undress to dressed)!  If not longer, depending on the state of my dirty hair and if I need to shave my legs (I’ll save that one for another prompt).  I’m just STANDING there…in what feels like a cage.
    3. Filling My Gas Tank– UGH!  First of all, I detest the unsanitary pumps.  Some stations provide its patrons with hand sanitizing amenities, but they are seldom full.  Secondly, I’m just standing there (again) and if I use my phone I might blow up the place.  Or if I walk inside, someone might steal my car.  It’s an awful time for me.
    4. Doing Laundry– I don’t even know where to begin with this one.  I go weeks without washing my jeans…maybe not weeks, but I will wait until the time I wiggle into them and I can smell the dirt.  I’m very meticulous and proper about the cleaning of my clothes, so things become complicated- delicates are placed in safe washing bags, blouses and dresses are line dried, sheets need once-a-week care (the fitted sheet is the bane of my existence), towels, missing socks, intimates, hangers, folding, time!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I would solely hire a laundress if I could for this task, but instead I spend my money on things like trips to Jones…at this point, I’m not sure what will make me happier.
    5. Plucking Eyebrows-Not only is it excruciating, it is crucial to pluck with precision!!! One measly hair tweezed wrongly will make me look lopsided.  Also, if the tool is not of quality then it doesn’t grip the hairs properly and it takes forever.  I do recommend a Swiss Army Knife for such grooming- it plucks and trims.
    6. Shaving my Legs-I understand the appeal of a smooth leg, ok?  I also understand that no matter how hard I try, I will inevitably miss a spot!!! No, not a spot…a patch.  And please! I’m single and it’s winter…so really? 

    Please know that despite my huffing and puffing, I compose myself as a socially acceptable and cleanly woman on a daily basis.  As a matter of fact, I used to suffer from obsessive compulsive disorder, so I “get it”.   I know that cleanliness is next to Godliness and the last thing I want to do is go to hell, (as far as I’m concerned, showering is hell but what I’ve learned about hell, it is much worse than a shower, so I can’t even imagine…perhaps hell is a bath?) so I guess you can consider me a sufferer of someone who compulsively obsesses over avoiding obsessive compulsive things?   Maybe I’m just ADD?

    And by the way, on a trip to grab some lunch I noticed my “check engine light” blaring its eager flash at me. 

    …the list never ends…

  • Almost to Prague…

    I sat in disgust as our team bus slowly paced itself back to our home town of Prostejov in the Czech Republic. Playoffs were right around the corner and we just lost to one of the worst teams in our league. Our management looked pissed off and would probably threaten to not pay us on time again. Not only that, the stench of anti-antiperspirant wearing Czech teammates lingered all over the bus. That’s why us Americans chose to sit together in the front of the bus, combining the smells of our Old Spice High Endurance Speed Stick and Cool Water colognes. Yet, it was Saturday night and that meant only one thing to us basketball players; freedom to drink, party and screw. I wasn’t planning to go out on this particular Saturday night. My teammate, whom we’ll call Smashavan, was driving his brother and I to Prague early in the morning. I’d been to Prague twice before, but the trips were strictly basketball related. There was nothing I fancied more then being in a popular foreign tourist town to kick back some brews and people watch. I was looking forward to a quiet night in my flat. A little online poker, couple beers, jerking it to some girl-on-girl action and a good nights rest.

    I knew our usual Saturday night consisted of pounding mass amounts of alcohol, dancing with porno caliber Czech girls and arriving home when the sun came up. I just had to deny this one Saturday night of its usual razz and sacrifice being hungover in bed all day for a Sunday fun day in Prague. There was one problem though. One of my teammates was celebrating his birthday. I knew I’d be forcefully dragged out with everyone for some celebratory birthday shots. Once a few shots would hit my lips, there was no denying the night could become endless. While the bus ride usually consisted of talking about our game and what we’d drink and screw that night, everyone popped in their iPod’s and quickly fell asleep. Spirits were at an extreme low from the loss. No doubt after a quick snooze, the guys would be ready to flush the loss out of their system with some drinks and late night partying. I was hoping I could escape to my flat without everyone hounding me to join them. Peer pressure is a bitch! With no one to talk to and the pungent body odor seeping into my head, I decided to put on some music and closed my eyes for the three hour ride home.

    Fifteen minutes away from home my teammate, J-Mill, put his wet finger in my ear to wake me up. I jumped up out of my seat like Frankenstein had been given a jolt of electricity. “Hey Deezy, turn that rock shit off, we’re almost home.” I guess my headphone jack came out of my iPhone and “Master of Puppets” was blaring for all too hear. I wiped the drool off the rim of my mouth and gave a big stretch and yawn. I overheard the word “Fiesta” rolling off someone’s tongue. Oh shit, they were already making plans for the night. I almost wanted to fake falling back asleep to dodge everybody. It was too late. The birthday boy, Uncle, noticed I was awake and said, “Deezy, you coming out with us to celebrate my birthday, right?” My brain was still in nap mode, but I knew my plans for the night, “Naw, I’m going to Prague with Smashavan tomorrow, I need my rest.” Uncle knew I was the one teammate who never turned down a Saturday night. “Don’t worry Deez, everyone is tired and we’ll just have a few birthday drinks, I’ll even buy.” I was starting to think everyone’s definition of “a few” was different than mine. To these guys I knew “a few” meant more than ten. I told him I’d think about it and we quickly arrived back at our apartment building.

    Living in the adjacent flat next to Uncle, I was doomed from the beginning. As we walked up the steps he demanded of me, “Deezy, get ready and I’ll ring your doorbell in twenty minutes.” I sat on the edge of my bed, put my hands on my head and weighed my options. I looked at the clock and noticed it was already almost midnight. Should I call it a night or man up and enjoy a few drinks and save the girl-on-girl action for later? I was never one to turn down free drinks. I’m Jewish, it’s embedded in my blood to accept any free gift. Before I knew it my designer jeans were on, my polo was ironed and Ax Body Spray was sprayed on my neck and groin area; I called this the “double neck to testies.” The doorbell suddenly rang twice startling me. My doorbell sounded like the America’s Got Talent “X” buzzer. I think I was just X’d twice by Howie and Piers for making a bad decision on going out. I opened the door and Uncle was standing there as if he was picking up his hot prom date. Unfortunately, I knew he’d rape me of my time and energy before tomorrow. I grabbed my wallet and phone and we were on our way to Fiesta.

    Fiesta was the busiest restaurant/bar in town. It was two stories of tantalizing fun, but each story held it’s own unique vibe. Upstairs was the party zone. Pool tables, air hockey, slot machines, juke box, fully stacked bar and plenty of hot blonde Czech women to go around. Not even thirty minutes into the night, I found myself holding a half-drank double Mojito and buying a second round of Jagerbombs for the crew. I wasn’t a fan of the Mojito, I just didn’t enjoy any drink with a whole plant shoved inside. This was the free drink I was given by the birthday boy. I guess alcohol was alcohol and I had to be respectful and finish it. The night got interesting as a few smoking hot blondes approached us. My dick began to tingle and smile. The cuter one of the two began to speak in her sexy Czech accent, “Hey Uncle, you guys going to Simetrix tonight?” Uncle slyly responded, “Yeah, we might make it over there, it’s my birthday you know.” I thought I recognized her before and quickly ran through my mind databank of women, but it was running slow from the double Mojito and didn’t register. As they walked away, Uncle mentioned that she was one of the dancers from our basketball team. I remembered her and was immediately interested. Petite, blonde, sexy, dancer, cute accent; that was all me. Yet, the Simetrix Disco was mentioned and that meant a very, very late night. Once again I was faced with a tough dilemma. I was a few drinks away from being completely shit faced and unable to control my urge to leave at an appropriate time. I was also in the process of mind-fucking a cute chick, which drew my attention even further away from Prague. One of my teammates, Iceman, was leaving for home, but I denied my only chance at an early departure. I was in this for the long haul. We shot back a few more drinks, paid our tabs and off to Simetrix we went.

