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  • My First Vegas Girl

    I used to save money. I thought bars were pointless because beers were more expensive. I didn’t understand why anyone would pay fourteen bucks for two beers when they could get a twelve-pack for the same price. I’d also freak out when I had to use my credit card and if I spent more than $10 on a meal. After all, a meager bank account was surely the sole ingredient to homelessness and misery. One day, while wandering through a grungy Las Vegas nightclub, I had an epiphany, and I became liberated.

    Locke and I drove to Vegas on a weekend in late August. I pathetically lost $400 playing craps as soon as I arrived, and it nearly ruined my Friday night. With just $40 left for the entire trip, Locke called me a moron and told me we were going out regardless.

    We chose a watered down club called The Beach. The $10 cover was 25% of my entire wallet. When I got inside, I was dead sober, and when Locke asked if I wanted a drink, I refused. I couldn’t afford the next round. Not content to be a boring wingman, he bought himself some drinks while I waded through mobs of skittish guys and self-conscious women, suddenly realizing I was a combination of both. At that moment it hit me. What the fuck was I doing? Here I was, at a nightclub, on a Friday night, on vacation, and I was saving my money.

    I stopped in my tracks and opened up my wallet. $30. But I had a credit card. I had maxed out my last two credit cards, but this one had several hundred dollars left on it. Fuck it. I took out the card and began a legendary walk to the bar, ready to expand my debt. In that moment I had made a decision to live my life. I stood at the bar, ordered two beers, and radiated in my personal triumph. I sipped on one of my beers and held them both proudly in my hands like tiny beacons of immortality.

    An epic buzz overtook my soul. I walked around the club like a king. I hit on chicks. I got rejected. I hit on more chicks. I got rejected. My smile remained; I was unstoppable. Beneath the shimmering lights of cheap disco balls, I finally…got it.

    I met Chloe, a tall slim brunette, in the smoking area outside. Locke and I sat down in a chair and started talking to her and her friend. We started things off with a, “So, have you guys been out here all night?” It was weak, but it really didn’t matter because the moment I sat down in that chair, I could tell Chloe was attracted to me. Staring and smiling at me ardently, Chloe took a couple pictures of me within two minutes after sitting down. Chloe was mine. Unfortunately, Locke was heading for a dead end with her slutty friend whose droopy face just oozed “I have a boyfriend and I’m going to try and be faithful this time.”

    Chloe was obligated to her hopeless friend, so going home with them was out of the question. I got her number, and my revolutionary buzz had entered tired-drunk mode. Locke and I left and returned to the hotel to pass out.

    I awoke the next day a liberated man. My credit card had saved me. I had confidence that my future self would work hard enough to have a good job that would one day pay off the debt. After all, if I couldn’t spend money, then I couldn’t spend my time. And if I couldn’t spend my time, my life would be wasteful and uninteresting. At any rate, I called Chloe around two p.m. She sounded boring on the phone, but I didn’t read too much into it. I made plans to meet at her house at nine.

    Since I had no cash, I spent the day at the sportsbook watching TV. Locke wasn’t much of a gambler, and he didn’t really care what we did. I told him about my plans for the night, and he said he could party with one of his Vegas buddies. 

    The drive to Chloe’s house was a nightmare. Her directions led me to a fucking mountain, and we ended up driving fifteen miles in the wrong direction. Locke was about ready to give up on this chick and have me find a cab, even though I’d told him Chloe had a friend staying at her house, who was, “down to fuck.” He managed a little enthusiasm, and we finally arrived at her house after the irritating detour.

    Dressed in a skimpy white top, Chloe was waiting for us on the porch. The whale sitting next to her looked like John Candy with a wig. Locke got one quick look and said, “Aww FUCK THAT.” I got out of the car and tried not to laugh, and he zoomed away, making it known he was angry and afraid. I joined the girls and cordially shook hands with Ms. Candy.

    We hung out on the porch for a bit, and Chloe played footsie with me while Ms. Candy told us stories about her ex-boyfriend. I could tell Chloe had heard these stories at least ten times, but she fake listened to try and keep me interested. I acted amused, but when there was finally a break in the stories, I suggested we go inside.

    We went to Chloe’s bedroom to watch Space Balls. Predictably, Ms. Candy followed us into the room and sat on a chair to watch the movie with us. With no regard for the friend’s presence, Chloe and I started making out. A few minutes later, Ms. Candy got out of her chair declaring, “Um, you shouldn’t make out while other people are in the room!” She stormed out, slammed the door, and Chloe and I both chuckled.

    We got naked, and I asked if she had any condoms. From the bathroom, she brought out this little container full of “wild and crazy,” as she called them, condoms. They were all sorts of colors, but she picked out a jet-black one for me. I put it on and, feeling somewhat like a dildo, penetrated her. My dick looked foreign in its bizarre wrap, but I got over it quickly and we had a good fuck.

    I spent the night, and we had another go round in the morning. Conveniently, Locke showed up twenty minutes later. He was on whale watch, so he stayed in his car honking his horn repeatedly. Chloe and I exchanged info; I gave her a kiss goodbye; and Locke and I drove off.

