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  • Ollett vs Burner : Dark Days

    Ollett vs Burner : Dark Days

    Welcome to this addition of “Thursday Threat” where we pit author versus author in a challenging game of mesmerizing malarky and wit flavored mumbo jumbo. An author will select a prompt, write a 300 word or less response to that prompt, and then send this bundle to a challenger. The challenger 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.

    The Prompt

    You are walking down the neon lit street of Hong Kong one summer evening. You gaze up to see an electronic message scrolling across the screen saying “We are sorry to inform you that the world has run out of electricity and a dark chaotic life will ensue. Good luck and Thank You.” You look around to lock eyes with other pedestrians who read the same thing. You hold eye contact for a few seconds, and then in a cold instant, the  lights go out.

    Ollett’s Response

    “Really? You would build yourself a bathroom that had a switch that fogged the windows up when you turned it on? Wow. You are a dummy.”

    “Well what would you pick then?”

    “Man, if I could have one hour with anything that had the spark… easy, it would be this little plastic case my dad brought back from some country without safety standards. It had two jelly pads and wires connecting these pads back to a softly rounded base station with two spinning dials. There were no instructions but the two distinct icons of a set of wavy lines and a man looking as though he is vibrating could only mean one thing, automatic electronic massage pads of course! I would spend hours researching the pain threshold at various points of the body. One day I decided to place one pad on my lower left rib, and the other pad on my lower right rib. I began the experiment and increased the power. Without warning I had lost all bodily control and was engulfed with the biggest and most powerful tickle of my life! I was floundering on the ground with my arms contorted into obtuse angles and my gasps for air just breaking through a piercing laugh that sounded like a cackle of young teenage girls all telling the same story at the same time. After eight minutes my mom entered my room to find me in this exorcist state and quickly unplugged me from the pads. I can remember that moment well. I just laid there. I laid there and smiled and I genuinely felt good. Give me the spark and I would have a laughing orgasm for one hour.”

    Burners Response (8 hours after challenge)

    “That is sweet, kind sir. A hand held massager?  Me and other women worldwide are very familiar with this device, using it during lonesome nights, mornings, in traffic, and sometimes even during coffee breaks.  We in fact utilize it often in lieu of,” her eyes instinctively glance down where she catches a ‘tent’-like shape forming in her acquaintances trousers.  “Well…in lieu of pricks, like you.”

    Embarrassed by his nature’s reaction, he refutes “My dear, you realize that little massager you speak of has done nothing great for the male species?”

    “Oh please, if anything it has made you work harder!  Anyway, the spark would not be necessary for my hand held massager, as it is battery operated.  I will simply steal my AAs from the remote, when need be, which will ultimately render me with these ‘laughing orgasms’ without interruption from my mother, of course, because I live solo…alone…by myself”, she shudders at the thought of both the laughing orgasms and the desolate living situation as she whispers under her breath, “If only that thing would cuddle…”

    “Excuse me?”  he interrupts.

    “Oh nothing…the spark.  Yes, the spark.  Considering the cold and dark world we live in now I would take my hour of spark time to charge my iPod touch.  With that external speaker, the world can experience a music and picture show in the palm of my hands.  I will be popular, for once.  Also, during that hour I will download songs and video to prompt me during “hand held massager” time because clearly you can’t sanctify me.”

    After that jab, her fantasies retreat while she ponders that, regardless of this man’s self-proclaimed inept skill, she will return home to her massager, giggle tirelessly until she falls asleep holding her pillow, once a again.  To cuddle or not to cuddle, that is the compromise…

  • Contest Update – First failure

    Thank you everyone who has sent their stories in. Keep them coming for a chance to win some of our fantastic prizes. Click the tongue on the top right of this page for details. I wanted to share a fantastic submission that just did not quite make the cut but I thought worthy to be displayed here. Think you can top this story, well show us. Submit your emails to [email protected] now!