    I choked on thick cigarette smoke and machine-made fog as we step foot in the disco. Uncle, J-Mill and I headed straight for the bar. Visibility was at a two girl depth. We crossed the living room sized dance floor and bumped elbows with girls that looked like they came straight from the girl-on-girl scenes I loved to watch. The ratio was unbelievable, at least three girls to every guy, a complete rarity. All of them were as hot and fresh as morning coffee. My goal was to find and strike up a conversation with the blonde dancer I doggy mind-fucked just an hour earlier. I looked everywhere but I couldn’t find her and the stinging smog began to burn my eyeballs. I needed a better view. There was a vacant stripper pole three feet above the dance floor besides the DJ booth. I waited for the Go-Go dancer to step down for her usual two song cigarette break. Now I was Go-Going and began my own seductive pole dance. There was never a night in Simentrix when I didn’t get on the pole at least for a twirl. As I started to take my shirt off, Uncle thought it would be hilarious to join in. His shirt came off as well and now we were two drunk guys with no shirts sharing a stripper pole for all to see. In my opinion, they should rename the Mojito to Homojito. Three girls clawed at our stomachs and we helped them up to join us. In the midst of a Flo Rida’s “Get Low” grind session, I located the cute blonde I had my sites set on and exited the stripper pole mayhem. It was time for my Deezy charm to be put to use.

    After a quick pee break and checking my nose for any hangers, I plotted my attack. I was hesitant to aggressively approach her petite 5’2 frame with my giant 6’9 body. I had it in my mind that all petite women thought that guys of my stature had three foot long schlongs and would destroy their vaginas forever. Not true, it’s only two feet. I kept my distance not wanting to intimidate her. She stood alone with a sulky demeanor. As my tractor beam locked on, I yelled “Hey, what’s wrong” from a distance. She replied, “I need a boyfriend, I’m lonely.” Jackpot! I laughed on the inside knowing what she really needed. Deez nuts! I reached into my bag of drunk pickup lines and responded, “You don’t need a boyfriend, you need a man friend.” She sarcastically chuckled, flipped me the bird and walked away. I was turned on by her feistiness, but wasn’t going to let her off that easy. I gave it a few minutes and was ready for another attempt. As I began to close in on my prey again, a giant fat guy the size of the Kool-Aid man cut me off. She was now conversing with Sasquatch and I could only stand a schlongs distance away by the bar. As I stared at her and started my missionary mind-bang, he suddenly picked her up as if she was a Wendy’s Triple Stack. As I saw her struggling like a baby seal in Shamu’s mouth, I realized this was my golden opportunity. Hoping this guy didn’t know English, I threw George McFly’s famous “Back to the Future” line at him, “Hey fatty, get your god damn hands off her!” Knowing no one would get the joke but me, I started to laugh outloud. This seemed to upset him. The Kool-Aid/Sasquatch man mumbled curse words in Czech at me. My blonde slapped him in his man titties and then he backed down saying, “No problem, no problem.” Trying to complete my act of heroism I told her, “Maybe you need a bodyguard and not a boyfriend.” Waiting for another middle finger, she instead showed a beautiful smile and at that moment I realized I was in. I introduced myself as Deezy and she told me a name that started with a V. I asked again, but couldn’t understand her soft voice because of the powerful bass speakers that had rattled my ears deaf. I bought V a few drinks and then we danced to the repetitive playing of David Guetta and Lady Gaga songs. We finally sat down and Uncle came over to join us.

    My body began to shut down and fall asleep. I was still conscious and wired due to the Red Bull in my system. Uncle looked partied out and told me he was ready to leave at any time. I checked my phone and it was already past 5 a.m. Not only that, I had a text message from Smashavan alerting me to be ready at 8:30 for the Prague trip. As V erotically puffed on her cigarette and sat in silence, the house lights of the disco suddenly turned on. As we stood up ready to leave, V suddenly spoke, “I’m not done partying, let’s keep the night going and go to my flat.” This was very unexpected, but I was totally excited and down with it. I looked at Uncle and Uncle looked at me. We gave each other the good old “who gives a fuck” shrugging gesture with our shoulders and out we all went.

    I fell in and out of consciousness in the back seat while Uncle and V navigated home. We all stumbled into V’s flat. It smelled of fresh laundry and Victoria Secret’s body spray. V escaped to the bathroom like Houdini giving Uncle and I a minute to make a man plan. Either V was drunk and lonely or just a freak-a-leek. As she drunkenly struggled to change in front of me from her jeans and top to an oversized Mickey Mouse t-shirt, I began to think how bad I wanted her. I knew there was no time to fool around, so I got into the nitty gritty talk about sex and her loneliness. While Uncle laid in her bed fooling around on her laptop, she suddenly got the drunk spins and invited me to lay with her in bed. We assumed spooning positions and she unfortunately slowly fell into her dreadful hangover. Uncle excused himself to the bathroom where I was able to get a couple kisses and erotic grabs in. V seemed to enjoy my company and had a permanent smile on her face as she scooted closer to my half hung man piece. I began to pass out as Uncle started “Psssss’ing” at me. I got out of my comfortable spooning position and met Uncle at the front door. Uncle reeked of cigarette smoke and Homojito and was ready to bounce. As he asked if I wanted to stay or go, I was once again faced with a difficult decision. Possible future fuck buddy or Prague trip? His advice was to stay and so I did. As I got back into bed with V, I realized that she was gone till November. I decided I wouldn’t spend the night and try to bang her in the morning, as that wasn’t my style. I knew how drunk she was and when she’d wake up sober next to a random tattooed giant stranger, well I’d be scared shitless too. I needed to somehow leave my name and number with her. I didn’t have my own number memorized and it was no where to be found in my phone. I checked her phone, but all the options were in Czech. I thought of the next best thing. I opened her laptop hoping she had a Facebook account and an auto sign in. Success! I logged in and friend requested myself from her screen name. Thank you Facebook! I now had a name to go with her beautiful self, Vera. I gave Vera a kiss on the cheek, a quick booty grab and left her apartment at 7:30 a.m. I had less then an hour to get home and prepare for a day in Prague.

    I only lived in Prostejov for two months and hadn’t quite became acclimated with the layout of the city. I knew how to get to and from the gym and the disco, but that was about it. I had no fucking clue where I was or how to get home. My clothes were still damp from bumping and grinding all night and now my head started spinning. I called Uncle twice, but there was no answer. I started thinking what Survivorman or Bear Grylls would do. I remembered that the sun always shined on my flat in the morning. So I just started walking away from the sun. Unsure of my idea, I eventually noticed the big clock tower in town. This was the middle of town, I knew where to go from there. I arrived home after a 25 minute walk, took a quick shower, gathered my things, accepted Vera’s friend request, left her a quick message yearning to see her again and took a 15 minute nap. My phone rang and Smashavan was waiting in front of my flat. Off to Prague we went.

