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  • 9 Things I Hate About Walking

    9 Things I Hate About Walking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    4) Stopping on a staircase

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

    5) Walking four people wide

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Life at the Fraternity House

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

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

    MASTURBATION

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

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

    THIEVERY

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

    GIRLFRIENDS

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

    PETS

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

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

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

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

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

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

    DIETING

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

    CLUBS 

    Several clubs were formed. Here are a few.

    Buffalo Club

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

    100 Club

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

    Fight Club

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

    Team Cutty

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

    RIVALRIES 

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

    PARTIES

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

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

    THE WALK OF SHAME

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

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

  • The Bathroom Debacle

    The Bathroom Debacle

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

    (more…)

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

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

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

    A brief history of cheerleading:

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

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

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

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

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

    There's no I in Spirt

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

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

    This is what happens without cheerleaders.

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

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

    -Pom pom shaking

    -Spelling one-syllable words out loud

    -Makeup application

    -Kicking air in unison

    -Running to and from goalposts during extra points

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

    -Performing one-arm pom pom military presses

    -Pom pom waving

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

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

    His other outfit is a trenchcoat


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

    WHILE YOU ARE CHEERING:

    -Be el oh you dee LOUD!

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

    -Being Gorgeous

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

    -Be sure to smile.

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

    Whitening is expensive

    -Boobs!

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


    Like lifting the Easter Bunny

    -Tan!

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

    -Apply makeup. Then apply more.

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


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

    -Being fat is not an option.

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

    Natural beauty from India.

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

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

    BEFORE Extensions
    AFTER Extensions

    -Flip Your Wig

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

    See how stupid she looks without flipping her hair!

    Stockings are a Must

    -Stockings

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

    Tramp Stamp Removal: $350

    -Attire

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

    This Woman has Great Nipples

    -Personality

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

    The only sport where cheerleaders cheer but have no cheerleaders.

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

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

    CHEER QUIZ: Which of these is a real cheerleader?

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

  • Greek Island Hopping

    A rumor:

    Dude, you have to go the Greek Islands. It’s fucking beautiful, and the girls are all hot and down to fuck. Dude, I’m telling you…

    Like any fool with a wiener, I believed it. The guy who started the rumor showed me several dazzling pictures of an extravagant beach party. His proof was enough justification, so a month later, when it came time to decide on a vacation, I remembered his pregnant words of untold stories, and I booked a trip to the Greek Islands. Just me. There would be no roll-dog, nor a soul in the Mediterranean who knew of my mysterious past or sneaky intentions. The unknown is so fucking sexy.

     

    Athens

     

    After a thirteen-hour flight and over twenty hours of absolutely no sleep, I finally touched down in Athens. When I arrived at my hotel a little after noon, Athens time, the cab driver tried to pry an extra three Euro from me with the pitch, “It’s the driver’s fee.” I refused and gave him the agreed thirty Euro we had pre-arranged.

    The hotel offered little relief from the 100-degree heat. The hotel was supposedly four-star, but the lack of air-conditioning in the lobby and in my room demoted it to one-star in my book. Marble floors, flat-screen televisions, and cool leather couches do not compensate for shitty ventilation. To make matters worse, the hotel was empty, and after talking to the deskman, I discovered that my tour didn’t meet until evening the next day. I had idiotically miscalculated the dates when booking my flight.

    The hotel was neighbor to a gas station and another hotel. The nearest commercial buildings were over two miles away. My screaming hunger took precedence over my exhaustion; I had to eat something substantial before I considered sleeping. Besides, I was in a short race with jet lag. With my long black shorts, bright red shirt, black socks and shoes, I looked more out of place than Lebron James at a Bingo tournament. I didn’t care. After the blistering thirty-minute walk to a shopping street, I accumulated a fiery case of itchy balls and ass. I settled on an overpriced Italian restaurant only because the air conditioning was extra cold. The restaurant had an open wall facing the street and consisted of thirty tables. With the exception of a table of three middle-aged men focused on a ten-inch TV showing a soccer match, I had the place to myself. I relaxed and allowed all of my body sweat to evaporate, eating and leaving within an hour.

    After the slime-bag cab driver from earlier, I was boycotting taxis for the time being. As a result, I arrived back at my hotel at 5 p.m. freshly soaked with a new coat of sweat. I took a lukewarm shower and then dozed off wearing nothing but my boxers on my twin bed that was maybe two feet longer than my teacher’s desk. When I woke, it was four in the morning.

    I passed the next fourteen hours reading a bland Surfing magazine and watching BBC–it was the only English-speaking channel. As much as I wanted to explore the city, our hotel was on the edge of nowhere, so I decided to wait for the tour the following day. The group meeting was set for 6 p.m.; I planned to arrive at 6:10. Most chicks find “late guys” to be mysterious or imagine they “don’t give a fuck.” That was the first impression I was going for. I have theories.

    With the exception of a girl who was later revealed as a scatter-brained flower child who was religiously into Sodoku, I was the last to arrive at the meeting. The meeting room consisted of about fifty chairs all surrounding about a dozen circular tables. Wearing essentially the same outfit as the day before but with a blue shirt, I entered the room of my forty-nine tour mates and made my way around the side to the back of the room, conveniently finding an open chair at one of the tables. I secretly took note that the guys spared me nothing more than a quick glance, but roughly 75% of the girls gave a good three-second stare. I arrived at 75% because in an instant my mathematical mind broke it down as: forty-nine people on the tour, which means an estimated twenty-four were girls, and about eighteen of them gave me a stare, which equated to 75%. The remaining 25% kept their eyes transfixed to the front of the room, as if they had on blinders.

    It’s in rooms like these that I become judgmental. After using my strategic scanning and peripheral vision skills, my mental notes were as follows: 1) Six girls were attractive; 2) Of the six attractive girls, only three of them gave me a stare; 3) The staring 75% were probably horny and looking to fuck–perhaps not me, but definitely someone; 4) The non-staring 25% were closed-minded followers who always dumped their pessimistic views into adventurous conversations. Or they had a boyfriend back home. Either way, something must be off if a heterosexual person doesn’t even glance when someone possibly attractive enters their peripheral vision in a quiet fifty-person room.

    In an effort to break the ice, after going through rules and itinerary, our entire tour walked through the eighty-degree night to a lounge twenty-five minutes down the same stupid road I’d walked before. I bounced around from person to person, questioning and answering “Where are you from?” in my best interested voice. I wish I could say that I genuinely care about where strangers are “from,” but I can’t. No real knowledge or growth comes from knowing such information, but I ask that question voluntarily for the same reason I read the first chapter of a six-hundred-page novel. Background information is essential, but it’s the rest of the book that interests me.

    I wasn’t stupid enough to talk too long to any one girl. When it comes to first impressions on women, I’ve learned mystery is much more attractive than aggression. Some of the other guys disagreed. One fellow with short, curly black hair, rosy cheeks, glasses, a tucked-in dress shirt, slacks, and loafers looked like Egon from Ghostbusters. This dipshit was so aggressive that he went from girl to girl, forcing the longest conversation possible. He didn’t talk to a single guy. Needless to say, Egon was a very lonely man for the rest of the tour.