    wisdomTEETH
    For the last 7 years or so, my wisdom teeth have been coming in.
    When I was young, my dentist did x-rays and told me that I would not need them removed. He
    wasn’t sure, but he felt good about my chances. I was relieved.
    I went to a new dentist in college, when my wisdom teeth had started to breach, and he raised
    his eyebrows as he recommended immediate surgery. I asked if it was necessary to remove
    them, and he said with a laugh that it would hurt like hell if I didn’t. He seemed knowledgeable
    and polite, but I chose to think he was a pathological liar. My reasoning was simple. Believing
    him would have meant action needed to be taken. So instead I decided to believe my childhood
    dentist and his far smaller range of evidence.
    And boy does that belief hurt. Every few months, the teeth creep up a bit. Severe pain shoots
    through the jaw, down to the throat and up to the ear, talking and breathing and swallowing all
    feel like chewing glass. It’s the type of pain that could send a man to church.
    And eating food, that’s a nightmare whether it’s one of those wisdom-pain months or not. Food
    sticks in the tiny crevices between half-breached tooth and half-torn gum. I’m convinced I
    brush my teeth more than any other human being. I’m also convinced my breath smells terrible
    almost all the time. Little bits of roast beef, cheese, bread, rice, carnitas, pulled chicken… all
    stewing underneath a calcium-infested gum near the back of my mouth. No amount of feverish
    brushing and flossing can save me — those are just cover-ups.
    But at least I’ve been spared the pain of 3 hours of dental work (for which I would not be
    conscious). Not to mention the agony of actually setting an appointment with an oral surgeon.
    Talk about hell.
    So here I am now in the great city of New York and my back right molar decides it needs to
    move up a few millimeters. The pain is one thing, I can deal with that. Chloraseptic, a little
    amphetamine, tons of ibuprofen. Chew with the left side of the mouth. Brush a little more
    carefully.
    But these few millimeters seem to be a bit more critical than the last. My right ear has started
    to plug. At first I thought water was in there. Then I decided to let it sit for a few days, which
    was a great idea. I woke up today completely deaf in my right ear. Action needs to be taken.
    Use a Q-Tip. Wow, lots of wax in there. How do I hear at all? I remove what must be three
    grams of disgusting ear wax. Still, no change in ear-pressure. Still, no change in volume
    reception.
    I peruse CVS for more drastic solutions. Unfortunately, there are very few. Apparently, this is
    not a common problem.
    I buy an ear syringe (‘for babies’). $7.99 later, I am at home and following directions. Fill it up
    with lukewarm water. Pull the earlobe down, insert syringe, gently flush water in. Let all liquid
    and buildup run out of the ear on its own.
    Uh, nothing came out.
    Try again.
    Same result.
    Hmm.
    I’m literally injecting my ear with water that traps itself inside.
    This has to be good.
    So now everyone has to talk a bit louder to tell me mundane things (“WHY DON’T YOU JUST
    GET YOUR STUPID WISDOM TEETH PULLED?”). I miss the obvious (“DUDE THERE IS
    NO POINT IN LEAVING THEM IN”). I feel like my father and his failing hearing (“SON, DID
    YOU SAY YOU WANT TO EAT YOUR WISDOM MEAT?”). I’m underwater and people have to
    shout down to me (“WHAT ARE YOU DOING ALL THE WAY DOWN THERE?”). It’s frustrating
    for everyone (I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING DOWN HERE BUT I DON’T THINK I’M
    COMING UP). When I talk, my words are sweet but tainted with the smell of day old meat (HEY
    WHY DON’T YOU GUYS JUST COME DOWN INSTEAD, IT’S FUN — AND IT’D BE EASIER
    FOR ME.). Everything hurts, all the time (I pray one day it will stop). All this because I’m too
    stubborn and I irrationally believe I know better (I WAS TOLD THEY DIDN’T HAVE TO COME
    OUT, SO THEY DON’T HAVE TO COME OUT). Stupid fucking wisdom teeth — who the hell
    named them that, anyway?

  • Pro Basketball Stories: Bosnia

    After my rookie season in Israel I was looking for redemption. Playing for three horrible coaches in a season was a nightmare. Banging three different olive skinned, hot bodied Israelis every day for numerous months was my only prideful victory. I called them my breakfast, lunch and dinner chicks. While I still made good money, I needed to further my career by getting minutes, stats and being dominant. I was hampered by a shoulder injury due to bench pressing beyond my capability. With my bum shooting shoulder, I’d have to recover by the next season which was a few months away. The Summer would be used for recovery, rest and lots of luxury suite Vegas trips.