    An hour into our drive home, Chloe called me. I was wary but answered. “Hey, what are you doing?” The way she said it, it was as if she’d been dating me for a year.

    “Um, driving home, what about you?”

    “I’m at Waterworld with my friend. I was just thinking about you,” she replied. She’d just entered psycho status. After some more routine questions and comments related to hunger and sleep, I ended the call and deleted her number immediately.

    Eight months passed. One Saturday night after several drinks, I received a call from a 702 number. It was Chloe. Since I was buzzed, I embraced the drunken conversation. We talked about fucking and what she was going to do to me the next time she saw me. Etcetera. Alcohol has a funny way of filtering out the psycho traits of chicks. The phone call gave me a hard-on, and I even re-saved her phone number. 

    A month later, our fraternity was having its annual formal dance at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. The room prices were astronomical, so I decided that I’d spend one night with Chloe. She was unattractively excited to hear from me, and when I told her I was staying with her, she creamed herself. Whatever, it was saving me $150 and guaranteed me of a night of long-awaited sex. I deduced it was worth it, even if she was a psycho.

    I arrived at her house late Friday night after a delayed seven-hour drive. I felt grimy from the drive but really didn’t feel too self-conscious considering it was only Chloe. I parked my car in guest parking and walked to her new apartment a couple blocks down. I was horny and ready to get down to business the moment I got there. She had given me terrible directions again. In and out of phone contact for twenty minutes, I probably walked over a mile through a mysterious greenbelt to look for her fucking apartment. Just as I reached the apex of my frustration, I looked up and saw a large pale figure walking out onto the grass some 200 feet away. Oh no. I was on the verge of panicking but figured there was no way that was her. When the figure waved in my direction, I looked behind me. Nothing. She was waving at me. It was Chloe.

    Noooooooo! What the fuck?! It had only been eight months! How in the hell did Chloe go from a slim cutie to bathtub blimp? The closer I got to her, the worse it got. And now one of her two front teeth was crooked. What had happened to this girl? She must have been auditioning for the sequel to the movie Super Size Me. Or she and Ms. Candy had found a magic skull, put both their hands on it, and switched bodies. There was no physical explanation for this.

    I gave her an expanded hug. I was in for a long night. As soon as we got inside, I immediately demanded alcohol, my preferred medicine to blur the view. I pounded a beer instantly while she looked at me nervously. “Sorry, it was a long drive,” I explained and asked if she had any Captain Morgan. Even though I’m not even a fan of hard alcohol, I figured it would work faster. She only had an ancient bottle of cheap vodka that looked like it had once been on a pirate ship. I took two shots and she took one. I was still sober.

    I grabbed a couple more beers and made a rare pre-hook-up walk of shame into her room where I saw a small bulletin board with about eight photos; two of them were of me! One depicted Locke and me at a table at the nightclub from eight months ago. The other was of just me. My stomach knotted, and a sudden rush of fear overwhelmed me. I began to ponder the expectations that had been placed on me, and had steadily been building for the past eight months. Did she expect to date me? Did she expect me to move in? Did she want a sperm sample for her next child? These pictures had been here for eight months! And I was supposed to fuck in this place! I was finishing my beers in four sips, maximum. We talked painfully, while I continued to booze.

    I sat on her bed like a seven-year-old at the dentist’s office waiting for a root canal. I finally felt a sufficient buzz, so we undressed, and I paid my dues. She sucked my dick and got me hard enough to fuck. I was disappointed she only had normal condoms this time; I was hoping to wear a purple one. After ten minutes of softy sex, I had her suck me off, and it ended. I told her I was tired and wanted to pass out, but she tried to cuddle and it got worse.

    It was a one-sided cuddle session:

              “All the people at work are gonna be asking me how my night was,” she said plaintively.

              “Why?” I asked.

              “Because they all know about you.”

              I was silent.

              “Do you want to go to Lego Land with me tomorrow?”

              “I can’t. I have to go to a dance.”

    Moments later: “Do you think I got fat?”

              “No, you look the same.”

              “When do I get to see you again?”

              “I don’t know. We’ll see.”

              Pause and then, “So I was thinking…what if I moved out to Orange County so I could be closer to you?”

              Oh my God.

              “But you barely know me. I don’t think it would be a good idea.” It took everything in me to not sound irritated and frightened. “I really need to get some sleep,” I told her, and she finally stopped. I passed out ten minutes later after lying there in silent fear. I’m pretty sure I had bad dreams that night.

    I set my phone alarm for eight a.m. I didn’t hit snooze. I hopped out of bed and got dressed. Fast. I told her I’d call her, said a quick goodbye, and exited the House of Horrors.

    I had my Saturday ahead of me. On my walk back to my car, I checked my wallet. I was going on my fourth credit card. I looked at my wallet, and then looked back at Chloe’s apartment. I never felt so free.