    I talked to some of the guys and a few girls briefly, never getting beyond their occupations. There was plenty of time for that later. After an hour of small talk, I left with a few of the Australian guys I befriended. We had a long day ahead.

    The next morning I was up early; I’d successfully trumped the jet lag. All forty-nine of us did a bus tour through the city and hiked up to the Parthenon where we took pictures and stood before the Greek Gods. No one went out that night because the 4:45 early morning bus departure to Athens port put a damper on our enthusiasm.

    Mykonos awaited.

    Mykonos

     

    The boat to Mykonos was nearly the size of a cruise ship, stuffed with cars and motorcycles on the bottom deck and people on the two upper decks. The seats were organized like an airplane, except there was actually room to walk around. A buffet and a lounge area were already overflowing with people. The atmosphere was calmer than I expected. I spent most of my time reading in one of the airplane seats, and would get up every half hour to socialize with some of my tour mates.

    The trip took just over six hours, which included a half-hour wait for a giant Star Wars door to open from top to bottom. The moment it touched down, motorcycles–loaded with one, two, or even three people–zoomed down the ramp.

    As I set foot on the island underneath the blue Aegean sky, I was greeted by the powerful Mykonos wind, my swagger violently altered. Mykonos is of average size–roughly forty square miles–in comparison to the rest of the Greek Islands. I walked a quarter-mile to our awaiting island bus, and the forty-nine of us made the twenty-five-minute drive to our resort.

    Though blemished with overwhelming winds, our beachside resort was stunning. Painted in traditional Greek blue and white, the multi-acre resort offered over a hundred rooms in five different buildings on a small hill overlooking the sea. The tiled lobby always had a breeze coming through because the doors were constantly open. It was modernized with Internet, couches, and a gift shop. Just outside the lobby was a pool already lined with tattooed, muscle-bound douchebags and girls in bikinis. The seven-Euro-per-beer (which equated to $11) resort bar stood adjacent to the pool. Already thinking ahead to the night, I strolled through the pool area, went to my room, and took a nap to recharge.

    My roommate situation was a mess. The second night in Athens, Wally, a soft-spoken fellow with a feminine voice was my roommate. When Wally found out another guy had an entire room to himself, he spoke with our tour manager and somehow swindled his way into the only single room on the tour. My guess was that he was homosexual and looking to have several one-night-stands while on the island–Mykonos is supposedly world-renowned for its gay population. But with the exception of a place called Club Ramrod, I never really noticed much gayness. I’m sure Wally would disagree.

    My new roommate was Raymond; I’ll call him Ray. He was a tall, ingratiating thirty-year-old man from Hong Kong and venturing out of China for the first time in his life. While he was a master at fixing gadgets, Ray lacked interpersonal skills. He had a loud, accented voice, and he forced laughs after every humdrum question he asked–all of his questions were yes-or-no questions irrelevant to anything having to do with anything. One time while I was taking a dump, he yelled from his bed, “Dave, have you seen The Simpsons movie?”

    One thing Raymond definitely had was tact; perhaps not verbally, but he understood that when I told him I was taking a nap, it was quiet time. He went about his gadgets silently, often leaving the room, and he considerately turned off the lights and TV. This combined with the absence of snoring made Ray a good roommate.

    I awoke fresh from a two-hour siesta to discover that everyone was already pre-partying at the pool. I took a quick shower, got ready, and headed down. There were two other tours staying at our resort, packing the pool area with nearly a hundred and fifty people. Being out of the loop, I soon discovered that there were three buses heading to one of the best clubs on the island, Cavo Paradiso. I cracked open my first beer and began my night.

    The club was impressive, situated on a cliff overlooking the harbor. A pool in the middle of the club was surrounded by three levels of walkways, patios, and bars. For the night I went 2 for 26 but just make-out sessions. The first girl, a brunette twenty-two-year-old punk rock chick, “had a boyfriend,” but I called her bluff and continued to pursue her until she caved and started kissing me. Ten minutes into our make-out session, she was stripped away from me mid-make-out while my eyes were still closed. I opened my eyes to see three vicious cock-blocking bitches drag her through a crowd. Story of my life.

    Her “boyfriend” comment amused me. I’ve never understood why girls choose to repel guys even though they’re attracted to them. These “tests” should only be reserved for the dating world. Why these girls choose to test guys at clubs thousands of miles away from home perplexes me.

    The second girl was a thirty-seven-year-old Greek Australian. She had apparently come to Greece looking for love. While staying at our resort, she and a twenty-four-year-old bartender had gone on a candlelight dinner date after his shift. She told me he was supposed to meet her at the club, but I convinced her that I was cooler than him. We made out but not without apprehension. Every fifteen seconds or so, she would stop kissing me and look around the club to see if he had arrived. Then she would kiss me some more. We made out in intervals ranging from six seconds to forty-five seconds. Things never got further because of the bartender-lovebird factor, and because her hideously overweight roommate was observing us like one of those haunted house paintings where only the eyes move. The fully clothed roommate had stayed in the shade by the pool reading Harry Potter all day. I let Harry Potter win the battle, and I took the next bus home. When I arrived back at the resort, the sun was about to rise.

    The next morning I walked into the cafeteria for breakfast wearing the same green T-shirt from the night before. I sat down with ten people from my tour, and within five minutes, I was bombarded with questions and comments. “Who was the cougar you were making out with?” “I saw you by the bathroom eating some chick’s face.” “Damn, Dave, you had quite the night.”

    Bastards.

    At least three of the ten people at the table had witnessed me hook up–all three were girls; two of them were of the “attractive six.” First of all, I could automatically assume that none of these girls would hook up with me now. Secondly, thanks to these blabbermouths, word of my sleaziness would inevitably find its way to every female on the tour, thus rendering my “ten-minute-late” thing useless. I wish I could say I was devious and strategic in my way of womanizing. Unfortunately, all it took was a few blabbermouths to make me look like a dirtbag.

    I spent the day lounging at the beach admiring a hot Australian brunette with godly blue eyes I had crossed off of my list of “the attractive six I had a chance with.” It didn’t help that she was a member of the 25%-non-staring group. Every time I spoke, she turned away. When I sat in one of the foldout chairs next to her, she crossed her legs the other way. She didn’t even look at me once. She was far too smiley and friendly to be playing the hard-to-get thing, so I assumed the worst. Either I was on the wrong side of the spectrum of her “type,” or she had also secretly seen me making out at one point last night, and was now judging me as outright scum.

    The itinerary for the night was “party at the resort club.” After waking from a nap a little past 10 p.m. and then getting ready, I didn’t arrive at the party until eleven. The party was a major disappointment. The “club” was a joke; just because the music was blaring didn’t make the place “happening.” And the beers were just as pricey as a real club would charge. The once-crowded resort of a hundred and fifty people only consisted of forty on this night, Ray included. Maybe eight people circulated in and out of the dance floor, and all the cute girls from the other tours were already hooking up with dudes. I tried to round up some people to head to a club, but it was the same bullshit with everyone: “Nah, I think I’m just going to hang here for the night.” Fuck that. I didn’t travel all the way to Mykonos to have a “chill night.”