    That Summer I splurged and made it rain everywhere. Whether it was the first few rounds of Jagerbombs at T.G.I.F.’s with my broke friends or popping bottles of Goose at Tryst in Vegas with my rich friends. I never had this much money and loved the feeling of buying anything I wanted. My cousin’s sexy blonde sidekick took a liking in me. My wallet, my dick and her started a Summer fling. I thought the money I earned from one year of ball and this gold digger of a girlfriend was the start of my “American Dream.” Basketball stopped for the time being as my shoulder injury healed. I found my first 9-5 job and began to hate myself for stopping what I did my whole life; basketball. As my gold digger of a girlfriend emptied out most of my hard earned Jew money, our relationship fizzled out. At least my shoulder problem healed as I didn’t have to use my arm for self-gratification all Summer. I quit my endless job and got on the phone with a new agent. Within a few days he found me a basketball gig. The following week I was off to Bosnia.

    Being my new agent, he just sent me where the most money was at that time. He could’ve pointed to my whorish Summer fling, but instead it was to third world Bosnia. Who would’ve thought? The team, Igokea, was in 2nd place and I was replacing a center who previously held a Summer league position on an NBA team. I knew this was big shoes to fill. I was still very nervous about traveling to third world countries, let alone filling the void of better players. If I was going to get my wheels going, Bosnia was the place to man up and start ballin’. Luckily it was Winter break and I had time to get back into shape and show the team what I was made of. I was still just a young pup in the pro basketball game. I knew my talent could progress with the right situation. Most foreign basketball teams were full of selfish Americans who couldn’t give a shit about their teammates. I was beginning to understand the truth about “the game.” Basketball is your typical Catch-22. While winning would keep me on a team and kept the paychecks coming, lots of points and rebounds would get me a better paying job the following season. Some players could do both well, but most just cared about points, more points and banging anything with a hole. I was still very unselfish and needed to change quickly or I’d be eaten alive.

    After a five hour layover in Croatia and two unknowing $70 one-minute collect calls to my agent’s Bosnian contact, Slobodan, I arrived in Mostar, Bosnia. I never knew what to expect or who I was meeting at these airports. Although I had someone’s name, I never had a face. When I arrived in a new foreign country everyone always looked the same. I always expected whoever was looking for me to find me or I was screwed. Most basketball players were black and easy to find in a small, foreign airport full of white people. Luckily I was very tall and had visible tats when I rolled up my sleeves, a dead give away for a basketball player. I waited in the magazine shop flipping through a Maxim magazine when I was tapped on the shoulder. A big beefy man, who I assumed was Slobodan, cleared his throat and said, “You know all the girls look like that here!” I looked back at the delicious picture of Elisha Cuthbert and then looked around the airport. If he meant they all had hair, a nose and a mouth then he couldn’t had been more right. We took a seat and he gave me the rundown of the team and their expectations. Slobodan finished his second latte, third cigarette and then told me to wait for my pickup which was supposed to had already been here. I resumed my magazine browsing and waited for whoever was supposed to find me.

    Two and a half hours later as I napped in the barren airport, I heard my name being shouted from a distance, “Dooooostin, Dooooostin.” I stood up and realized how empty the airport was; it was just me and him. Without an introduction or cultural greeting (handshake, cheek kiss, dong knock) he grabbed my bags and started walking away. I assumed that “Doooostin” was my name and not a Bosnian word for “steal his shit.” We walked to his jalopy that was well overqualified for “Pimp My Ride.” The back seat window remained permanently opened and he had to open the passenger door from the inside. Still only the word “Dooostin” had been spoken by him. I attempted to break the ice, “Hey man, what’s up?” but he just shrugged his shoulders and nodded horizontally. He attempted some Bosnian and I just smiled and responded, “Don’t know what the fuck your saying dude!” I knew this was going to be a quiet ride and also had no idea how long the drive was. As we hit the highway he cunningly smiled and said his only other English word, “Fast…Vrrrrrm Vrrrrrrm!” I didn’t recognize his English over the Techno beats that constantly popped his speakers. He suddenly slammed his foot down on the accelerator like he was driving in the Daytona 500. While he double gripped the wheel, I tried to keenly buckle my seatbelt as to not let him know I was afraid. I struggled for a few minutes and finally noticed the part where you buckle it was missing. I literally shriveled up in fear as this crazy stranger Kurt Busch’d it for over two hours. I became more relaxed with every passing kilometer, but remained shriveled up because of the brisk 40 degree wind that was blowing through the broken backseat window. I arrived at my hotel at 2 a.m. in one piece and got to sleep in before my first night practice.