  • Emotionally Unstable Prospective Juror

    Emotionally Unstable Prospective Juror

    I love jury duty and jury duty loves me.  Almost every year, I receive a summons in the mail and my stomach flutters with butterflies as my service date approaches.  I don’t really understand the love connection- maybe it’s the cubby I call home in the business center off in the distant corner with the business men; maybe it’s the idea of an 8-5 day that I’m not used to; maybe it’s the rush of being in a court room around a uniformed bailiff?  I can’t pin point the reason, all I know is that there are sparks.

    Today, I write this from jury duty.  My report center is in Ventura because I never legally changed my residency from my parents’ house.  Maybe because it’s expected that I’ll move back one day or maybe because I’d rather report to gentle Ventura than rough downtown Los Angeles. 

    My first time at jury duty, the lawyers picked me to be on a jury.  The case didn’t deem anything substantial, just a simple statute of limitations lawsuit.  However, the experience, both one of unique fascination and significant learning, resonated in my soul and forever left me craving this civic obligation.

    My third time, they called me for a panel and I thought “if there’s one type of case I can’t handle, it’s a drunk driving case.”  I hate drunk drivers for very personal reasons, no offense to probably most of you, and I just knew that my mind would swing negatively regardless of the case.  Lo and behold, the trial involved a drunk driver who blew a .07 but got arrested anyway.  Well, when the judge began the interview process with me, in front of approximately 100 common folk, I became flustered and emotional and started crying.

    “You clearly do not have the emotional capacity for this case,” the judge scrutinized.  “Although, I’m sure you do realize the driver wasn’t actually drunk.  Either way, you are excused. Please leave the court room.”

    My heavy boots and I made the sluggish walk of shame down the hall to the exit.  I didn’t look back…why would I? My vision…blocked by tears.

    "I do now…."

    This time, I received my summons and replied enthusiastically despite the emotional debacle of yesteryear.   As the date approached, I realized that I conflicted my jury week with a trip to Vegas for my sister’s 21st birthday.  So I called to reschedule and the kind woman let me know that I had 90 days to set a new date- that would be mid December.

    The 90 days rushed at me like the dickens!!!  And I had to set a date quickly.  The new lady on the phone’s rude diction jilted me and my adoration for the process.  “You failed to appear almost 90 days ago. What do you want?”

    “Well, geez.  I want to set a date.  I love jury duty so much. I don’t know why you’re being so rude”

    She scoffed and led herself to the end of the call, “Next Tuesday. It’s your last chance.”

    I spent the night at my parent’s house last night to alleviate the morning commute.  The dog woke me up at 4:30 am to excuse his morning bowels and I simply could not fall back asleep.

    On minimal sleep, I arrived at the government center.  Initially, the security guard scolded me for entering through the wrong security line.  I also ignored the “do not place food through xrays” and did so with my apple and peanut butter snack pack.

    During the orientation, a woman talked about lunch protocol and stupid past jurors who did bone-head things including driving to Santa Barbara for lunch or venturing to Olive Garden because they use a ‘page system’ to call waiting patrons to their table (“stay within the page system, we are instructed as jurors). I ignored the majority of speech (being a veteran, I didn’t need to hear it) and texted instead.

    “This woman is talking to us like we’re 7 years old,” I complained to a friend.

    “Well, that’s because 90% of the people there have a brain capacity of that age,” my friend countered.

    “Good point. Pshhh”   

    Roll call for the first panel quickly occurred and the lady called my name.  I didn’t pay attention to the room number I had to report to, so I instead followed the crowd to the one piece of information I had heard: “floor four”.  Then I led myself to the restroom where I lollygagged for a few minutes.  Then I emerged from the bathroom to find 100 new people in the hall.  I stood in front of courtroom 45 but didn’t recognize anyone, so I asked the guy next to me if they called more than one panel.  He said no, which relieved me while I sat down to wait and eat my radiating apple.

    Twenty minutes passed when I finally saw the familiar faces…Unfortunately, they surfaced not from the waiting crowd, but from courtroom 47.  I realized that I missed my calling while popping my chin zit in the bathroom.  Sweat began to trickle under my arm and confusion rushed through my brain…I rushed downstairs.

    Exiting the elevator, I heard the voice of god talking to me “Danielle Bar-nabe please report to the jury services window immediately!!”

    “Shit…shit…oh…shit….” I said with every step until I reached the window.  “Hi…I’m Danielle…you just called me.” 

    “Get over here!”

    “Oh my. Of course. Where? Where’s the door? Let me in.”

    I entered the Jury Service office where five people glared at me from their desks.

    “Can I just say, I’m mortified.  This really is embarrassing. I was in the hallway the whole time eating my apple and peanut butter snack, but in front of the wrong court room.”  Subtle tears welled up in my eyes.

    “You realize young lady, we’re probably gonna reschedule you,” she commanded.  “Now wait here.”

    “Of course you should reschedule me!!! I’m an idiot! I deserve this!!!”

    She stopped dead in her track and turned to me with tender eyes.  “Really?”