    Smashavan and his brother picked me up and I was luckily able to have the whole back of the car to myself. I definitely needed this extra space. Smashavan noticed that I looked a little sluggish, “Damn Deezy, did you go out last night?” I laughed, telling them that I was on absolutely no sleep and hoped I wouldn’t puke in his car. My head began to spin again and I got the whomp-whomps. Smashavan said he had some knock-off pain killers for his back he could give me. I took two pills and tried to sleep for the two hour trip while they laughed at my struggle. The pills actually made me feel worse, but I passed out and woke up when we arrived in Prague.

    Prague is the second most visited city in the world. It is lined with tram tracks running across it’s cobblestone streets and hounds of people trying to make their way to each famous landmark. The Czech Republic is known for it’s beer as they invented the Pilsner. Although hungover, I couldn’t wait to have some food and cold brew. We couldn’t find anywhere to park and accidently turned down the wrong street. A cop pulled us over and told us we couldn’t drive on the team tracks. Smashavan played the dumb card and luckily they let us off. We eventually found a temporary parking spot. Arguing over whether we could leave the car there for more then the hour limit, we took our chances rather then driving around for another hour.

    Knowing it was going to be a nice Spring day in Prague, I thought like a typical Californian would and only wore sandals. Not a smart idea when walking on cobblestone all day. My knees instantly hurt amongst my constant headache and complete body failure due to lack of sleep. I toughened up and we made our way through the thousands of tourists to find a restaurant. Why we chose to eat at T.G.I.F.’s in another country, I had no idea. The food sucked, the prices were double and I was dumb enough to order a Margarita with my looming hangover. The food in my stomach gave me a bit of energy, but the margarita was a different story. I sat there in a daze as Smashavan and his brother caught up with life and family talk. I was actually thinking about Vera and why I didn’t stay with her instead of suffering here. Smashavan got up for a potty break and his brother, O-Nasty, turned the conversation into weed talk. Traveling through Europe for the past week, O-Nasty managed to smuggle some weed in from Amsterdam. In his pocket was a pipe and a fat purple nug suprise. He asked if I’d smoke with him when we had the chance and I quickly obliged with a “fuckin’ hell yeah!” I told him that I didn’t usually chance it during the season because of the risk of random drug testing. Due to the current mental and physical state I was in, I couldn’t turn down a simple puff to relax me. Smashavan didn’t condone anyone smoking weed. We needed the perfect moment to disappear for a secret session of puff puff give. Smashavan became overwhelmingly paranoid about his parking spot. We stood outside watching Smashavan figure out where the Palladium mega mall was. In the blink of an eye Smashavan started walking away from us and said, “I’ll go park the car somewhere else and meet you guys at the Palladium.” Knowing we found our chance to smoke, we could care less where the Palladium was. Smashavan offered a few finger points this way and that way in the general direction of the Palladium. He assured us that we’d have no problem finding it and walked off. O-Nasty and I were ready to blaze it up in Prague.

    O-Nasty and I started walking towards the Palladium. For the second time that day I was lost and had no clue where I was. We started making eye contact with every person passing by and yelled at them, “Palladium, Palladium??” We eventually were pointed in the right direction by two fat disgusting chicks and found our destination. Next, we scouted out a spot to blaze. Making sure there were no police around, we inconspicuously sat in the middle of hundreds of people on a bench in front of a random statue. Of course, while O-Nasty packed the bowl with that “stanky Amsterdam purp” other people took a seat right next to us. We didn’t care to relocate as we had to quickly make it to the mall to meet Smashavan. We just enjoyed our smoke session in front of everyone. We engulfed the smoke, slapped our stoner shades on and let our minds become dazed. O-Nasty and I then continued on to the mall.

    Holy shit! This was the biggest mall I’d ever been in. I later found out it was one of the biggest malls in Europe. Four towering stories, hundreds of shops and thousands of people. This place was so fucking big that when we went to the directory it took us ten minutes to locate the “you are here” dot. My advanced calculus tests were easier then finding anything on this directory. Maybe it was because we were stoned, but after watching others spend 10 minutes looking at it in confusion, I knew it wasn’t just the weed. How did Smashavan think we would find each other without declaring an exact meeting point. Telling us to meet at the biggest fucking mall around wasn’t too exact in my book. I didn’t have my cell phone and neither did O-Nasty. We instantly became paranoid and had visions of sleeping in the mall overnight. This wasn’t the way I wanted to spend a stoned day in Prague after the night I just went through. I should’ve tried to get pussy instead of this. We started our search for Smashavan by constantly going up and down the escalators hoping to spot Smashavan. No luck. O-Nasty and I stopped and began to make a new stoned man plan. Being 6’9, I figured I would be easy to spot if we split up to find him. Then the spirits of Survivorman and Bear Grylls once again called upon me and said, “stay together in one place and have the rescuer find you.” The garage elevator area would be our safe haven and home base. We were thirsty and travelled to the top story to grab some Orange Fanta and munchies as the high kicked in a bit more. Thirty minutes pass. An hour passes. I was luckily wearing a red long-sleve shirt, so I suppose this was a cruel game of “Where’s Waldo?” Except I was Waldo and I hoped I’d be found. After 80 minutes I told O-Nasty I was going to start screaming Smashavan’s name hoping he’d hear me and appear out of thin air. As soon as I started the yelling game, I heard my name in the distance “DEEEEEEEZZZZZZZZY!” Smashavan came walking towards us and had nothing to say but a simple, “What up guys, sorry, but I couldn’t find a parking spot and there was a lot of traffic.” I guess we could do nothing but continue on in the madness that was the trip to Prague.

    We enjoyed the rest of our day walking on the cobblestone and visiting the great sites Prague had to offer. After my hangover subsided I was free to enjoy some peace and quiet in the Prague air. Smashavan brought along the best toy known to man, a frisbee, and we hurled that thing all over the place. It was the most exhausted I’d ever been, except for the one time I went to Chico St. on graduation weekend and didn’t sleep for three days straight. I couldn’t wait to get home and crash on my bed and watch some girl-on-girl lesbian action. Little did I know that the beautiful blonde I met in the disco only the night before would become my fiancee. I guess life is full of risk and reward.

    Veezy and Deezy

  • The Dog or Grandma?

    Ed was having a birthday bash at a local bar/club called Padri”s. As it turned out, Padri”s is a hive for horny cougars trying to milk what”s left of their waning sex appeal. Jackpot.

    The great thing about going to cougar bars is the mental swagger. Being younger than every woman in the place makes me feel like I automatically have the upper hand, because I have something they don”t: youth. I”ve had in depth conversations on the topic with several cougars. Most of them will admit that they aren”t exactly attracted to younger guys because of their physical appearance, but rather they”re after their youth, and the self-validation that comes with that conquest. We make them feel young again, beautiful even, and though they”re approaching old age and a doomed physical appearance, guys like me remind them that life can still be stimulating and hopeful.