    I arrived at practice early to meet the coaches and management. This introduction was standard procedure for a new player, making him feel at home. Five crinkly aged seniors sat around a table and choked on a pack of cigarettes while sipping their cappuccinos; also standard procedure. We barely exchanged words as I sat there twiddling my thumbs waiting for practice to come about. My bag of usual ice breakers was rendered useless so I remained silent. It was pretty much a round of hand shakes, a few welcomes and that was it. I didn’t feel too much at home. I can’t tell you how awkward these situations were. A few other Americans arrived in the smoke filled lobby and I escaped with them to the locker room. As we small talked, both Americans only complained about the team and immense pressure shown from management to win. They were a few years older and arrogantly talked about the other jobs they had lined up. This didn’t excite me too much and my hopes were shot before I even stepped on the court. I was there to make the best of my time and didn’t let their words bring me down.

    I sluggishly made it through the first grueling practice. Jet lag was a bitch! I couldn’t sleep until 4 a.m., my body was aching from the first practices and it was below zero outside. After a few more practices we took an eight hour bus ride to play a friendly match with a Croatian team. I happened to pull a hamstring the last night before this test game. I forced myself to play or I knew it was a wrap. I knew this game was my test and if I didn’t man up and play, they would send me home. I played in excruciating pain and turned in a decent performance, but it wasn’t good enough for them to want to keep me around.

    My agent called and informed me that they wanted a taller center. Guess I was a few inches short. I’d stay at the hotel for a few days while my agent found another team for me. No reason to go back to America and make the grueling flight back to Europe. So I wined and dined on behalf of the team for a week in the hotel. The other Americans knew that my tab would be picked up, so they met with me for lunch, dinner and drinks everyday. I had nothing to do for a week stuck in my hotel room. I got desperate and persuaded the front desk guy into letting me use his PC and internet. It was running a dial-up modem. I hacked the screen name, password and phone number for their dial-up internet. I luckily had a 26k connection in my hotel room. Let’s just say waiting two minutes for a Google search wasn’t fun, but it passed the time quickly.

    A week after being cut, my agent found a job in the same league, but with one of the lower, struggling teams. I accepted the offer and another random Bosnian drove me down to the southern most point of Bosnia. This was an eight hour drive through the countryside which still had active mind fields and the occasional road that was big enough for only one vehicle to pass. I remembered being on a stretch of one of these narrow roads and having to reverse for a quarter of a mile to let a semi-truck through first. Never seen anything like it. Parts of this road also had no guard rail. One false move and your car would go tumbling down a few thousand feet of treacherous cliffs. This guy fortunately spoke English and we shared conversations about the NBA and the USA for a few hours. I arrived in Trebinje, Bosnia where I’d stay from January to May. Smaller town, absolutely no English and only one American on the squad. Here’s a breakdown of my experiences in this small town:

    LIVING

    After arriving in Trebinje, I ate dinner with the team and they took me to my temporary house. I was going to live with a seven foot Moroccan and a cocky kid from Montenegro until they found my own place. They opened a room which I thought was the storage closet for my luggage. This was my new comfy 50 square foot room. I was thinking more on the terms of a prison cell. My bed touched wall to wall and I obviously extended longer then it. I had to turn the bed diagonal, but this caused the door to be blocked. It also had an oversized dresser that took up half the room. There was no room at all, but I had to make due. Our toilet shot up water when it was flushed. No, it wasn’t that extra toilet that you can douche yourself with. It just gargled when it swallowed poop and pee. The shower had a heater that needed to be warmed up before showering. At full power, it allowed ten continuous minutes of showering under hot water. It wasn’t a pleasant process after practice with my roommates. To top it off there wasn’t any internet. While I had a full apartment to myself in Israel, this was the worst living space I had to live in to date. I knew it was temporary, but I didn’t actually get my own apartment for two more months.