    “Well, of course!  I clearly didn’t follow the rules…I’m just so embarrassed!”

    She continued her path and brought back a burly man of important stature.

    “Get this girl a tissue! She has tears!”

    As I dabbed my humiliated eyes, he lectured me how the judge, the lawyers and all the prospective jurors waited for me to enter the courtroom.  They waited 15 minutes.  “Maybe she’s in the restroom?”  “Maybe she got lost?” 

    He enlightened me with a guilt trip, “I called your cell and you didn’t answer.  We needed you in there promptly.”

    “I know sir.  I ignored the call because I didn’t recognize the number.  I’m truly embarrassed.  I cried last time I was here too.. Oh, Ms.! Please don’t tell this story during orientation.  That would just kill me!  Although I deserve it.”

    At that point, the whole office sat with chuckles.  They let me off with a warning and promised not to reschedule me because of my blunt honesty and tears. 

    Now I sit in the business center next to an 18-year-old girl who I befriended at lunch who was being stalked by an 70-year-old man, both of us hiding from reality…and tucking ourselves far from the man snoring abruptly in the room next door.

    I now hate jury duty…and I’m hopeful that jury duty hates me.

  • The Other Side of “The Most Scared I Have Ever Been”

    The Other Side of “The Most Scared I Have Ever Been”

    A year ago I posted a story about The Most Scared I Have Ever Been which recounts a night when I was the victim of an incredible practical joke that could only be compared to a Food and Drug Administration raid on an organic chicken house not giving their constituents enough sunlight and/or over starched chicken feed. Well my story was very one sided, but fortunately one of the “raiders” has been kind enough to send us his version of the story. Thank you so much Joe. (Joe is also infamously known in the first haircut bet.) Please enjoy Joe’s story as much as I did.

    (more…)

  • Why My Dad Hates Street Luging

    Why My Dad Hates Street Luging

    At the age of 16, my adrenal gland was raging at 170% capacity and was regularly known to spew out the back of my neck. I was the designated bike jump tester, my (mom’s) truck had been to the vertical extreme several times before I crashed into two parked police dirt bikes in the middle of the hills, my face was pocked with copper BB rounds from the eye-protection-free BB gun wars we had behind my house, I almost dropped all my money in semi professional paint balling, surfing, snowboarding, hiking, mountain biking, snow fights, judo, and most pertinent to this story… street luging. Here is how I lost all the skin on the left side of my body.

    (more…)

  • For Sale: Ball Breaking Speed. $5000

    For Sale: Ball Breaking Speed. $5000

    And to those who do not have balls to be broken… labial lip flapping velocity. This Suzuki GSXR600 will change you, and anything you choose to put on top of it, into a long stretch of blur as you dart through the endless traffic of life.

    Just imagine this rumbling between your legs.

    With only 12,000 miles in five years and a new rear tire and chain, you can be sure that your next Saturday and Sunday will be wasted in “advanced” traffic school because you thought it to be normal to wheelie over a bump in the middle of the intersection and catching air in front of Costa Mesa’s finest, who was quite rightly upset and very vocal.

    I have replaced the rear assembly with an illegally low profile version which will surely be a hit with the cop after you weave through traffic down a curved hill in Newport Beach.

    The brakes are immaculate and will Wow any onlooker as you pull over so fast that the cop has to park in front of you, then roll down his window, and wave you in front of him.

    And finally the piste de resistance, frame sliders attached to both the left and right side to ensure that your trip to 178mph, after you happen to merge onto the 73 freeway at the same time your competitive bastard of a friend is passing by instigating an immediate drag race to Bison, will be as safe as humanly possible.

    For $5,000 you can guarantee to be the fastest thing on the road at any given time. No one passes you, and if they try, you make sure to show your disapproval as you front wheelie stall up to the drivers side window at 90mph and look over at him with your blacked out skull helmet. Your dominance of the road will be instilled without question or resistance.

    Check it out at CycleTrader.com or email me at [email protected].

  • Once Upon a Baby Jesuses

    Once Upon a Baby Jesuses

    April Fools’ Day has narrowly inched its way to become my favorite holiday (Christmas is a very close second).  I wake up on that day, every year with the same enthusiasm as I once did on Christmas morning.

    The jolt of April Fools joy reminds me of when my little feet would scamper down the stairs passing the presents and filled stockings for evidence of leftover cookie crumbs Santa Claus missed or possibly touched with his own hand, awing at the fact that the Master of Gifts set foot in my house.  Except now, specifically when I still lived at my parents’ house (ehhmmm..6 months ago), I run down the stairs to ensure the rubber band securing the push button on the kitchen sink’s spray hose had not been tampered with so that my father would get sprayed while innocently attempting to wash his hands. 

    Oh, the delight of pranks.  I am moved by the idea of a successful hoax, but seldom do I execute one without excruciating remorse. Yah, it’s hilarious knowing that my dad will be sprayed with water at 5 a.m., but shit! Does that mean he’ll have to change his suit?  I’m sorry dad.