    After probing through everyone on my tour, I finally found an Australian guy on my tour named CJ who said he and “some of the girls” were heading to a club. I hung around this guy like a hungry rottweiler. He led me to the lobby where I saw three other girls I’d seen at breakfast; they were waiting for a cab. Two of them were ugly; the other was the girl with the godly blue eyes. My chances of catching a ride with them had suddenly been cut in half. 

    Despite a population–tourists included–of over 30,000 people, the shitty thing about Mykonos was their lack of cabs. There were only fifty cabs that circulated through the island. Those battling a recession might consider buying a yellow car and moving to Mykonos. You will flourish.

    After waiting in the lobby for well over an hour, the cab finally arrived. The driver refused to take five; as I suspected, the girls all made sure they got in first. In times like these I wish I were a brutal asshole; I would have thrown all three of the dumb bitches out, told CJ to hop in, and the two of us would have driven off triumphantly.  Instead of acting like the rottweiler I claim to be, in that opportune moment of radicalism, I shrunk to a poodle. CJ and I stood beside the shotgun door momentarily, both realizing one of us would be assed out. CJ had priority over me since he hadn’t been dubbed as scum yet, and the girls liked him more. I ceded the seat to him and stood by the road like a middle school loner, watching the cab drive away.

    I was stranded. I had two options: call it a night or party at Ray’s nightclub. I was wide-awake, so I went back to the club to fish for any scraps that remained. I was delighted to find a fresh batch of girls sitting around a table. I went inside to the bar, ordered two beers, pounded half of one, and then crept my way back outside. Six chicks–two of them cute–were at the table along with three dudes. The dudes were inexplicably situated around the ugly girls. I grabbed a chair and sat behind the two cute girls, slightly out of the circle. The two girls looked at me for a moment, and before I had time to say anything, one of them asked in an Australian accent, “Are you down to go skinny-dipping with us?” I was back.

    “Yeah, let’s go,” I said without hesitation. As it turned out, the skinny-dipping was all talk, so, in the meantime I focused on conversing with the cute chicks, eventually directing my attention to the cuter of the two, a busty brunette named Amy. Amy oozed sexiness, and I seized the opportunity to convince her to go skinny-dipping immediately. “These guys look pretty flaky; let’s just go right now,” I urged. Acting like she couldn’t stand up, she smiled. I got the message and gave her my hand; she grabbed it and off we walked, a pair of hopeful fuckers.

    I went naked; she was topless. I swam around in the 80-degree pool, stopping at the edge in front of her and pulled her in for a make-out. Moments later, a lanky security guard threw us out. “Spa only, guys,” he said. I got out, semi-hard wiener flopping, put my shorts back on, and walked to one of two spas. They were circular and right next to each other, reminding me of boobies. We got naked, but once we got in realized it was colder than the pool. Being in an optimistic mood, I felt it was a good thing; there was probably less semen floating around. She started yanking on my cock, but a minute later, an unattractive couple hopped in the other spa and came together violently. They ripped each other’s bathing suits; he bit her breast; she bit his neck; they kissed passionately while pulling each other’s hair. Their moans resonated. Instead of inspiring us, their ferocity made us uncomfortable. They reminded me of vampires. “Let’s get out of here,” I told Amy. We got dressed and discussed our options.

    “My roommate is sleeping; we can’t go to my room,” she declared.

    “We can try my room. I think my roommate may still be out,” I replied, my hopelessness concealed.

    I knew my room was a dead end. Ray was obviously crashed out at that point. My master plan was to get her wet to build up the anticipation for wild sex. I thought the walk to my room would give me time to come up with an acceptable sex venue, but my brain was on hold.

    When we arrived at my room, not only was Ray inside, he was snoring. Monstrously.

              “Uh, well I guess that’s it then,” she said, her body squaring away as if to leave. 
               No!!!!

    Out of pure wit, instinct, and experience, I came up with something brilliant as I rapidly walked toward her. “Let’s go to the beach,” I announced. Had I just stood there and asked, she would have seen my fear of rejection and lack of poise and possibly turned me down. Walking briskly while talking confidently was my way of deciding what we both wanted. She grabbed my hand, and we made our way down to the blackened sea.

    Before we fucked, I somehow got talked into going skinny-dipping in the ocean. It didn’t last long when we realized the water was four times colder than the pool. In addition, shrinkage had diminished my penis to a noodle when I wavered out of the water in obvious discomfort. I built it back up to normalcy with some foreplay, but the air was cold too. We eventually fucked on a foldout chair, but it was a major disappointment. Despite our efforts to remain on the chair the whole time, sand was everywhere–in our hair, between our naked bodies, on our backs, in our assholes. The angle of the chair made it hard to find a comfortable sex position. She tried to get comfortable leaning back in the chair, and I got on top, missionary position. But my knees kept slipping off and I was scraping the inside of my thighs, which didn’t help considering the sand that was grinding into me. We were both slender, but the damn chair definitely wasn’t designed for sex. If we hadn’t been so horny, we might have giggled at our silly predicament. But instead, we frantically switched places, which was even worse. When she got on top, the chair teetered like a boat, almost sending her plummeting into the sand. Our attempt at fornicating had materialized into a rickety disaster.

    To make matters worse, a shadowy figure with a duffel bag strolled by us mid-fuck, causing us to halt our already-awkward sex and curl into a ball with our thighs to our torso, and our hands tightly clasped around our knees. We looked like two campers getting ready to sing “Kumbaya” around a bonfire.

    We waited thirty seconds–trying not to laugh out loud–for the shadow man to pass before we made another feeble attempt at sex. Ultimately, with potential frostbite looming, my wiener maxed out at seventy percent. I couldn’t even finish, so she sucked me off instead. I doubt I had satisfied her needs. “Sex on the beach” is better fit for fantasies. Once it becomes a reality, provocative dreams are shattered into a grainy pile of sand.   

    The following day was being advertised as “The big day.” Supposedly, there was a huge beach party in the late afternoon at a place called Paradise Beach on the other side of the island. Buses were scheduled to leave at 3 p.m. After I rested, I put on my flip-flops, no shirt, and the same board shorts from the previous night. I was ready for anything.

    We began drinking at a beach bar called Tropicana. The beers were relatively cheap, giving me more incentive to consistently double fist. As the minutes passed, the people began to pour in. One hour and four beers later, the music was blasting, the place was packed, and hot women were dancing on the bar. The party had begun.

    There comes a time in every great buzz that is the summit in the parabola of our bliss. At this point, rules go out the window, self-consciousness evaporates, and we become lost in the cadence that is life. My summit approached midway through my fifth beer. I began doing something that I rarely do: I started dancing…with nobody. They played Bob Sinclair’s “Love Generation,” and I went absolutely berserk. I got up on a table in the middle of the party, still shirtless, and started dancing as if possessed by Justin Timberlake just after he fucked 2001-Britney for the first time. Three blonde Australian girls on my tour danced below me. One of them, Jada, who was part of the attractive six and the only one I still had a chance with, got up on the table behind me and started dancing with me. The two other Aussies followed. Down below, chicks were eyeing me; my tour mates were pointing in approval or high-fiving me; and the blonde Aussies were requesting me to pose with them in photos. On that July afternoon, I was the party.