    A few months after the dreadful living conditions of the broom closet, they moved me into a hotel room sized flat. Finally, I could play with myself in the peace and quiet. The other American lived in this same building, so I at least had someone to talk and walk with to practice. There wasn’t internet in this building either. I found some active WIFI signals, but after numerous hacking attempts, I failed. Even though it was written in my contract for internet, they seemed to beat around the bush when I asked. I was forced to spend my days in an internet cafe. This room was also very confined, numbering about 12 computers and as big as your average living room. There was a rare semi-cute twenty year old girl working the internet cafe. Her and her boyfriend chain smoked hours upon hours. As I spent 4-5 hours a day in the cafe, I lost 4-5 years off my life inhaling second-hand smoke. Sometimes the smoke was so thick my eyes began to burn. Once again, I had no choice but to sweat it out. Only a few months after living in my new apartment, I’d be kicked out. We weren’t told that the apartment was pre-leased to students in the Spring. Onto my third and final Bosnian home in the same amount of months.

    I was moved into the same housing structure as before. This time I lived with my American teammate, Rome, and the only cool Serb on the team, Nemanja. I was given the master bedroom as the Serb took the broom closet and Rome slept in the other regular sized room. My bed was more comfortable and I had a balcony. Once again, there was no internet access. There was no one on the team to help us out with internet problems. As I asked the coach to ask the management about hooking up internet, I’m sure the message was never passed on. The language barrier was impossible. Yet, I was determined to get internet in my house. I walked into the main internet/cellphone service office only to be told that there was a 2 year waiting list for the internet. Damn! Two years? This seemed more difficult than I thought. After walking into some other computer repair shops, I was finally pointed in the right direction. I found this guy who came to my flat and bolted a 2 foot satellite dish to our roof and enabled us to surf the web occasionally. It worked like Direct TV, if the satellite pointed to the right access point, it’d pick up a weak signal. It had 60% accessibility, as sometimes it was just not work or pick up a signal due to bad weather. Better than nothing. At least there was also a 24 hour bar below our house, so it became my own personal fridge. This was my final stomping grounds and I lived in this house until the season ended.

    TOWN

    The town itself was also as little as my first room. The population was under 15,000 and missed the female population aged 18-35. It had two eighty meter bridges connecting both sides of town. A beautiful lake ran through the middle of town. The most popular past time was sitting at a coffee shop sipping cappuccinos and reading the newspaper. Trebinje lacked women, fun and just about everything that was necessary for a town. There was no car for us Americans. In a town of this size, everything was within walking distance. There was always a popular joke when asking about somewhere in town, “Yeah, it’s a five minute walk.” Yet, we couldn’t use a car to escape to the next bigger town if we wanted. We were stuck.

    One main source of income for the city was sports gambling. Every corner had a bet shop. Each bet shop had it’s walls littered with daily lines and box scores. Some had flat screens to watch international matches and most were 24 hour bars. Rome and I would visit the bet bar everyday after practice to put our bets in. It became a cheap addiction to bet on the over/under of Lebron and Kobe scoring 30. I learned that betting parlays of over five bets never hit. I think I went 3/50 on the year. The two girls working the bet shop were bombshells, but knew no English. It didn’t matter how hard we tried to lure them away for a night, always resulted in a failed attempt. At least it was something to keep the mind off the nothingness in town.

    We were given free meals at the team restaurant in the center of town. The food wasn’t bad, but it was a crap shoot. I didn’t get to pick my meal, it was a random rotation of meat cutlets and soups. There was no popular restaurant to eat at like in most cities. The town was full of little Mom and Pop restaurants trying to make a buck. Their version of pizza couldn’t even beat out frozen Vons Select generic pizza. I stuck with the team restaurant as everything else was below average.