    There is one woman, a master of tom foolery that I will forever admire for her witty tricks.  One trick in particular that delighted me so, combining both of my darling holidays into one crazy night.

    It came upon a midnight clear, several days before Christmas, when Jenny and her friend discussed a peculiar pattern that itched at their nerves- manger scenes scattered about her fellow residents’ yards had baby Jesus peacefully lying in his crib…before Christmas Day!

    They discussed the story of the birth of baby Jesus and concluded that the community is partaking in sacrilegious behavior possibly unbeknownst to them.  Jenny’s memory recalled that her mother, thank baby Jesus, waits until Christmas to place the holy doll in his hay-cushioned bed, and leading up to that day hides him in a serene spot somewhere in the house still immaculately, and theoretically, kicking away in his Mother Mary’s womb…rightfully so!

    They contemplated how to teach the small town how to respect the story of Christmas. Send out a newsletter?  Too boring!  Throw eggs at the manger scenes? Too cruel!  Forget about it completely? Too weak!   

    And finally, genius sparked…the moment of truth struck both of their minds…the plan, so obvious…so brilliant…and so true to the birth of Jesus…

    On Christmas Eve, Jenny and four friends dressed in dark colors, hopped in a Jeep and traveled from home to home, swiping swaddled styrofoam, Cabbage Patch, metal or plastic mannequin infants from their cradled cots, replacing them with lesson-filled notes:

    “Do not worry for baby Jesus is not gone! He is just not born yet. You can find your dear Jesus at Our Lady of Perpetual Peace church on his birthday.  —Sincerely, your friendly neighborhood Jew.”

    WRONG!!!

     They filled the car with 15-20 baby Jesuses, all innocently stacked on top of each other, driving away from their ruthless premature births.  Some houses had to be overlooked due to grassy inclines, barking dogs and to Jenny’s utter dismay- inn keepers who had either bolted down baby Jesus or wired him with lights,  “What is the world coming to?!” she questioned at the thought of a twinkling savior.

     

    On their way home, they pulled to the side of the road because the trunk had not been closed, probably due to a speedy and excited departure from the final house.  They wiggled the dolls that dwelled in the orphanage trunk, making sure each little baby had a secure spot, they shut the door and then noticed a cop car pulling up next to them.  In eye shot, several of baby Jesuses rested in the back seat.  The cops asked the standard “where did you come from?”  “were you drinking?” “blah blah blah” questions.  Having just stole Christ from houses around town, they fibbed…to the cop…explaining that the designated driver felt a possible flat tire and pulled over to check and that they would proceed home to their families for holiday celebration.  The “man” believed them and set them and the clan of Jesuses free, unscathed and unnoticed. 

    RIGHT!!!

     

    Instead of returning home, of course, they continued to Our Lady of Perpetual Peace, as promised on the notes, and placed the pile of babies underneath a statue of their dear Mother Mary. 

    The next day, Jenny’s prank riddled her conscious, not because of the guilt of borrowing from manger scenes across town; not because she shammed a police office; but because she did not want to be prosecuted for preserving the Word.  She confessed to only a few luckies of her flawless endeavor and although her nerves burdened her, she couldn’t have been prouder of her accomplishment had she tried. 

    The newspapers and local news channels caught wind of the Jesuses-nappings and the town unified in the wonderment of “Who would do such a thing? Sick thieves!” 

    If they only knew a mastermind of brilliant pranks and a teacher stood behind the swiping of each baby Jesus- a woman who simply favored the education of those otherwise careless beings- simple townspeople who stood oblivious to one of life’s most precious stories. 

    My plan this year is to muster up the courage and strength to perform duties such as this, to lie to a cop and then rejoice in a victorious/remorseless prank!!!  For the sake of Christmas, for the sake of pranksters and most importantly to honor a woman of upmost brilliance, unrivaled valor and incredible wit- Ms. Jenny S.

    Her and her friends’ identity remained concealed and the town would forever, hopefully, remember and respect the actual timeline of baby Jesus.

  • BRIAN vs LUKE vs DAVE: The Post of Christmas Past

    BRIAN vs LUKE vs DAVE: The Post of Christmas Past

    CHALLENGE

    “Thursday Threat” -where we pit author versus author (or in this case author vs. author vs. author) in a challenging game of mesmerizing malarky and wit flavored mumbo jumbo. An author will select a prompt, write a 300 word or barely less response to that prompt (or in this case NOT write one but challenge the others to use their active-word vocabulary to write one), and then send this bundle to a challenger(s). The challenger(s) will then be expected to reply or live in shame and sudden cultural abandonment. Winner is decided by the sudden fan fare we expect them to receive.

    I, Danielle Burner, am not participating because I want to challenge these men on a technique I already utilize.  This is meant to hopefully enhance their story telling.

    The Prompt

    Write (don’t draw it) a true story from Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Holiday past without using the words “was”  “have” and “were”.  May the best writer, with a keen sense of active words, win.

    Merry Christmas to all and to all a good fight.