    The three blonde Aussies, Jada included, left the table for a pee break and were quickly replaced by another hot blonde Aussie named Alex–not on our tour but staying at our resort. Ten seconds later, Alex and I were making out on the table. All I said to her in those ten seconds was, “What’s up?” accompanied with a smile. My entire tour watched as we made out, but I paid no attention. I had already blown it anyway. As for Jada, fuck it. She left, I was horny, and her no-bullshit substitute was doing a fine job in her stead. Alex and I continued to indulge.

    There also comes a time in every great buzz when a man thinks he is invincible. It usually occurs at the boundary between buzzed and drunk. Some guys use this time to start fights. Some guys use it to call women “bitches” and “whores.” Some guys use it to punch walls and thrash objects. I used this time to drink as much alcohol as possible; nothing could stop me.

    When Alex left for a pee break, Jada, appeared out of nowhere, grabbed my arm and asked, “Do you want to split a bottle of wine with me?” I agreed, of course, and continued dancing. She returned shortly with a bottle of white wine with a picture of a toad on it. The wine had to be legit. Lost in my euphoria, Jada and I–mostly me–mindlessly swigged that bottle empty over the next half hour as we danced on the table. Alex returned at some point, but Jada had reclaimed her spot on the table along with the other two Aussies. The table was small, only big enough for four people. There really was no room to dance side by side, so I maintained my favorable position facing the crowd while Jada danced behind me. Since Alex had already satisfied my drunken urge to make out with a chick, I didn’t even make an attempt at Jada. My killer instinct told me Alex was a sure-thing fuck later on, so there was no point in taking a risk getting caught making out with Jada. I continued to swig away, not caring about anything but dancing and drinking. I had no idea that my parabola of rapture was on a rapid descent. 

    During one of my pee breaks, Alex chased me down and convinced me to get on the parked bus with her. I had been dancing for nearly two hours at that point, and my buzz had transgressed into “severely drunk.” I followed her lead beneath the setting sun.

    The bus was loosely packed with drunks like me. In the back row was a lone dark-haired, blue-eyed cutie staring at me. Our eyes remained transfixed as I gravitated to them like a junkie to a needle. Alex eluded my short-term memory as I instinctively walked to the back of the bus, sat down next to the blue-eyed hottie, and began making out with her using body language and telepathy. I said nothing. Silence was probably for the better; had I said something, I probably would have said something like, “Who-r-ooo-Ca-I-sihere?” She stopped kissing me after ten seconds and said, “Wait a minute, you were hooking up with my roommate.” I said, “Pssh,” then smiled and laid my head down on her lap. Moments later Alex joined us and gave the blue-eyed hottie a giant wet kiss. A threesome was certain; all I had to do was stay composed.

    First came the excess spit. Then came the spinning. After making it through the bus ride and short walk to the girls’ room, I demanded a beer to feign energy. But before the girls could serve my command, I involuntarily collapsed onto one of their beds. They laughed, expecting me to get up, but I remained on the bed, motionless. Both of them got on top of me and begged me to get up, but my eyes refused to stay open. My end had come. The girls stopped begging when it was obvious I was a worthless pile of cock. They fled to the resort bar, leaving me alone in their room.

    About an hour later, when my bladder screamed for relief, I awoke. After pissing, I exited the room and slowly inched my way over to a railing and vomited my fantasies into the plants. I went back inside the lobby and collapsed into a couch, a pathetic excuse for a single virile male.

    Two resort employees awakened me sometime that night. They were laughing, and I, in my alcohol-addled brain, thought they knew of my blown threesome. Everyone probably knew. My day had come crashing down with the magnitude of the RMS Titanic. My once-legendary parabola of ecstasy on which I traveled now looked something like this:

     

    When I woke up again, this time in my own bed, it was three in the morning. As I lay there dazed, the disappointment of the previous day hit me in the face like a powerful cumshot. My cock and balls were about ready to pack their bags and leave. As for my sperm? They were probably looking at me like the warden of Shawshank, a million Andy Dufresnes unjustly imprisoned. I jerked off a short while later, but my important body parts still held a grudge.

    We left for the port around noon the next day. As we waited for our bus to arrive, I received several questions and comments about my antics at the beach party. While the girls silently eavesdropped on my conversations with an occasional glance at me, the guys commended me. “Dude, you were a party animal yesterday.” “Dave, I was in awe of your dancing. I didn’t think you had it in you.” “Whatever happened with that blonde?” I modestly thanked them, concealing the catastrophic reality. A long boat ride loomed ahead.

    Santorini

     

    It was beautiful; I had fun; but the bars all sucked, the chicks on my tour wouldn’t hook up with me, and everyone else on the island was on a honeymoon.

    Next.  

     

    Ios

     

    I’d heard good things about Ios. It would be difficult to top the dynamic opportunities I had in Mykonos, but I was hopeful. I came ready to party the first night. Unfortunately, I was ready too early, and I blew it. Like most European countries, people didn’t start partying until 1 a.m., but I failed to take a nap during the day, I got drunk too early, and when the night peaked, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I went to bed at 3 a.m.

    The next morning, after an uninterrupted eleven hours of sleep, I ripped the sheets off my body with determination to take control of myself. My body had betrayed me the previous night, poisoning my energy, my game, and my attitude, eventually sending me home at the vertex of the night. And I had let it happen. I had to stick to my usual plan for the two remaining nights: 3 a.m. bedtimes in Europe were unacceptable. 

    I am a man who likes to party at an optimal level. I take naps so I have a hundred percent of my energy: I eat an ample dinner so I can consume more alcohol; I drink three glasses of water right before going out so I don’t get hung over the next day; and I don’t start drinking until 9 p.m.–midnight for Europe–so I don’t pass out when the party gets good. Following these simple guidelines has done wonders for my ability to hook up with chicks and party with the best. My bedroom may be a mess, but my thoughts are organized spic and span with bookshelves and filing cabinets.

    I awoke from my nap just before 10 p.m. I still had a couple hours to eat and freshen up. I completed both tasks within the hour. Ios is a small island, its two primary locations are located on opposite sides of a small hill. You could walk from the main town to the beach side of the island in forty minutes. My lavish resort was on the beach side, so I took the 1.25 Euro bus into town to save time and avoid swamp-ass.

    Our tour was pre-partying at a brightly lit bar called the Fun Pub. We drank a few there and left a little after midnight to begin the bar crawl. Ios was all about the bar hopping. There was no bar that was considered superior. You just went from bar to bar and left if it sucked or got uncomfortably crowded, and stayed if the crowd was fun and the music was good. The alleys between the bars were narrow, and crowded in some zones where there were lines to neighboring bars. I was surprised at the overwhelming amount of European high school and college kids. They stood out like drugged mice, swaying and yelling and laughing for no reason except for the pure elation of being unsupervised. 

    After a couple hours of bar hopping, already 0 for 15 with my pick-up lines, a group of six of us, all guys, ended up at a bar called Kandi. I began talking to two elegant Brits who turned out to be sisters. I went for the taller of the two, a slender brunette with short hair. At nearly six feet, she looked as if she were straight out of a Vogue magazine. After discussing whether her hair was naturally straight or curly, she abruptly lifted up my shirt. She gazed at my stomach, smiled, and we continued our conversation. “Do you approve?” I asked.

    “Yes. I was just making sure,” she answered.