    Not too many people owned a car here. Walking was preferred by everybody. Since everything was within a ten minute walk, why would you need a car except to escape the city. A popular pastime was to cruise around town in circles. On a Friday or Saturday night, the younger generation enjoyed driving around from bridge to bridge and honking their horns. I guess this was similar to cruising PCH or Sunset, but just a tad bit different. Since gas was $6/gallon, it was an expensive cruise.

    There wasn’t even a disco for adults. The few times we went out to a night spot, it was 16 and over. Yet, the ages ranged from 16 to 17 as no women my age could be found in town. Pimping was left for Myspace and the few adult girls I tried to lure back to my pad for some love. Except for a few make-out sessions and a random blow job, there wasn’t much luck finding a fuck in Bosnia. I just dealt with it and hoped my teammate, Rome, would let me enjoy one of his monthly imported chicks for the night. That didn’t happen! I guess I needed time in Europe to have been able to import my own chicks.

    Every city I lived in I’d find a guitar to call my own. I figured this town was too small for some kind of music shop. I looked all over, but couldn’t find anything. Even a few of the local patrons couldn’t point me the right way. One day I saw a teenager with a guitar case strapped to his back. I ran up to him and asked where he got the guitar. He was polite enough to take me to a small music pawn shop. I couldn’t believe there was a guitar shop like this in a town of less than 15,000. The guitar would become my drug and best friend, sort of like Wilson the volleyball in Tom Hank’s “Castaway.” After my last day in Bosnia, I smashed the guitar to bits like a rock star, this would be my calling.

    One random day my Bosnian teammates asked if I smoked weed. I knew that most of my teammates were young and ready to snitch. I took a chance and told him I did smoke. With the extreme boredom in the city, I would’ve done anything for a smoke. I didn’t think it existed in this puny town. He told me he would get some for me. A few weeks passed by and I felt he was just talking the talk. Then of all days, April 20th, 420, he came up to me in the street and handed me a phat nug of weed. I couldn’t believe it, smelled great, looked great, probably smoked great. They just gave it to me. They didn’t want to smoke it or have anything to do with it. I thought it was some kind of setup. The season was almost over and I didn’t care. I marched into my room with so much excitement. I tried to make a bong, but didn’t have the proper scraps and tools to accomplish it. I did the next best thing, grabbed an apple. I smoked myself silly on 4/20 at 4:20 and enjoyed the rare sunny day playing guitar on my balcony. This was one of my few fun days I had in Bosnia. I made that gorgeous purple nug last almost a week.

    My daily activities were going to practice, putting bets in, inhaling cigarettes in the internet cafe, eating and repeating. The most boring place I’d ever been in. Sometimes you must make your own fun, but with cold weather, no women and no English…that meant suffering until the season’s end.

    BASKETBALL

    The team was full of 18-21 year olds and one guy over 30. I was 23 at the time and felt more ready then ever. While the weather during the winter remained hovering around freezing, the gym was an ice box. It was necessary to wear a sweater for the first thirty minutes of practice, if not for the whole time. Rome was even caught wearing gloves for many practices. The gym owner refused to turn on the heater because it cost too much in electric bills. Even during games the heater wouldn’t be present, but fortunately sometimes it would.

    Having so many younger teammates meant a high level of selfishness. They didn’t understand the concept of team basketball and winning. Instead they cared about Kobe Bryant scoring tactics; the more shots attempted meant the more shots that had a chance to go in. Practice was simple and they had a decent weight room to workout in. Weights kept my mind free as it always did. We had one egotistical Bosnian older player who acted more like a little baby then a 35 year old power forward. While the players averaged 10 words of English, Rome and I never knew what was going on. This cry baby of a player would many times just get pissed for random reasons, walk over to grab his fanny pack and jet out of the gym. I didn’t understand it. I did my job and all I could do to contribute. I averaged 14 points and 9 rebounds a game during my stay. I was hoping these stats would help towards my next team.