    ——————-THE AUTHOR’S RESPONSES———————-

    DAVE’S RESPONSE

    I am happy. Santa had come. A Nintendo, calculator watch, and remote control car top the list that will go down as the greatest day of my life. For someone who’s already lived 2,531 days, this is huge for me.

    The most underrated Christmas gifts, however, are the stocking goodies. While I believe in Santa, for some reason I’ve always known my mom stuffs the stockings. One gift I’m fascinated with is a red slimer jelly monster–the kind that stick to walls. This particular monster resembles an octopus and has extra stringy legs, too skinny for a squid but too thick for an insect, which expand to create an eight-inch diameter if completely stretched.

    Because I am convinced that the best humor is in observing people’s reactions to the mysterious or unusual, I shall use this monster to scare my sister, an innocent young chap of four years. I slink upstairs while she doesn’t see me and strategically smack Slimer onto her wall, carefully sticking all six legs at max distance. Her walls are completely white, not a single poster. The monster stands out like a shark in a swimming pool. It is my toy and even I am scared of it, and I’m like four years older than her.

    I wait.

    My sister finally bounces up the stairs, glowing in the wake of her fourth Christmas. I slither around in my room, waiting for her to find my surprise. The moment she walks in she stops. Because she is stupid, she doesn’t run and tell mommy. Curious, she begins talking to herself, “Wus that?” I creep up and curl my head around her door. She inches her way closer, still murmuring to herself, “Wus that?”

    Once she reaches the one-foot mark, she begins to reach out to the monster, at which point I make a disturbing noise. It sounds like a blend between an oink and loogie-hock. My sister jumps and begins bawling like a baby.

    I retreat back to my room just before she flees to tell papa. “Dave put a monster in my room!” I hear her wail downstairs. I lay in bed and laugh. Then my dad stomps into my room and spanks the crap out of me. Whatever, at least I have Nintendo.

    BRIAN’S RESPONSE

    I wore a sparkling silver long sleeve shirt with a matching hood and grey spandex tights. I waited anxiously backstage for my cue. In the annual church Christmas play, I always managed to get the lead part. Not because I possessed any acting chops, but because I could memorize the shit out of my lines. At church camp, they gave everyone bare necklaces and handed out beads for us to decorate them with for various accomplishments. Kids would get them for hitting bullseye’s in archery, or winning water balloon tosses, or participating in nature hikes. I received most of mine for reciting bible verses.

    I practiced my introduction song quietly, trying not to think about what just happened. Having your friends burst into uncontrollable laughter after seeing you in costume is not something you want to dwell on, especially moments before going on. Just a few days ago, I had on white spandex-like pants and knee high socks. No one seemed to find that funny. Put a baseball mitt in your hand and all is forgiven.

    “Peter Pan wore tights.” One of the older girls told me after I nervously stepped out of the dressing room and faced the snickering.

    “Oh gee, none of these seem right, what ever are we going to do?” a future thespian voiced from the stage. The lights dimmed and sharp beams of color zipped around the room, making the audience feel like they entered a giant game of laser tag. I jumped into the spotlight and belted out my opening line.

    “Greetings earthlings! I am G.T. the Christmas martian!  I’m here to help you find the perfect Christmas card!”

    LUKE’S RESPONSE

    I saw the signal and began bellowing “HO HO HO” and waving my lantern from side to side. I winced at the ornately covered pillow as it scratched and pulled my stomach hair and forced me to sweat despite the two feet of snow on the ground coming over the top of my green gardening boots. I entered the house leaving a trail of mud on the fine carpet. I wondered if the white tampon cotton still obscured my dark eyebrows as sweat poured over my brow. I gestured to my aunt to wipe the liquid clear before it hit the lipstick rosiness of my cheeks. I took my throne and requested/demanded my whisky and cookies as the little elf boy wearily approached to take his seat on my knee. While merrily chastising the adults for keeping the heater so high and contributing to the global warming destroying my house, I tugged on the see through red pants that could not repel my acidic body juices. The little elf boy got right close to my face and stared deep into my eyes assessing if indeed I could be the magical gift giving man. I glared back and pointed to the other side of the room to make him look away as I lifted my beard to swig from the crystal glass of Glen Livet. He turned back to find me holding a santa helper hat that I offered him and as fast as the wily Rudolph himself, the suspicious set of eyes disappeared. In their place appeared the beacons of joy atop a face that would power any quantum powered present delivering sled for the rest of eternity. The elf and I brought a holiday cheer to the room that night that will be as timeless as my annual circumnavigation.