    “Ah,” I said, smiling.

    She whispered in my ear, “My sister can’t find a boy.”

             “I have friends,” I replied and pointed out every guy I knew. The sister disapproved of all of them. Dammit. I had to eliminate the sister, so I started pointing out good-looking strangers. She accepted one guy, so I approached him. “Hey, man, that chick over there likes you. What do you think?”

    The guy, an American probably from the Midwest, became starry-eyed. “Yeah, she’s hot.”

    “Let’s go.” Despite my leading him over to her, he got nervous, not knowing what to say. When he saw her lose interest, he walked away self-consciously.

    The sister got up to pee, giving me alone time with Vogue. I capitalized.

    “Okay, I have to kiss you,” I said, staring unwaveringly into her eyes.

    “You do?”

    “Yeah.” I pulled her in and allowed her time to retreat. She made no movement. We started making out.

    The “Okay, I have to kiss you” thing is one of my favorite make-out lines. Its success rate is probably higher than any other kissing line I’ve ever used. As long I can sense that the attraction is high, I speak confidently, and I stare into her eyes (no smile). I have been able to pull off dozens of make-outs with this line.    

    Things began to go south after her sister returned. Vogue began to lose her composure, and deep-rooted insecurities arose. Some of the questions she asked in succession:

    “Why are you talking to me?”

    “There are so many girls here. Why me?”

    “Don’t you think those girls are prettier than me?”

    I fed her ego like Jerry Maguire fed Rod Tidwell’s after he left him in the lobby for Kush. But it did no good. Without warning, Vogue stormed off. She began hitting on other guys, frequently turning around to see if I was watching. I watched her using my peripheral vision, never looking straight at her. I wasn’t the kind of idiot that would actually feed her immaturity. I posted up against a wall, observing the dance floor. Predictably, five minutes later she approached me and started kissing me again. I led her outside, only to watch her pull the same hit-on-another-guy-to-make-me-jealous thing. Fuck that. I will never put up with such bullshit just to get laid. I started walking up the hill, back to my hotel. It was nearly 5:30. Just twenty-five steps into my walk home, Vogue jostled by me and power-walked her way ahead, arms folded. There was a time in my life when I would have chased her down and tried to get her back to my room, but I have since evolved into someone who lets shitbags like that carry on within their own turbulent world.

    When I got back to my room, Ray’s bed was empty. He better have a story for me, I thought. There was no explanation for Ray being out this late. I conjectured Ray had gotten tricked into taking either ecstasy or shrooms, which resulted in him being passed out next to a tree or a bush mumbling commands into his wristwatch. I stripped down to my boxers and passed out instantly.

    Ray didn’t have a story. As we walked down to breakfast the next morning, he had these disappointing words: “I went with some people to a club. It was cool.”

    I was ready to go by 11 p.m. that night, but I didn’t start partying at the Fun Pub until midnight. If I were asleep before dawn, the night would be a failure. Only two hours into the bar hopping, I ran into Vogue again. Something was different about her. She was sober and normal. From the way she ignored her friends in favor of me, I could tell she wanted to hook up again. “If you act like last night, I’m not hanging out with you,” I declared.

               “I know. I’m so sorry. I just got too drunk,” she said. I looked away, but I could sense her staring at me, silently acknowledging her own idiocy.

    We didn’t fuck around. In less than an hour, I convinced her to detach herself from her lame sister and even lamer friends, and come party with me and my group. An hour later, we ditched the group and walked to a club that was conveniently on the way to my resort. The club would have been cool if I hadn’t come with her. But bringing a girl to a club is about as fun as bringing a Gameboy to an arcade. We only stayed for one drink before leaving. Ray had better not be home yet.

    Although I didn’t make it to dawn as I had promised myself, since I brought a girl back, I considered my night acceptable. It was 4 a.m. when I slipped the keycard into the door, and as luck would have it, Ray was inside, lying on his twin bed, just a foot separated from my bed. I told Vogue to wait outside for a minute. I went inside, and the begging began. “Ray, can you just give us thirty minutes?”

               “No, Sorreee,” he answered, turning away from me.

               “Come on, man. What about twenty minutes?” I was having flashbacks to Mykonos, only this time the beach was too far to be an option. 

                “No, Sorreee. Sorreee, Dave. Sorreee.”

    Fuck it. I opened the door for Vogue, told her the roommate situation, and we considered our options. We couldn’t go to her room because two of her friends had stayed in. Then she impressed me. “Whatever. Let’s just stay here. Hopefully, he’ll get uncomfortable and leave,” she said, placing her purse on the nightstand. Ray didn’t get uncomfortable. In fact, Ray turned on his side to face us the moment we started hooking up. Not a fan of entertaining a voyeur, I freaked out, and we moved to the floor between my bed and the wall. After lengthy foreplay, I took out my condom. As I put it on, I realized I wanted to fuck her doggie-style. Ray’s creepiness was too overbearing to remain in the room. I wasn’t about to put on a show for Inspector Gadget. We went to the bathroom.

    I do not recommend bathroom sex. It is bumpy, boney, and bruising. It was our only option. We fucked doggie-style in the bathroom next to the toilet where I had taken several dumps not too long ago.

    After finishing, she gave me her email address, her London phone number, and then I walked her out. I went back to my room and crashed, satisfied.

    The next morning began with Ray smiling mischievously at me as we packed our bags. I cut the silence. “So did you see anything last night?”

              “Yes. I saw,” he said, smiling.

             I fake laughed, shuddered inside, and finished packing.

    Two days later, as I sat on my flight from Athens to LAX, I pondered. How much longer would trips like this be enjoyable? What would happen when I’m married? Does the unknown lose its charm? It’s a scary thing to think about the future. I don’t know where I’ll be in five or ten years. I don’t know with whom I’ll be. But I take comfort in knowing that at one point in the continuum of time, I was the party on that July afternoon in Mykonos. At one point, I had sex on the shores of the Aegean Sea. At one point, guys like Ray and CJ and all the dumb bitches were a part of my life. I may die one day, but my life will last forever.

  • Rejection by Peroni

    Rejection by Peroni

    My corner bar, Jones, is nirvana.  If my bank account could support frivolous spending, I would be there every day of the week.  Whether it be for “The Groupie” cocktail made with muddled lemons, Kettle One and ginger beer, or for the prosciutto arugula pizza followed by the succulent apple pie ala mode that arrives to the table gooey  and bubbling. It doesn’t matter! I want to be there, eat there, drink there.  I would also frequent Jones every day of the week if people wouldn’t judge me for being there every day of the week.  Either way, I can’t spend my life at Jones, but the days I am so privileged to waltz in, I am bound to witness something…well…interesting.

     A few nights ago, my friends Meredith (lets call her Mere) and Danielle (lets call her D2) and I drove to Yogurtland for a sweet fix.  While there we discussed our plans for the evening. 

     “Since we don’t want to do anything extravagant maybe we can walk to Jones,” I suggested while crossing my fingers under the table and looking down so no one could catch the embarrassing excitement in my eyes.

     “Or we can take a gander at the Pleasure Chest down the street. There are always some interesting things to see,” D2 said while ignoring my obvious request.