    Five beers into the night, an attractive blonde forty-five-year-old woman named Emily was standing right behind me. With her big blonde hair and bright blue eyes, she looked exactly like the older version of singer Aubrey O”Day. When I asked her what she was drinking, I was delighted to discover that she had a sexy English-Australian accent. Emily had lived in England and Australia for quite some time and now was living promiscuously in California. This foreign gem slowly inched her way closer to me, as we talked about each other”s cool features. I liked her hair; she liked mine. I liked her eyes; she liked mine. I liked her age; she liked mine. In incredible shape for a woman her age, she had worn a cropped top baring her stunning midriff. Her face did have two noticeable wrinkles slicing her cheeks, and there were probably more hidden beneath her makeup, but her stomach was successful in taking the attention away from any flaw she may have had. In her prime she had to have been at least a 9. I was hooked.

    Kissing Emily was almost too easy. My friend Pico mischievously told her, “Kiss him.” So she leaned in and planted her lips on mine and then did it again and again, remaining in close proximity throughout the night. She was also in and out of conversation with an aggressive man in his mid-fifties who was watching the two of us like a hawk. The fierce glint in his eyes combined with his leather jacket reminded me of Wild Thing from Major League just before his windup. I avoided eye contact with him and tried to only make out with Emily when he wasn”t looking.

    After another hour of sneaking in a few more make out sessions, Emily took me by the hand and sneaked us out before Wild Thing could see us depart. We walked what seemed like two miles to her car in a night that had gotten uncomfortably cold.

    When we arrived at her apartment, Craig, one of my friends who had come to the bar with the group, began calling me incessantly, trying to get me to come pick him up, even though the rest of the crew was still there. I told him I was about to get laid by grandma. He tried giving me a guilt trip because he was stranded. The next morning he shrugged it off, but to call me three times in a row and cry like a baby about why it was fucked up he was stuck there, and it was my fault was uncalled for.

    As we walked up the apartment stairs, she warned me that she had a dog, and he loved people. I figured this obstacle would be easy to maneuver around.

    Perhaps I smelled so obviously of sex, or maybe the dog was just sex deprived, but the moment that wiener dog laid eyes on me, he absolutely could not stop humping my leg.

    Overly enamored of her dog, Emily was of no help. She mildly admonished him, “NICHOLAS,” pause, and then again “Nicholas.” During the course of the night, she had to have yelled this name at least forty times. The dog didn”t respond to the name in any way; he probably didn”t even think his name was Nicholas. Despite the animal”s endless energy, I finally managed to inch my way past the dog and into her bedroom.

    Nicholas followed us in, jumped on the bed, and tried to start a threesome. I reasoned with her that we put the dog out, trying to hide the fact I already hated her dog. Chicks usually find it a turnoff when guys don”t like their dogs. But my patience had reached its end with this fucking animal. I calculated the chances she”d throw me out online casino at 6%. I finally convinced her to put the dog in the living room. We shut the door and fucked like humans.

    Minutes later, an unpleasant odor began to infiltrate the air. It smelled like an open Chicken of the Sea tuna can had been silently festering underneath her mattress for two months and the room turned into a rotten fish factory. It was atrocious, but I managed to keep my hard-on anyway and kept plowing.

    To make matters worse in this bizarre sex adventure, Nicholas was feeling left out and began running into the door head first! This had to be the first case in recent hook-up history of a male animal cockblocking a male human, and of course I was the victim. Emily stopped, “I”m sorry, I have to let him in. He”s usually not like this. I don”t know what”s got into him.” All hell was about to break loose.

    As Nicholas quietly moseyed in, he looked up at me, and his psychotic instinct took over. He bolted like a ravenous sex zombie onto the bed and started humping my now-naked leg.

    “NICHOLAS!” his owner screamed. No reaction. I was sitting up at this point getting leg-raped by Nicholas. I had to stifle the urge to kick the damn dog like a football but instead gritted my teeth and waited for her to step in. She patiently picked him up and petted him, but it didn”t settle him down. He stared at me the whole time.

    She gave him some kind of pep talk in which she mumbled some sort of poem into his ear. I tried to listen to the exact words, but her voice was too low. His body relaxed, and he melted into her arms. When she set him down, he actually lay peacefully on the floor. She returned to the bed, and I stuck my now semi hard-on inside her and hoped it would get stiff again. Every fifteen seconds, I would look over at mini Cujo just to make sure he was still. About five minutes later my hard-on was in full force once more as I continued to ironically screw her doggie-style. I had her screaming again, but now Nicholas was up again, looking at me with his tongue hanging out.

    We moved back into missionary. Suddenly I felt a tickling sensation in my asshole. I turned around to find Nicholas giving me a rimjob! What the fuck! I”m a fan of rimjobs, but only with human females; this was unacceptable. I looked at Emily, whose head was back moaning, and I moved to get in position to kick Nicholas off the bed. I sent him hurtling into the air, as he let out a piercing yelp. I felt bad momentarily, but it was more of a shove kick than a vigorous kick. I didn”t want to break any bones. I did have an excuse: being emotionally distraught from a canine rimjob.

    She heard the yelp and stopped. “Did you hurt my Nicholas?”

    “No, I think he just fell off the bed.”

    Nicholas pattered to the side of the bed as if nothing had happened. Maybe he was rooting for us to get laid all along, a true voyeur.

    We continued to fuck. A couple minutes later, I felt the dog humping my leg again. I was humping his owner; he was humping my leg. We had transformed into a sick interspecies love train. Jesus Christ! This dog made the Energizer bunny look like a two-pump chump. But compared to the rimjob, this was nothing.

    I lightly kicked him away, but he kept returning. How I was able to maintain my concentration will forever be a mystery. The third time, I felt his little prick hitting my ankle. He had a boner! I sent him flying again. He didn”t yelp this time. I must have finished him because it was the last time he touched the bed that night. He quietly found his position on the floor and lay there, eerily satisfied. Maybe he blew his load in mid-air. Emily and I finally finished our stinky session, and she drove me back to my car. To my chagrin, she never apologized for Nicholas”s behavior.

    In spite of the dog, I was satisfied with my night. My friends all made fun of me the next day and exaggerated Emily”s age, but I”d probably fuck Emily again if the dog weren”t there (and if I had a cold). The drive back to my car was only four minutes, but I remember looking at her and thinking how hot she must have been twenty years ago. Sometimes to fuck the hot chicks, you have to do it twenty years later.

     

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  • 9 Things I Hate About Walking

    9 Things I Hate About Walking

    There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that I am, by far and away, the fastest walker in Santiago. And to take advantage of my obligatory and permanent label of “ignorant gringo”, I will conclude that a Chilean walker is no different than any other Latino walker. Thus making me the fastest walker in all of South America… fact. So what could I hate about walking when I am the clear champion of the southern hemisphere and no one should be able to stop me? Well many things, and it is my innate ability to overcome these problems that got me where I am today. If you are a slow or bad walker, or what I like to call a “slawker”, you may never have thought of any of these things because you are dead smack in the middle of doing these things… all the time.

    1) Turning your head more than 15 degrees to either side.

    If you are walking straight forward, and you turn your head more than 15 degrees to either side, you better divert your course in that direction or you have just become a slawker. Without a clear field of view in front of you, you cannot be expected to walk without causing chaos.

    2) Taking a slow slant across the sidewalk to get to the other side without looking

    This is the most efficient way to fuck over the most people in the most amount of time making you the most hated person on the sidewalk. You are not in an inner tube laying on your back, with a bag of beer attached to you cooling in the water, as you kick lazily and flap idioticly with your hands to cross a slow moving current. You are in the middle of a high speed sidewalk so you better know exactly when you are to get off, and make it happen with precision and hastiness.