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  • Fair Trade Meets Wake Up Coffee Company

    Fair Trade Meets Wake Up Coffee Company

    His words were always rife with thought and significance and continue to be so in his current endeavors. From the dearly beloved Charles Pearson who was a past author here at OurThursday…

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  • The Time I Almost Ran Over My Girlfriend

    I couldn’t take my eyes off the dance floor. A pair of legs kicked in the air, accompanied by a flailing skirt and a half screaming, half laughing sound. Brandy attempted the “dip” but failed the second part of the move where your partner is supposed to bring you back up. She lay with her back flat on the ground and her feet bicycle kicking the air as if she mocked Madonna circa the “Like a Virgin” tour. I followed her heels, down to the back of her thighs, down to her two ass cheeks that jiggled around like an unbroken water balloon dropped on the floor. My friend Ryan and I observed this drunken spectacle from a nearby table with my girlfriend Laci. I looked over to see if she caught me leering, then gave a fake laugh like the time I got my first lap dance and the stripper told me her boobs were too big for her bra.

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  • Rodman

    Rodman

             On Christmas day 2006, I headed back to Newport from my parents’ house because I had to wake up early the next morning to coach a frosh-soph basketball game. Vince texted me saying he wanted to go to Malarkey’s that night. I was on Christmas break for two weeks. Why not? Vince, Jett, and Laura met at my house to drink a couple before heading out. Not expecting much, we’d go to any bar that was open. 

              Malarkey’s sucked. There were eight dudes and two chicks sitting on stools. We stayed there twenty minutes before Laura suggested going to Woody’s, which sounded like a much better idea. Woody’s was an upgrade, but nothing too spectacular on this warm Christmas night.
              Just before midnight, Vince approached me on the outside smoking patio, “Hey, Rodman’s here.” This news was nothing special for us considering we’d seen the guy all the time at Sutra. I walked inside to find him chatting with a small group of guys, all appeared to be single and in their late thirties, cigarette boxes in their shirt pockets. Rodman was wearing a loud, black and red 2006-pre-Affliction shirt and tight pants; his bleached hair peeked from under a gray Von Dutch hat. I was tired and on the verge of leaving, but just as I was about to walk out of the door, I saw a Barbie-doll blonde girl with a chipmunk smile standing next to the bathroom door facing the exit, beckoning for someone to talk to her. She looked like a vulnerable deer. I approached her and asked, “Why are you waiting here? The bar’s over there.”

              She replied, “I’m just standing here.” Yeah, no shit.

              I decided to engage her in conversation, but her answers were painfully lame. 

    Question: “What’s up with all the bracelets?”

    Answer: “I like them.”

    Question: “I like your earrings. Why are they so dangly?”

    Answer: “I don’t know. I got them at Southcoast.” 
     

    Question: “Why are you wearing all white? Did you used to live in Alaska?”

    Answer: “No, I grew up here.” (She still hadn’t cracked a smile.)

    Question: “Where are you from?” (After I said this, I realized she had just told me. Luckily, it didn’t matter. She was either too dumb or too drunk to notice my poor listening skills.)

    Answer: “Orange County.”

    Question: “Who are you here with?”

    Answer: “My mom.”

             I was getting nowhere–besides her agonizingly dull answers, she hadn’t asked me a single question. Yet, I got the feeling this interchange wasn’t a dead end. Something in this chick’s eyes was screaming for a Christmas fuck. A group of people entered the bar, so I turned around to catch a glimpse of the entourage. When I turned back around, her face was a centimeter in front of mine, landing me a wet kiss. We made out for the next five minutes. She tasted like vodka, but she was hot, and I enjoyed her holiday spirit. Then she took my hand and led me to the other side of the bar because she wanted to introduce me to her mom. 

              Barbie looked like she was twenty-five, and her mom looked like her older sister, maybe thirty-five. I discovered that her mom was with Rodman. When Barbie introduced me to her mom, she faked a smile as she shook my hand. Barbie then introduced me to Rodman, who shook my hand and started squeezing, which he continued to do for the next ten seconds. My smile transformed into a grimace, and I tried to pull away. With a beaming smile on his face, he let go and said, “Nah, I’m just playin,’ man.” He laughed and when he faced me, our eyes locked. “Hey, man, careful, that’s her mom,” he said sternly, motioning with his head to Barbie’s mother. I appreciated his warning, but it was a risk I was willing to take.
              The four of us went out in the alley to drink and make out. Barbie made out with me even though her mom was with Rodman three feet away. I had to pee. So did Rodman. We both felt an urge to act like tough guys, so we pissed over the railing and into the bushes behind it. Maybe it was my fault for allowing myself to feel dwarfed by his superstardom, but my dick felt like a triple-A battery next to his horsecock (I didn’t actually see his wiener, but innocent urinators like myself can assume he’s packing serious volume). I got stage fright and stood there with my dick in my hand, a pathetic display of masculinity. Dennis Rodman didn’t notice my botched attempt at urinating, but a random smoker in the corner did. He laughingly commented, “What’s the matter, pal?” I let out a quick chuckle and meekly replied, “It’s cold.” 

              Moments later, Rodman slapped my chest, “Let’s get out of here. Where can we go?” I suggested we go back to my place, but the girls wanted see Rodman’s pad, so we agreed on that. Just before we left, he bought three bottles of Mondavi for the post party with his American Express card. He flashed his card to me at least two or three times saying, “Money ain’t a problem.” I believed him. This was a man who was experienced with post-parties. He had my trust.
              As we walked through the parking lot, he asked if I wanted to drive his car–a black BMW M5. Even though I’d had a few, I was in the midst of an adventure. I agreed to drive, and off we went.