     I complied with the idea knowing it would be but a mere portion of the night, while keeping my fingers intertwined in hopes that Jones could be the next stop.  At the sex shop I saw a muzzle with ears in a display (for bestiality fetishes), a glove with spikes (for masochists), a plastic arm with a hand shaped into a fist (for???)…I don’t judge, but I do wonder. 

     On the way home, I slyly asked, “Now what?  Maybe we can change and walk to Jones? Ummm…Or that bbq place, Zeke’s, across the way for a pitcher of beer.”  I added Zeke’s to sound diverse.

     “I’m not really in the mood for beer.  But sitting outside at Zeke’s sounds nice,” D2 said with hope for Jones.

     “I’ll do whatever,” Mere murmured.

     One of my favorite books, The Alchemist says “When a person really desires something, all the universe conspires to help that person realize that dream.”  With that notion in mind, I had an idea.

     “How about we flip a coin and let fate decide?”  Everyone seemed complacent about the scheme and agreed that one toss would lead us to our destiny.  Heads: Jones.  Tails: Zeke’s. 

     Mere flipped the quarter high up in the air, it landed and spun forever like Leonardo DiCaprio’s totem in Inception.  The anticipation killed me and I wondered if in fact I was living in a dream (nightmare if it landed on tails).  Finally, it settled down and heads faced up! I swore I saw George Washington wink at me at that moment.  I changed into a pink blouse tucked neatly into a high-wasted skirt, brown strappy heels and a white hat that lays low and angles to the left, leaving me a mystery to people on that side.

    Mystery Woman

     After arriving, we sat on “The Perch” where sits four chairs facing the rest of the bar, perched higher than everyone else.  D2 and I ordered Pacifico (after all that, yes, we ordered beer) and Meredith pulled out a card game she purchased at the x-rated house–a “would you rather” game but with “raunchier” questions.  “Would you rather have puss coming out of your eye or your butt.”  Ummm…that’s not raunchy, but I answered “eye” reasoning that puss from the butt usually means an STD of sorts, and that’s bad bad news.  I’d rather contract pink eye, thanks.  The game did not last long so we made an effort to positively judge everyone we saw sitting across the way.  Another girl, Shannon, occupied the forth seat so together we judged. 

    “Aww…that couple is so enthralled in their conversation. How cute.” 

     “I like that girl’s hat, she seems lovely.”

     “That girl’s top that reveals her back is so skimpy…but, what a nice back!”

     “Wait, there’s a sausage fest over there… the bar is split into two: guys over there, couples and single women over here,” D2 observed.

     I sighed deeply and wondered why fate brought us to Jones.

     “Wait!!! Tobey Maguire just walked in,” I noticed but pretended not to care. “Look, he’s with the couple we love.”

     Tobey Maguire is a vegan, I am a vegan chef.   DESTINY!! I thought this would be a perfect opportunity to acquire a new client.  We whispered about how cute he is in person and judged, positively why he’s with them and not us.  D2 demanded that I make googly eyes at him, sit up straight and act like a lady.  I couldn’t figure out why she wanted this for me because Mr. Maguire is married with kids (all vegans).  Overwhelmed by the pressure and two quick moments of eye contact, I exited to utilize the ladies’ room.  After returning, I noticed Maguire and friends left their spot to dine at a table.

     “Darn. Tobey Maguire isn’t in ear OR eye shot anymore,” I said to D2. “He’s married anyway, so whatever.”

     “Tobey who?!!? That’s Topher Grace, you idiot!!!!!!!!!!!!  Great. Now what?!” D2 frantically exclaimed.

     I failed D2…I failed myself…I failed the perch.

     “You should send him a drink to the table,” D2 said.

     Send him a drink!?!?  Send a guy a drink!? Send a famous guy a drink?! I don’t buy drinks for the opposite gender, EVER, they buy them for me.  My heart pounded, I started sweating, my mind spun into a tizzy.  It sounded like a ridiculous plan, but it also sounded kind of fun.  I agreed, under the terms that I didn’t actually have to order the drink myself.  They had to verbalize the order and send it from me, “The Girl in the White Hat.”  Now the real problem:  What drink should we send?

     The girls said a Washington Apple Shot.  Ummm, no thanks. He’s not gay.

     Facebook status repliers concurred on a Lindsey Lohan aka Red Headed Slut with a splash of Coke.  Funny, but no.

     A friend of Shannon’s, who had just arrived, suggested Pabst Blue Ribbon (PBR).  Oh, I liked this idea- cheap, and if he had any sense of humor at all, funny.  Jones doesn’t carry PBR, however, duh.  But they do sell Peroni, the Italian equivalent.  “Peroni Azzurro Nostra” —if my Italian memory serves me correctly, that means Peroni Blue Ribbon.  SOLD!  One cheap beer to the one celebrity at the table, please.  Send it. Check it. Sign it. Go! Hurry!!

     Off it went……

     We waited…..

    No response…No gaze our way. 

    I felt silly…

    …and the rest of the perch noticed…

    To ease my painful rejection, they each picked a person to send a drink to.  Challenge: Whoever’s recipient physically walked over to thank the sender, wins!  We embarrassingly roared in laughter while picking and choosing victims, calling attention to our section (from everyone but MY RECIPIENT).  

    Three Washington Apple shots and three victims later, Shannon’s heir to the apple approached her.  Winner!!!  He seemed nice enough and actually joined the game.  He sent a shot to a tall blonde directly across from us.  She and her friends whispered and shyly tried figuring out who sent it to her.  I caught her eye and yelled, “BLUE SHIRT DID! RIGHT HERE!”  She simply smiled and saluted, taking a measly sip of the liquid apple as if it were sent by Queen Grimhilde from Snow White… 

     The rest of the victim’s either ignored the drink completely or sent a quick thank you nod our way.  The responses were everything and nothing I anticipated.

     I sent D2 to walk by Topher’s (yes! first name basis! I bought him a drink for Christ’s sake!) table to make sure he received the beer.  He did.  It sat next to his MARTINI untouched!!!  Jerk! At least look around for the girl in the white hat who so generously provided you with a fine Italian beer.  Maybe I should’ve sent the sissy Washington Apple shot?!  After all, Washington sent us to Jones in the first place…

     Following his departure, I walked down the bar and noticed the shot the blonde dismissed.  I looked up to the perch and said, “Well, what a nice thing to do!”  I saluted the group and swallowed it whole.  It didn’t burn like shots normally do, because a Washington Apple is sweet, like the gesture of sending a person a drink. 

     Hmmm…perhaps a cheap beer is just too bitter, TOPHER?!

    "I prefer lady drinks. Thanks for nothing, white hat"

     I walked by Zeke’s yesterday and noticed a sign declaring that the establishment had succumb to the economy.  Poor guys…and poor us, we shall never indulge in outdoor beer.  I guess that means Jones from here on out…aw, shucks. Peroni, anyone?

  • Bolivian Visa Run

    Bolivian Visa Run

    One of the luxuries/drawbacks of being a quazi-illegal immigrant with a UK and USA passport living in Chile is that you must collect another tourist visa every 90 days. Combine this obligatory task with a love for adventure and mayhem and you have one happy Luke. My method of travel is to arbitrarily elect a “must do in my life” goal, then make absolutely zero effort with regards to planning or preparing for that goal irrelevant of it’s very possible dangers and pitfalls, and then head off in what I believe to be the right direction. Well a few weeks ago I decided to renew the visa and complete a “must do in my life goal” of climbing a 6,000+ meter mountain (roughly 20,000 feet) in the very beautiful and challenging Bolivian mountains.