    3) Fail to move a shoulder or turn your body as people approach you when there is not much room.

    You are a fucking dick. Have common courtesy for your fellow species. There is no reason you should feel that you are more important than another walker so that you should never have to turn your body or bow your shoulder to let someone fit through a gap. Nor are you the better person to turn and look back at the person who just bumped you. Douche bag.

    4) Stopping on a staircase

    This is never acceptable, never. It is tiring enough climbing a staircase and it sure as hell is frustrating enough to put both my feet on the same stair as I mentally urge you to walk faster. But when you ignore my mental urgings and stop, and I ram my head into your jello butt that had me hypnotized just enough to slow my reactions down, it makes me want to throw my shoe at you. If you dropped something, forget about it. If you forgot something behind, you will need to use the designated stairs for going down. If you are tired, sack up and get on with it before I push you over.

    5) Walking four people wide

    Firstly, if I am one of the four, I hate this situation because I cannot hear what the hell is going on. But imagine the 80 meter queue of people behind you and your arm linked friends. Are you playing red rover red rover? Are you trying out for that burlesque dance with the high kicking legs? Are you stopping a crowd as they riot around you? Unless you are doing any of these things, immediately deconstruct your wall of in-passe, and go down to two by two. You will be a lot happier as well as the released flow of people going past you.

    6) Wildly flailing your arms as if you have a mental disorder

    Maybe more common in South America, especially Argentina. But to think it’s just a “thing that happens” as you back hand slap someone to your side as they are trying to pass you, is just plain wrong, and you are two steps closer to being a salted slug of the earth.

    7) Gazing up, browsing around, and looking at this and that

    Sudden stops will ruin governments, computers, machinery, and it sure as hell will destroy a sidewalk. When you decide to gander at that cute top or new computer game, you just unleashed chaos and that ain’t cool in my book. Be courteous and look to the side or behind you before making drastic decisions on the sidewalk. But this would break rule one, so even better if you feel uncomfortable breaking rule one, is to put a hand out to the side pointing down and shout out “Slowing!!”

    8) Choosing the far left door when you have to turn right or vice versa

    Try and think ahead more than five seconds. There are a lot of doors because likely there are a lot of people using them. It is not cool to leave a door and immediately run into your perpendicular adventure that should have nothing to do with me.

    9) Not staying to the side on an escalator if you are not walking.

    Why? Do you really need a sign every few meters going up to tell you to do this? Just because we are getting a free vertical lift doesn’t mean I am not going to take advantage of the opportunity to feel like I am walking super extra fast.

    For sure at some point I have committed some of these errors, but I learned. I learned from my mistakes and saw the misery I caused and I aim to never do them again. Unless you are old, a young child, mentally or physically handicapped, or drunk, you have no excuse to repetitively commit the errors above.

    Now don’t get me wrong… I once ordered 25 guys to walk with with an italian walk whenever they saw me or one of my 50 fraternity bothers. An italian walk consists of your hands clasped behind your back, you lean back like you are almost about to lean on something, and walk slowly like there is nothing in the world you are trying to get to. I can appreciate the joy of life and the things there are to see while walking slow. But in general I am an efficiency walker, that’s why I have a motorcycle that takes me around at 175mph and many bicycles that are far more efficient than a car.

    I hope I pop into your head the next time someone runs into you on the sidewalk and gives you a look like “gawwd, who the fuck is this slawker?”

  • Life at the Fraternity House

    Anyone who has been privileged enough to attend a University will probably tell you it was the most memorable, if not the best time of their life. I lived in a fraternity house for three years. The path I chose for myself was probably different than most college students. There really is no better way to grow as a man than to live with twenty guys. Backgrounds, values, priorities, and lifestyles came crashing together to create a bonfire of laughs, fights, booze, animals, sex, masturbation, rules, ragers, cops, and school. 

    I could write forever about the myriad of incidents and events that occurred at this house. Here is just a peek…

    MASTURBATION

    The house was decked out with a computer lab of twelve desks and seven computers–three of which were functioning; the other four accumulated dust and flicked boogers. No one had Internet in their room, so this really was our only source of Internet. People generally studied until midnight before calling it a night. After that, it was a free-for-all contest between two or three lurking masturbators–usually myself, Dave Axe, or Afro-Man. We’d stay in the room and act like we were “checking the Internet.” It always went unspoken, but we would literally sit at a computer and “wait it out.” Whoever could wait the longest would get the room to themselves and fresh freedom to jerk. Sometimes someone would unexpectedly come in late at night. Luckily, there was an alarm system on the room. If the door was locked you had to type in a code that set off an unpleasant beeping noise until the code was typed in again to disarm the system. The act of someone typing in the code, opening the door, disarming the alarm, and walking around the corner to the “jerking area,” gave masturbators a window of 15 seconds to “cover up” or “tuck it in.” I got beeped over 100 times but never got caught. The person would walk in, I’d give them a choked “What’s up,” and then I’d click on my emergency link–usually espn.com–to make it look like I was checking sports highlights.

             One Thursday night, after an hour of “waiting it out,” I won. I began my session at 1 a.m. The material I was finding was premium stuff. The best I ever saw. I got greedy. I couldn’t end it. Chicks on chicks. Ten-second clip after ten-second clip to piece together the entire scene. Twenty-pic pages of a never-before-seen hottie. Silvia Saint. Jenna Jameson. The list was endless. I thought to myself, “Nah, I can find something better than this.” I was right. Before I knew it, it was already 6 a.m.! My eyes were burning and my dick was raw. I had roughed up the suspect to an unprecedented extreme. I ended my session by blowing my load in the trashcan–an eight-roper–to some chick who was probably ranked 116th on the list of girls I’d sifted through on the night. The five-hour session left me feeling like a zombie the next day, effectively killing my Friday night and half of my Saturday. Five hours! To this day, that is my record. I got greedy.

    THIEVERY

    No matter how cool some guys may seem, if you live in a house with twenty guys, at least a couple of them are bound to be broke. Usually, the root of all evil comes from lack of money. Things were stolen. Clothes were borrowed and never returned. Beer was snipered. Food was eaten. It was all petty theft, nothing big. It was just unpleasant. We never did find out who the thieves were, although we did have a few suspects. One time I lost my favorite shirt, and two years later found Afro-Man wearing it, and he had apparently “borrowed” it from ODR, who had “borrowed” it from someone else. One time, Merlin had his entire change dispenser in his car (Over $10 in coins) completely cleaned out overnight. However, the culprit did have a conscience, sparing him sixteen cents. One time Chuck brought home nachos and a big fat taco from Del Taco. He left the living room for thirty seconds and returned to find his big fat taco already half-eaten, mysteriously imprinted with an extra large four-inch radius bite mark. One time, there was an inexplicable nine-inch brown log sitting on the couch. But that’s beside the point. One time I bought a jar full of quarter sliced dill pickles, and two days later went in to grab my first pickle from the fridge. There were two pickles left.