    We needed to win games as the bottom few teams in the league dropped to second division the following year. Our team was in a battle for the bubble all season. We won our home games and lost our road games; typical in a country like this where the bus rides average six hours. The last month of the season our team fell into money problems. We finished the season tied for the bubble spot, but the team had a bigger winning margin over us. The league decided that the bottom two teams in our league and the champions of the 2nd and 3rd division would have a mini playoff for who would stay in the first league. There was one problem with this scenario. As our last game was played on April 10th, this playoff wouldn’t start until the first week of May. Not only was there financial problems, but I was forced to stay and practice for a month to play in this loser bowl. After a few weeks of just practicing I started to give up. The boredom reached an all-time high. I told them a family member was very ill and ditched out of there. The other American, Rome, stayed and finshed out the season, saving the team but receiving no money in return. I made a good call!

    The worst part about being the southern most team in a big country is the traveling. Our littlest bus ride was three hours and the longest was ten hours. We’d usually travel the average six hours cramped on a bus and show up an hour or less before the game. It was difficult to play on the road, nonetheless win any of these games. There is one bus trip I will never forget. I contracted dysentery six days before our longest bus trip. When our water guy ran out of bottled water, he would use the disgusting sink water without our knowledge. So from this I became real sick. I’d never had diarrhea for this long of a period. The first three days were spent hovering over a toilet throwing up and shitting. Every 30 minutes to an hour I had to shat a water cannon out of my ass. The excessive wiping caused bleeding and rawness of it’s own. After three medications and five days of dysentery, it began to slow down. I was still afraid of the bus trip the next day. Although my sickness slowed, it was still present and the buses never had a toilet. Holding in diarrhea was impossible and I didn’t want to try and make it possible. Lucky as I was, the bus trip went smoothly. We got to the game 20 minutes before the tip-off and got smashed. Nine hours of bus there, two and a half hours at the gym to lose a game, then nine hours home. What a trip! This was the first bus ride in which I slept the majority of the way home. Every three hours the bus driver would stop for a pee and stretch break; standard procedure. Yet, a few hours before we arrived back to Trebinje, I notcied our bus would be stopped for 10-15 minutes without anyone getting off. I came to find out that the bus driver usually came with a backup driver to drive the second leg of the journey home. Our bus driver would be doing almost 20 hours of driving in a 22 hour period solo. The bus driver began to fall asleep at the wheel. Luckily our coach was wide awake and noticed him slowly nodding off and told him to take a few 20 minute naps every few hours. Like I said, some parts of this road through the mountains were without guard rails and heavily slick from snow. I guess I’m just lucky to still be alive. Maybe this was the place for me to die. I could be sure if we happened to drive off a cliff, no one would ever know what happened to me.

    EPILOGUE

    Of all my basketball experiences, this was my own personal hell. Freezing cold gym, being forced to move place to place every other month, traveling dozens of hours on a bus every week, getting screwed out of thousands of dollars. I guess this was punishment for leaving basketball and trying out something new. I wasn’t done with basketball and I knew this. While it was a personal hell, I stuck with it and performed every game. All I could do next was hope my agent could plug me into a better situation with the work I did in Bosnia. That’s all you really hope when you depend on an agent to get a gigs for you. Living in different environments is a true experience, but also makes me realize how difficult it is for some people. Even more difficult for an American to live there and not have the usual things he expects; women, Dr. Pepper, Taco Bell, internet, Charmin 3-ply. Yet, no matter where I’m sent to in this world to live and hoop…I’m fully ready to absorb the environment and take on any challenge. You learn something new, meet cool strangers, fuck cooler strangers, drink what they drink, eat what they eat and do what they do, all with my own unique twist.

  • Short Story Contest

    As of right now, Our Thursday is accepting short story submissions from the public for a chance to win one of five great prizes!

  • A chance to be the next contributing author on OurThursday
  • A mobile application that is of your winning submission
  • Two days of prepared food by our very own Danielle Burner
  • Get your mugshot drawn by our very own Brian Pratt, the genius behind the drawings for each of our authors.
  • A sneaky date with our revered Dave Glenn

    • And if applicable, a guaranteed slot at this year’s OurThursday.com Open Mic Night will be awarded to all our winners.