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  • Ipecac

    Ipecac

    I do not consider myself an evil man. I open doors for the ladies. I will cross a busy highway to help a wheelchair up a curb. I don’t step on cracks to avoid breaking my mother’s back. In general, I love everything and everyone on this planet and do my best to contribute to our continued growth and development. But one hilarious and cruel evening, I faltered. This story is about the time I anti-poisoned Grant.

    This page puts it rather well … http://www.break.com/index/ipecac-vomit-prank.html

    (more…)

  • Fantasy Football- Not Your Average Fantasy

    Fantasy Football- Not Your Average Fantasy

    Growing up, my mother watched football and cleaned while my father watched Star Trek and cooked.  I acquired one hobby from each- watching football and cooking.

    My mother has been a commissioner of a football pool for more than 15 years.  The pool works like this: each week everyone picks the teams they think will win, and the person with the most wins at the end of the week goes home a winner.  No point spread…easy does it.  There is a “trash talk” section of the website available for disgruntled losers or hot-headed winners, but the group consists of my mom’s coworkers, my aunts and uncles, and my grandma, so needless to say, I desperately bite my tongue on a weekly basis as to not cuss out those who weaseled their way to victory.

    I utilize the pool to keep my mind actively up-to-date with the NFL.  But most importantly, I use it as a tool to talk to boys in a sort of damsel in distress manner, if you will: 

    Growing up: “Hot history teacher?  I’m having trouble with my homework…but worse, I’m having trouble picking between Dallas and Chicago.  Please help!”

    Now: “Hot boy at bar? What are you drinking? I can’t decide! Red or white?  But the real predicament:  Browns or Redskins? Please help!”

    In both cases, I secure(d) one-on-one time with the men I desire(d), discussing a topic that made me a more desirable woman!  I love the football pool for this – it has worked like a charm (with the exception of the history teacher, of course…he turned out to a horrible football pool advisor…oh, and my teacher).

    Last year, I took my devotion of the “sport” and trash talk to the next level- I joined Fantasy Football.  The league consisted of seven gents I know from high school and one dashing young lady: yours truly! Not really understanding the rules or the idea of Fantasy Football, I wanted to participate for trash talk purposes. I crave talking trash!!!  It’s the best, but please know, I can never back up what I say. I love mankind, I respect animals, I cherish my friends, I adore the gays, duh duh duh.  But sometimes it feels incredible to cuss, say something racist, indulge in language that will make me out to be a pervert, compare a gay to a goat, blah blah blah.  Half the time what I say doesn’t make sense and I never mean it, it just…well…gives me a sense of empowerment during moments of weakness.

     Fantasy Football works like this: 

     First: Muster up a bunch of friends who want to waste a lot of time and energy during the season managing a “football team” via their computer or iPhone (Blackberry phones are impossible).

     Second: Pick a date and time for a draft and spend more time and energy “drafting a ‘football team’” made up of a quarter back, a few running backs, wide receivers, a kicker, defense team, a tight end, and a few more to “sit on the bench” and wait restlessly to be subbed in for injured players from your starting line-up.  Each position earns and loses points for its good and bad deeds on the field: Touchdown? Many points.  Interception? Many lost points from quarterback and defense.  It accumulates as the games are played each Sunday, Monday and of course, some Thursdays.

     The day of the draft I sat on my computer with a scrap of paper inscribed with player names and defense teams.  I knew I wanted Peyton Manning, Reggie Wayne and Baltimore defense.  I trash talked the entirety of the draft…alone…on a computer…with a mouth of a Southern Sailor.  I did not succumb to the tempting “auto-pick” and ended up with a solid team, including Manning, Wayne and Baltimore.

     Third: Keep up with current events within the NFL and trade, substitute, drop, add players on your roster depending on their health, injuries, sexual mishaps, arrests, and so on.  Each member of the league plays another member each week.  So understanding your team and other players is crucial.

    I knew aid from a boy would be a bit more complicated than my other pool because of the intricate nature of Fantasy Football.  It’s not a simple “Who is San Diego playing?” …It’s “Who’s your quarterback playing? Isn’t Percy Harvin suffering from migraines this week?  Your defense has a bye, so you need to bench them and pick someone else up.”  What?!  How do you know Percy Harvin has a migraine?!?!

    Answering these questions would mean disseminating my email address and password to these strange men for adequate advice so they could login themselves and tweak my team!  I wasn’t that desperate, please, I could still use my other pool to make conversation.  So instead, I chose to prevail alone with advice from Sportscenter.  I quickly learned what players were on their period, who raped a bartender during the bye week, who to look out for in upcoming weeks, etc.  The vast knowledge that ensued in my brain quickly changed my conversations from “I know Oakland can’t win,” to “Peyton Manning scored me 49 points last week because of his long pass to Reggie Wayne, who by the way is on my roster too!!!”   Some scoffed at my “fantasy” talk, while others deeply cared.  It felt like a quarrel between people who understand Dungeon and Dragons and those who think it is buffoonery. 

    It became an obsession.  Sundays on the couch watching games turned into something far beyond that: an anxiety ridden stress fest of pressing “refresh” on my laptop frantically anticipating a score update. ALL DAY!  I didn’t want to lose to these boys – I wanted to demolish their jugulars with my fist full of fantasy points.  I remember one Sunday I had to attend a memorial barbecue at a friend’s house.  I walked in and immediately turned on the TV looking around to see if anyone else seemed at all interested in the game (or judged my behavior)– Colts were playing; I NEEDED TO SEE WAYNE AND MANNING!–  No one noticed except one anzy lad who also had Wayne on his fantasy roster.  We stood in a corner, fixated, enthralled, pathetic for thirty minutes until the game ended.  Wayne took our teams to victory that week, while we took ourselves to social despair.

    Lastly: Trash talk about how much other people in the fantasy league suck each other off, duh duh duh, blah blah blah. 

    Being the only girl in the league, I had to prove myself through vulgarity and racist remarks while at the same time deem myself as a lady.  Hmmmmm…I don’t think the latter is possible.  Blast! Maybe this year, I’ll wear heels while watching the games and making trades? 

    Last year, I placed second and all those who fell below me accused me of “auto picking” my team during the draft.  For the record, I did not.  For the other record, I actively changed my team all season.  For the last record, they are all sore losers bitter by their loss to a woman.

    I delibarated whether or not to reinstate my position in the Fantasy Football world this year and save my self-respect from further destruction.  After much internal debate and therapy, however, I chose to dip my dirty little toes into the mystical waters once again.

    We drafted our teams live and in person last week (my idea so that all accusations of auto-picking would be proven wrong) in a room with laptops on each of our eager little laps.  I arrived with a new scrap of paper inscribed with notes.  I knew I wanted Peyton Manning, but had the 5th pick in the first round, which meant choosing a RB over a QB (that’s what everyone advised me to do…ugh).  Anxiety swarmed my body after drafting Ray Rice as my first…I hoped that Peyton and my soul would be unscathed by someone else in the next round. 