    GIRLFRIENDS

    It was never really encouraged for bros who lived at the house to have girlfriends. Although most girlfriends refused to stay at the house overnight, some actually liked staying at the house. Some were cool, but most were irritating and intrusive. They took away time from guys to talk about things they would normally talk about, but couldn’t because a chick was present. Sometimes, the room would smell like fish after they had sex. Sometimes the girls were loud and obnoxious, and dumped their unwanted opinions on us. Sometimes they would study in the computer room late at night, taking away precious jerk time from certain frustrated masturbators (Me). Sometimes, we’d be trying to sleep, and the bro would start fucking his chick some eight feet away, with only the armoire to shield us–it has been rumored, however, that some guys actually jerked off to this; I definitely wasn’t a part of that. One time Chester’s girlfriend left her rusty white 1976 Lincoln in the parking lot. For two years. Most significantly, girlfriends slowly sucked the life and fun out of every bro they dated. They were like the cancers of youth, eating away at the soul’s ability to dream and discover, the true antonym of adventure. I do not recommend “girlfriends” at such a young age. Time is more important than sex. You’ll see. 

    PETS

    Over the years, several “house pets” became a part of house life. The first pet to ever live in the house belonged to Wang. He was an orange cat named Louie. He never meowed. You could step on his tail and you wouldn’t know because he was a mute. Louie mysteriously disappeared, and it was rumored that he was captured and cooked at a Mongolian BBQ across the street. 

    The next pet was a stray black cat we named Morgan. At first we wanted to name him “Captain Morgan” after our favorite liquor, but it was too long of a name. A week after we found Morgan and welcomed him to the house, another stray was found wandering in the premises. We took him too. He was also black, but unlike Morgan he smelled like poop all the time. We named him “Captain Stinky.” The named evolved into just “Stinky.” Both cats only lasted a couple months until Morgan simply disappeared, and Stinky was found dead underneath a dumpster.

    During the Morgan and Stinky era, a pet mouse was introduced to the house by Tele’s girlfriend. It didn’t last long, and she started suspecting we’d feed it to Morgan or Stinky. But then one day, it disappeared.

    The most bizarre pet to ever set foot in the house was a tortoise named “Turtle.” He lived in an aquarium, but one day I came home from class to find turtle strolling through the parking lot. We never did find out how turtle got there.

    The next pet to fail at existing was Cam’s pet cat named Mike. He wasn’t liked by many of the guys, particularly Stiffler, for some reason, so Cam deported him to his parent’s house. Mike was the only cat to make it out of the house alive, although Cam said “he got weird” in the months that followed, and he was never quite the same.

    The last pet during my three years was Roger’s pet dog named Rufus–but everyone called him “Dufus”. He looked like a Lion. So much so, that one day when Roger was gone, some guys shaved him so he had a mane. It was hysterical. 

    DIETING

    For most people, the period of time when we have the least amount of money usually comes between the ages of 18-22. Our parents stopped supporting our spending, and it is a tough adjustment for most. I made the adjustment, but my diet suffered, along with everyone living at that house. The poorer a person is, the shittier food they tend to eat. There was a Jack-in-the-Box right down the street. If only that place had been a Subway or something, I think many lifestyles and bodily appearances would have been different, even to this day. I averaged 10.3 Jack-in-the-Box meals per week. The “house high” went to Chester, who averaged 14 meals per week (with no breakfast). The average bro averaged right around nine. Luckily, I’m skinny and such eating habits never made me fat, but they did counter any exercise I ever attempted.  

    CLUBS 

    Several clubs were formed. Here are a few.

    Buffalo Club

    If you were cool or recognized as someone worth partying with, you were welcomed into a club known as the Buffalo Club. You had to say an “I solemnly swear” bit, and then you were in. People in the Buffalo Club could only drink their alcohol out of their left hand. If you caught someone drinking out of his or her right hand, you would call out “Buffalo,” and they would be forced to pound whatever was left of their drink. If they didn’t follow through with it, they were dubbed as a “pussy faggot,” and looked down upon. I once was Buffaloed on a 40-ouncer of Steel Reserve. It wasn’t fun. 

    100 Club

    This famous club only contained members who could do 100 shots of beer in 100 minutes. This was an actual timed event where every minute players must take another shot. I only made it to 82. If you attempt this event, I recommend bringing several trashcans into the room. Vomiting will ensue.

    Fight Club

    Coined after the movie, this club was founded on bros who would wrestle each other because of a grudge, shit-talking, or just because they “felt like it.” Punches were not aloud to be thrown, and a bro would lose when he “tapped out.”

    Team Cutty

    Perhaps the most underground club of all time. Consisted only of bros who dipped or chewed tobacco. They customized their slogan after the famous quote “We are not what we say we are. We are what we do.” They made some tweaks and made T-shirts that said, “We are not what we say we are. We are what we chew.” Although it was tempting, I was not a part of this club.

    RIVALRIES 

    We had a silly rivalry with another fraternity. Tough words were always said, but no punches were ever thrown. All the shit-talkers were just insecure about themselves and who had a “better fraternity,” so as a result we talked shit on each other and accomplished nothing except for this small paragraph that is being written right now. One time, a small group of younger bros decided to steal this fraternity’s letters–the large seven-foot wooden letters they used to advertise themselves during welcome week–from their backyard. We were successful, but when we brought the letters to our house, we immediately felt like idiots. They took up precious parking lot space, and we instantly became vulnerable to all kinds of consequences from the University. Everyone gathered around the letters and discussed how stupid we were to commit such a pointless criminal act. It looked and felt like a scene from the movie I Know What You Did Last Summer. We hid the letters in Vick’s garage for a year until he realized they were taking up space. He threw them out. No one ever found out about the crime. But we were lame.

    PARTIES

    Every month two things happened: 1) We had a philanthropy or a day of community service, and 2) We had a party. We had a living area that was perfect for parties. Over 3000 square feet paved the way for several historic “frat parties.” If anyone has ever been to a fraternity party, it doesn’t take a GQ superstar to hook up with a girl. Tucker Max said it best, “It’s like a clearance sale in the pussy aisle at the hook-up store; Everything Must Go!” Since we were the only off-campus house, we had the ability to throw a party whenever we wanted. We tried to space them out strategically, so we wouldn’t spoil them. We advertised for them all week, hundreds, sometimes thousands, of creative flyers made and distributed all over campus. While other fraternities had parties at lame bars with security guards, we had parties at our house. It didn’t take long for everyone to discover that we threw the best parties. Every party had its own unique personality with its own specific theme–Toga, Hawaiian, White-trash, Jungle, 70s, 50s, “Party like a Rockstar,” Movie stars, Hoe down, Animal House, Heaven and Hell, Pimps and Ho’s. The list went on. We all dressed up for them, although some useless bros showed up wearing jeans and a collared shirt. These bros obviously never hooked up. The guys drank beer. The girls drank this evil stuff we called jungle juice. It was a ghastly blend of fruit punch Hi-C, 7-up, orange juice, triple sec, and cheap vodka. The girls loved it and it successfully transformed the sober quiet boring girls into erratic slurring bimbos, and the sober slurring bimbos into turbo make-out maniacs.