    Your submissions will be accepted up until midnight of the 26th of November 2010. That’s a good 10 days to get your act together. If you already have a blog and would like to share a particularly good post, feel free to send it our way and we will be happy to link to it when we do our Contest review posting. Facebook post? Send it on in. We are not picky.

    Please send submissions to [email protected] immediately

  • Worse than a Crack Covered Nicotine Stick Wrapped in Heroin … Biting your Finger Nails

    Worse than a Crack Covered Nicotine Stick Wrapped in Heroin … Biting your Finger Nails

    I have never done crack. I know a guy who was addicted to crack and went to rehab after it finally dawned on him, or it was a court ordered “dawning”, that his life had taken a wrong turn when he was having naked cracked out knife fights with his 140 kilo male friend as they drove through the late night streets of Harlem running his crack ring. I have never done heroin. But I do know someone who had a brother who was hooked and described using heroin like “cumming out of his ass”. Now I am not sure exactly how to interpret that, but his telling description of heroin addiction and the outlandish activities of my other friend show me the strength of these two artificial substances. Well I will venture to say that biting your nails is worse.

    OK, I can’t really back that up. But I am attached to 10 agents of brain corruption and propaganda and they are working their magic on me every second of every day. They say the nastiest things to me…

    “Come on Luke, I got this flap of skin just hanging off my side. You can feel it right? Ya it’s right there. It’s not a nail, you can bite it, don’t worry. I wont tell anyone about the way you want and WILL suck and nibble on that little dangling nail nipple.”

    “Luke, now shut the fuck up and bite me! You just bit number 4 over there so why the fuck won’t you bite me? You think your all high and mighty because you only bite one nail out of the ten and think you are conquering this habit? We ain’t going anywhere you addict bitch! I got nothing to do all day so I am just going to rub up against number 2 on my side and make sure you are reminded of my existence every time you move your arm.”

    “Luke! Help!! It hurts!! You gotta fix it just this one time. It wasn’t your fault that potato peeler ripped me in half. I understand. It’s OK. But you gotta help me, it hurts!!!”

    To name a few of the horrendous things I hear from these bastard nails. It’s hard, but after 27 years, I have had enough…

    Here is the most recent photo I have after one of my many nail clipping sessions. Be sure to compare from images at this blog when I started this whole fandangled thing.

    In my previous images I bragged about the nail being long but that was a false hope because with a short nail bed, a long nail is simply going to break and bother you and encourage horrible statements like the ones above. From these images, I hope you can see the growth in the base of the nail which is ultimately what I want. There is still a lot of skin towards the front of the finger, not sure if you call this foreskin or what, but the size is diminishing, albeit slow.

    What I found is that there is no visual reward for a very long time. For me the worst thing I can do is let my nails grow long, so I cut them regularly. Don’t be duped.

    But I am not without flaw and one nail has consistently tricked me into eating him as if he was a butter covered bacon sandwich coated in fried cheese. The image below shows the comparison between my two pinky nails. Unfortunately for my one retarded finger that is permanently disfigured after a late night cycling crash slightly inebriated, I am also terrorizing it’s nail. But it is not to say that I have given up on pinky McRetard. I have gone to the extreme. I wrap him in clear medical tape at least three times a day. I figure the only way I will stop molesting this pinky finger is to slap a chastity belt on him and would you believe it, it freaking works. The trick is to use a small strip of tape and wrap it so it only covers the nail and first knuckle for minimal annoyance. I can still type and write and go to the bathroom and find things in my nose.

    In fact, I found this tape tactic to be the atomic bomb in my arsenal to stop my nail biting. As mentioned in the previous blogs, biting my nails is unstoppable after I bite a little bit and create the “imperfection” in the nail. After that, I will bite until there is no more to try and fix the “imperfection”. So now, when I start down this downward spiral of munching, I quickly run to the tape and cover the nail for a few hours. Most of the time this is enough to let my brain move on to other things. I know the tape thing seems absurd, but do it! It works!

    The road is still very long for this bastard of an addiction but I feel as though I have passed the cuming out of my ass while having a naked knife fight phase.

  • 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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