              It was only a ten-minute drive to his apartment. On the way there, the mom asked which house we were going to. “Well, we can’t go home because my kids are there,” Rodman replied as he directed me to his bachelor pad.

              He fiddled with the CD player and played a new Chili Peppers song, which he set on repeat. He began going berserk in the passenger seat. After he rolled down the window, he waved his arms, moved his upper body like an inflatable punching bag, and sang along as loudly as he could, “Tell me baby, what’s your story…”–that song. Since he was so big, his arms were thrashing everywhere willy nilly–the dashboard, the window, the steering wheel, my head. The guy just flat out didn’t give a fuck. He was his own person and not ashamed of it.

             When we arrived, he handed me the apartment key and whispered, “Don’t worry, man; I’m gonna hook you up. I always hook my boys up.” Barbie and I went inside and made out on the couch while he and Mom stayed outside.
              Eventually, the two of them came inside. He put on the Chili Peppers song from the car, blasting it while he sung along. When I got up to pee, through the door I heard Mom scolding her daughter: “What is the matter with you? First you get drunk off your ass, then you take home this creepy guy!”

              I opened the bathroom door to find Rodman and Mom heading back to his room. She was tipsy but coherent. My chick on the other hand, was a ticking time bomb. It was only a matter of time before she either vomited or passed out.  
              With the living room now to ourselves, Barbie and I hooked up, but she didn’t want to fuck. It was all above-the-waist crap. Her mom had planted a conscience in what little brain she had, cockblocking us both. Barbie got naked but passed out before anything wet ever happened.
              A few blurs later, Rodman popped out of nowhere, turned on that same damn Chili Peppers song, and danced with his shirt off. The mom, having forgotten I was present, staggered into the room completely naked. I saw everything. She immediately walked out, returning dressed in a white robe.  
              Barbie was passed out on the couch, but the party was just beginning for Rodman. In his euphoria, he walked up to me and gave me four fist bumps–one every couple minutes–and continued to sing. I sang along with him, which added to his bliss. Two more fist bumps. Upon approval of my partying skills, he took out a Ziploc bag full of a hundred one-dollar bills and threw them up in the air. He busted out two Vegas craps dice, said, “I fuckin’ love this game,” and asked me repeatedly what number I wanted. My number never hit, and then he offered me a proposition, “If I roll a seven, you owe me a thousand bucks.” I said OK. He crapped out. Mom and I sat in amusement, watching this bizzaro freak show, money everywhere. Rodman was having a blast playing an imaginary craps game with me. I could never figure out if he was simply drunk, on drugs, or just naturally like this. I think it was the latter.
              When I realized it was past 3:30, I remembered I had to wake up in a few hours and announced I had to call a cab. Rodman didn’t even know his own address and kept telling me, “Jamboree and San Joaquin.” The cabbie needed a specific address, so Rodman took my phone and told the cabbie the cross streets five more times until he got frustrated and hung up. He tossed my phone back to me and said, “Just take my car.” 
              I thought he was joking, but he wasn’t smiling. I didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t be serious. “Uhhhh,” I murmured. 
              He flopped onto his loveseat. “Just drop the car off in the morning.” 
              “I’m coaching a basketball game at 9:30. It won’t be over until eleven.”
              “Where’s the game at?”
              “El Modena,” I said. He frowned and pondered other options, retreating to the bathroom.
              When he returned, he motioned for mommy and me to get up. The three of us left the apartment, leaving Barbie on the couch.
              On the walk to the car, he introduced himself and asked my name. I was surprised how cordial he was, definitely not the prick he was made out to be by the media or NBA Commissioners. The flamboyancy, however, was no myth; he was an extreme.
              As we entered the parking garage, Mom, who, up to this point had been starry-eyed and laughed at everything Rodman did, asked me, “Hasn’t it been a surreal night?”
              “I guess,” I replied, suddenly finding myself walking between the two. 
              Angered, she said, “Hey Dennis, he doesn’t think the night has been surreal.”
              “What are you talking about? Surreal?” Rodman responded. 
              “Yeah, surreal?” I shot a confused look at Mom.
              “Well, you were making out with my daughter all night long. And I mean, look at her and look at you,” she pointed out. 
              I laughed. “Oh yeah.” I’ve learned never to argue with chicks like this. They always win.         
              Rodman stepped in. “What are you talking about? He’s a good looking guy.”
              Mom had sounded like an idiot twice in a row, and Rodman had been on my side both times, so she finally shut up, we got in the car, and she drove me home.
              Despite frequently hitting up all Rodman’s favorite weekend hotspots, I never saw him out again after that night. I’m sure, however, that I’ll run into him again somewhere, and though I doubt he’ll remember my name, I’m certain he’ll give me a smiley fist bump. Then I’d request that next time he take the daughter, and I take the mom.