    After 11 p.m., an over/under of fifteen couples could be seen making out on the dance floor at any given moment. Every male–we did let in guys who weren’t in the fraternity, although they rarely had any luck with girls–in attendance had two goals: 1) Get shitfaced, and 2) Get laid. Any guy who had different goals was either kicked out of the party or eventually sniffed out as a homosexual buffoon. Every female in attendance had three goals: 1) Get shitfaced, 2) Hook up, and 3) Dance. Any girl who had different goals became labeled as a prude angry dyke and was only allowed into future parties because she had hot friends who had realistic goals. The bros who lived at the house had a distinct advantage at getting laid over the out-of-house bros. After midnight, the party slowly migrated to the five units in the back where the real action took place. Doors mysteriously became locked, and sober girls frantically wandered around asking everyone, “Have you seen my friend?” We lied to “these” and told them to check the dance floor. Sometimes roommates had to use the room in “shifts” because they both brought a girl back. No orgies ever took place. Anyone who said, “College is one big orgy,” probably never went to a real college and just mimicked the words of some guy or girl they thought was cool. Although it was always easy to hook up at these parties, only a small handful of college girls were actually down for sex on the first night. Maybe I should have gone to a shittier college where the girls weren’t as educated. I probably would have gotten laid more. Either way, our house parties were epic.

    THE WALK OF SHAME

    After every party or “Tequila Tuesday,” at least one chick would always end up spending the night with a bro. These girls were idiots and never thought ahead. Instead of waking up early to sneak out, they would sleep until noon, and by the time they woke up, everyone in the house had already awoken and gathered on the front porch–the place anyone living at the house was required to walk through in order to leave–to discuss the events of the night. Of course, if a bro hooked up, that was always the first thing discussed. So it was no mystery if Chester took a girl back to his room and locked the door. It would be discussed. The girl would get brutally scrutinized by everyone. Then she would walk out of the room alone–or sometimes with the bro–to her car. She would walk through what became a hallway of smirks and held-back-laughs. It was always quiet. Maybe sometimes one of the more cordial bros would awkwardly mutter a “good morning.” That was it. She would walk by us; then we would all check out her ass; then she would round the corner to find her car; and then we discussed her some more. The bro would then join the circle. If she were ugly, he would remain quiet or act defensively, and tell us what was good about her. If she were hot, he would tell everyone how great his night was. Of course, no matter how hot she was, there were always one or two guys that would find a flaw about her and elaborate on the flaw. No one ever really “came out on top” from the walk of shame.

    Sometimes I wonder what life would be like right now if I had lived elsewhere those three years. I could have lived in an apartment with less people, but I reasoned that I’d have the rest of my life to do that. I only really had three or so years to live in a fraternity house. I reckon it was worth it.

  • The Bathroom Debacle

    The Bathroom Debacle

    My kindergarten class was at a daycare center called Children’s World. If you asked the staff they’d say I was well behaved. I participated in sing alongs even though I didn’t know what “eep eep eep eeples and beneneenes” were and why so many people liked to eat them. I raised two fingers in the air and put one over my lips when the counselors said “Signals on”. I marched in the single file line with everyone else. For the most part, with the exception of a few time outs, I was a good kid. That was all until the day I finally crossed the line.

    (more…)

  • -CHEERLEADERS!!! (Dave’s guide to the best sport ever: cheerleading)

    -CHEERLEADERS!!! (Dave’s guide to the best sport ever: cheerleading)

    Before we get to the guide, here is a quick history of cheerleading.

    A brief history of cheerleading:

    In 1953, a lonely Chinaman business owner named Dong Chin was in dire straits. His two largest clients had canceled their sizable plastics contracts, leaving Dong with an unprecedented surplus of vinyl. In a last-ditch effort to salvage an otherwise failing corporation, Dong hired Dick Callahan, an American business consultant. Callahan had had recent success with Topps, a US-based chewing gum company who heeded Dick’s suggestion to include small comic strips with each piece of gum. (Topps, with the success of their Bazooka Bubble Gum, went on to become the largest baseball card manufacturer, well-known for including semi-chewable pieces of flavored cardboard with each pack of cards).

    Dick and Dong concocted a clever scheme, built upon the success of Minnesotan yell leaders. Callahan named their idea “cheerleading.” Chin doubted that anyone would be dumb enough to pointlessly stand in front of a crowd at a sporting event facing away from the event, and he further couldn’t believe the notion that he would be able to rid himself of his extra vinyl by selling “pom poms,” the only man-made item more useless than toilet seat fluffies.

    Dong was wrong. The scheme, while simple, brought Dong’s near-bankrupt plastics company back to life and established Chin as Asia’s front-funning rubber and plastics manufacturer, earning him the moniker “Rubber Dong.” Much like the success of the Backstreet Boys, cheerleading turned from a far-fetched money-making scheme into a legitimate craze that exploded in popularity.

    “Rah, Rah, Rah! Ski-u-mah, Hoo-Rah! Hoo-Rah! Varsity! Varsity! Varsity, Minn-e-So-Tah!” -One of the first cheers, from the University of Minnesota, 1953. This pioneering yell was significant in that it put major holes in Darwin’s Theory.

    At first, cheerleading consisted of short, cockamamie chants and yells. If you don’t believe me, just look at that crap above. Over the years, cheers have gotten progressively more incredible and fascinating. Popular cheers today include “El ee tee ess gee oh, let’s go, let’s go,” which, contrary to its inherent message, leads nowhere. “I’ve got spirit” is another popular cheer. This informative cheer enlightens those of us dense enough to not realize that cheerleaders have “spirit” by virtue of the fact that they are cheerleaders to this captivating truism. As a matter of fact, “Spirit” is the only requisite of being a cheerleader, unless “not being fat” is considered a requisite too.

    There's no I in Spirt

    Cheerleading is the worst use of time and human energy since Esperanto. But, cheerleading provides something extra to ignore at sporting events, because drunken, hollering bumpkins are not enough. In fact, a troop of quadriplegic waterboys would have a more influential role in their team winning than cheerleaders do, but hey, pot-bellied schmucks need eye candy.

    In sports, a bunch of overgrown men fling around a ball of some sort. Scientists have no idea why, but this is entertaining to spectators; they will pay great sums of money to see it. Scientists also can’t figure out why if people don’t effectively cheer, athletes magically lose their physical agility. It is a proven fact that athletes’ abilities can be hindered and they become vulnerable without their athletic supporters. That is why we cheer!

    This is what happens without cheerleaders.

    If you think you have what it takes to be a great cheerleader, you’ll want to go to cheer camp, where cheerleader leader leaders teach cheerleaders to be cheerleader leaders.

    Cheer camp is a wondrous place where you can learn numerous useless skills, including (but not limited to):

    -Pom pom shaking

    -Spelling one-syllable words out loud

    -Makeup application

    -Kicking air in unison

    -Running to and from goalposts during extra points

    -Perching on one leg like a flamingo and screaming (simultaneously)

    -Performing one-arm pom pom military presses

    -Pom pom waving

    -Distinguishing defense from offense, so you don’t end up like this bimbo.

    -Being held and thrown in the air by guys who are weird enough to cheerlead

    His other outfit is a trenchcoat


    If your cheerleader leader leader is worth a shit, she will show you a few cheers in cheer camp. What makes these cheers unique is that every cheer camp teaches the same cheers, so they aren’t unique. Don’t worry if the cheers don’t make sense to you–cheer camp is a place to learn, not a place for asking questions. Cheerleading isn’t for everyone–camp will teach you that. If you lack spirit, or are getting fat, consider telemarketing. Cheerleaders can be morons, but “fat cheerleader” is an oxymoron.

    WHILE YOU ARE CHEERING:

    -Be el oh you dee LOUD!

    People aren’t interested in the sporting event they are attending, nor do they want to hear each other talk. They want to hear you. They need to cheer, don’t you see it? This is the reason that cheerleaders are closer to the crowd than the sporting event is. Shriek and chant loudly and in the highest pitch possible. Being good at a sport has nothing to do with athletic training or practice–those players need emotional support and asinine chants to inform them of the obvious, e.g. “BLOCK THAT KICK!” If you can’t think of anything good to chant or you forget how to speak, just shake your pom poms in the air. Due to their gratuitous nature, pom poms are great for distracting attention from the absurdity and pointless essence of cheerleading.

    -Being Gorgeous

    Contrary to popular belief, cheerleading has nothing to do with physical appearance. It’s all about supporting your sports team, and being there for them. But, since dolphins and cheerleaders are the most beautiful creatures on the planet, if you don’t have a blowhole and you want to be a cheerleader then you are obligated to be physically attractive at all times.

    -Be sure to smile.

    Smiling lets the crowd know that you truly enjoy standing around for three hours brandishing pom poms and occasionally jumping around. Always smile, even if “your” team is getting smoked. Your teeth should be whiter than xerox paper. It is imperative that you whiten your teeth at every opportunity. In fact, you should whiten your teeth to the point where they are almost clear in color. Your local drug store will carry Crest White Strips, which is the Mexican version of real $600 teeth whitening (the real deal). If you can’t afford the $600, get a new boyfriend. You will need to whiten your teeth every four to six weeks, or every 20 meals, whichever comes first. Note: most dentists will waive the fee for whitening if you “date” them.

    Whitening is expensive

    -Boobs!

    If you don’t have them, get them. If you can’t afford them, find a boyfriend who knows that it’s “what’s inside” that counts. Boobs are on the inside.


    Like lifting the Easter Bunny

    -Tan!

    The only thing more relaxing than farting in a hot tub is the tanning booth, or death. But hot tubs don’t make you tanner, and death actually makes you whiter, so hit the tanning salon, bitchez! Nothing is uglier than pasty cheerleaders. Fat cheerleaders would be uglier, but they don’t exist. The first time you hit the tanning salon, briefly lay in the booth (two hours is plenty), to get a “base tan.” The base tan is a fantastic mythical idea made up by the sunburnt. Being tan prevents skin cancer, a white-trash disease that ugly people contract from other ugly people. So if you are a little on the ugly side, best to get to a tanning salon, stat. If anyone asks why you tan so often, simply answer with the truth: it’s relaxing, and good for you.

    -Apply makeup. Then apply more.

    Makeup is a multi-trillion dollar industry for a reason. Skin blemishes or not, people do not want to see your skin. Find concealer that is at least two shades darker than your skin. Liberally apply it to your face and neck using a squeegee, or, if you are feeling crazy, fill a cereal bowl with makeup and stick your face right in there. Any patches of visible skin will be obvious, and shinier than the makeup. Quickly apply makeup to those problem areas before you become nauseous. Mascara is helpful for the following reasons: . Apply it anyway. You will know you have enough mascara on when all your eyelashes are clumped together, leaving only two to three lash clumps on each eyelid. Lip gloss will make your lips look wet, which is important for some unknown reason. Lastly, the only ridiculous thing about putting glitter on your face is how ridiculously hot and sparkly it will make you. Sparkles!


    Doing backflips can make you nauseous, which is great for losing weight.
    Even players want to look their best.

    -Being fat is not an option.

    EXTREMELY IMPORTANT: If you even think about considering yourself the slightest bit chubby, it is time to lose weight. Women, especially cheerleaders, tend to view themselves as more attractive than they actually are. And attractive means skinny. Fat people have to continuously buy different clothing because they outgrow their clothes. You need to be the opposite. Bulemia, anorexia, diet pills, and cocaine are all good ways to shed unwanted pounds. Be cautious when using cocaine–it is expensive. If any girls on the team are skinnier than you, it means you are fatter than them. Do not eat. Find a coke dealer.

    Natural beauty from India.

    -Hair extensions are not mandatory, but you will be ostracized without them.

    It’s simple math: beautiful woman – woman = hair. Your hair is ugly. Purchased hair is not. That is why it is expensive and yours is free, and why hair salons are California’s biggest cash crop. Hair extensions are from India, where genetics are better. In fact, India is tied for the highest population per capita in the world. It is no wonder that the hair those Indians produce is the same hair from Pantene commercials. Your hair should be shiny and long, and in no way resemble your original hair color or waviness. Just compare the before and after pictures of this cheerleader:

    BEFORE Extensions
    AFTER Extensions

    -Flip Your Wig

    Nobody cares that you have a bangin’ body; they are only looking at your hair. Well, not necessarily your hair, but the hair you own, on your head. During cheers, you should be maniacally jumping around and bouncing. During this time, your hair must be whipping around at great speeds, since this, not your tits or ass, is what guys look at. If you see anyone interested in any part of your body other than your hair, you must immediately flip, fling, and touch your hair (and the extensions).

    See how stupid she looks without flipping her hair!

    Stockings are a Must

    -Stockings

    Wear them. If you are lucky you might be mistaken for one of the Hooters Girls, who were somehow considered sexy during the ’80s. Like makeup, the goal with stockings is to have no natural part of your body exposed. God made man, man made woman, and then God and Maybelline collaboratively made makeup and accessories so women could finally be attractive. Nothing natural is beautiful, or how would plastic surgeons be in business? As a bonus, stockings will keep you warm during night games and prevent accidental tampon launches during high kicks.

    Tramp Stamp Removal: $350

    -Attire

    Cheerleading outfits have greatly transformed since the days of skirts and skimpy tops. Just kidding. Pretty much anything goes for cheerleading outfits these days, as long as the outfit is revealing and looks too small. Normal chicks only have Halloween to dress like a complete whore, but you have this opportunity every single game. Regardless of how skimpy your uniform is or how much attention you receive as a result of wearing it, it is of vital importance that you bitch and moan about how ugly the uniforms are and how you wish they weren’t so skimpy.

    This Woman has Great Nipples

    -Personality

    Once you are a cheerleader, personality is key. Pretend to understand things that you don’t understand, like body language, nutrition, and men. Telling someone that you can “read body language” is very persuasive in their understanding you as an intelligent being. The great news is that you don’t actually have to read body language, you just need to say you can. Also, the only thing you need to know about nutrition is that sweets taste good, and that celery has “negative calories.” Can you believe it!?! That means that if we were to drop huge loads of celery over impoverished parts of Africa, they would eat it, and it would be genocide! This amazing factoid, not your tits, will make you the life of the party, and guys will pay attention to you and appreciate your hair. Did you know that celery has no carbs and zero grams of trans fat?

    The only sport where cheerleaders cheer but have no cheerleaders.

    There you have it. As you can see, cheerleading is no easy lifestyle. But, if you follow this guide, you may have what it takes to be the best. And, if you practice hard enough and exhibit enough spirit, your cheer team could qualify to be in a cheer competition!

    Now that you have read all about being a cheerleader, take the quiz below, which will accomplish nothing.

    CHEER QUIZ: Which of these is a real cheerleader?

    Answer: Only the fifth one. #1 needs a nose job. #2 is obviously too fat. #3 has no hair extensions. #4 is male. (An easy way to tell is that 1-4 all have their belt buckles slightly off-center with their vaginas [imperfect]), while 5 has hers smack center over her fishhole.