     “Anderson Carrson” shattered my dreams when he snagged Manning two picks before me.  I yelled with rage and threw my pen across the room.  “She must be on her period,” they concluded after my fit.  Not for another two weeks, boys…TWO WEEKS!!!  

    The draft continued, I picked a stealthy team all the while shit-talking in a chat room to everyone who, by the way, all sat in the same room (we agreed we would only type the things we felt uncomfortable saying out loud). 

    I left that evening without my pen, my dignity and Peyton Manning.  However, I did gain Carson Palmer and yet another season that, although written in fantasy, is nothing less than a daunting reality. 

    May the best team win, you pieces of shit.

     

    DRAFTING from left- thief, loser, scoundral, Lovely Lady, jerk

  • The Virgin

     

    There are three types of girls I don”t trust: girls who are horny yet don”t have sex, girls who believe in pinky swears, and girls who say Snoop Dogg”s “Ain”t No Fun” is “their song.” If a guy suggested that a single line in that song were true about them or ought to happen that night, that guy would be “such a dick.” Sadly, in college these were the only girls I was able to attract, which equated to silliness, unfulfilled boners, and long nights of masturbating in the fraternity computer room. I discovered this poignant reality just before I started college.

    I met Mary at a YMCA Youth and Government event in Sacramento in the middle of my senior year in high school when she approached me during a break in class. “Do you understand anything about this lecture?” she asked. The class wasn”t even a lecture, it was a discussion. But this seventeen-year-old”s face was pure innocence. With her timid smile and puppy dog expression, the petite brunette reminded me of Katie Holmes from her “Dawson”s Creek” days. That night she made me pinky swear that I”d call her. I should have known she was a virgin from the start.

    I kept Mary”s phone number but didn”t call her until the summer before college when we hooked up at her place in San Diego and then again a month later. Both times she made it clear that she was a virgin and proud of it. Agreeing to blowjobs was a big step and her skills were sorely lacking. When classes started, she visited my dorm a couple times, always wearing a skimpy little skirt and always lying on my bed the moment she entered my room. She refused to kiss me because she “wasn”t that kind of girl,” so I ignored her and chatted on AIM. Twenty minutes later she”d beg me to come to bed and hook up with her. I should have thrown her out for attempted celibacy. I knew she had dropped out of high school her senior year to get home-schooled because she got in a fight with her friends, but I never learned why they fought. They probably called her a poser, and she called them sluts. Or maybe she got the same haircut or wore the same outfit to a party as a friend had, and thought no one would notice.

    Mary accused me of being too aggressive during those dorm room visits and called me sleazy for “expecting things to happen.” I called her dumb for thinking such a thing. We stopped calling each other after that.

    Months passed. As spring rolled around, I found myself in need of a date to our fraternity formal dance in San Diego. For whatever reason, I decided to call Mary, now legal, first. Every guy secretly dreams about taking a girl”s virginity. I guess I wanted to be “that guy” because it would have made me feel more masculine. Only later did I realize that a vagina”s tightness did not determine the quality of the sex. These days, I”d almost rather fuck a fat chick”s belly button than “take my time” with an inexperienced girl. I convinced her to come with the line, “Don”t worry, I”m not expecting anything to happen.” She ate it up. After getting her parents” permission, she agreed to go.

    When I picked her up that Saturday afternoon, she was wearing a puffy pink layered dress down to her ankles. With her hair, makeup, and nails were all done up, she looked like an oversized Barbie doll, and I was her Ken in my rented tux. Her dad and milfy mom took pictures of us in her driveway. It dawned on me that since Mary was home-schooled and socially deprived, she had missed out on the most hedonistic night of her high school career: senior prom. This dance was her shot at redemption. I think her parents saw it that way too. They must have taken twenty pictures with six different poses. Sex was still a possibility.

    The “formal” was held at the Hilton Hotel in downtown San Diego. For the most part, everyone doubled up on rooms to cut back on costs. Because I didn”t trust Mary”s ability to adapt to humans, I got us a cheaper room–no roommates–at another hotel a short cab ride away away. After checking in, we hopped in a cab and headed to the Hilton. The night”s agenda:

    5:30-7:00- Get ready

    7:00-8:30- Pre-party in rooms

    8:30-9:30- Dinner

    9:30-9:32- Dance

    9:32-12:00- Post-party in suite

    12:00- Special activities

    After the dinner and “dance,” all fifty couples–with the exception of six or seven sappy couples in love–headed up to the rooms to post party. One guy had a luxury suite on the top floor. During the two plus hours in his suite, I tried several times to pawn off Mary to other girls. Babysitting her all night was beginning to become a pain in the ass. Her hopelessness rendered my efforts useless. She insisted on sitting on a stool next to the entrance while everyone else partied on the balcony and in the living room. When I tried to introduce her to some of the other girls, she immediately put up a guard, maintaining she just wanted to be with me. I wanted to make fun of her with my friends, but every time I left her side, I would look back and see her staring at the ground in borderline depression.

    She didn”t want any beer, so I attempted to make her some drinks. Ignorant and inexperienced, I brought over a tequila-coke. She grimaced and handed it back to me. I took a sip. I grimaced and poured it out. I must have put in too much tequila. I made her the same drink with less tequila. She scowled and handed it back to me. When I took a sip, I agreed and then tried again with even less tequila. She shook her head and handed it back to me: “It”s the same shit. What the fuck are you making me?” I took a sip and was honestly bewildered, “I don”t know.” I stopped mixing tequila after that. I call myself a math teacher, but on that night, my inductive reasoning skills were far from sharp. Tequila and Coke is impossible.

    I schmoozed some apple Pucker off some chick to satisfy Mary for the remainder of the party. Halfway through her Pucker, she called me over, quiet yet giddy. “Hey, so you know what I was thinking?” she asked.

    “What?”

    “I think we should go to a sex shop.”

    I tried to stay poised, but I immediately felt a mysterious growth in my pants. “Really? Do you know of any around here?”

    “Yeah, there”s one on F-Street. I”ve never been inside, but my friends used to tell me it”s pretty good.”

    “Really? What do you want to get from there?” I took a large sip of my beer, absorbed with this unprecedented idea.

    “I don”t know. I was hoping you”d surprise me,” she said. From the look in her eyes, and the unwavering tone in her voice, I could tell she had been planning this for a while. She was hornier than I thought.

    “Okay, I”ll get something good.” She reacted by strategically changing the subject to a scene from the sitcom Friends, which was on TV at the moment.

    I excused myself; I had to tell someone since I needed some ideas. I found Tele; he was always full of ideas. “Dude, she wants to go to a sex shop,” I said.

    Tele began laughing hysterically, looking over my shoulder to see if she could see us. Out of sight, he began to speak freely and mentioned using a dildo, an idea that seemed brilliant. After all, she was a virgin. She obviously wanted to get fucked, just not by a real life penis, since she “wasn”t like that.”

    I couldn”t resist telling a few other people before I took her by the hand and led her out of the room. We went down the elevator and into a cab, which took us to the corner of F-Street.

    F-street was home to a slew of hoodlums, laughing at us in our Ken and Barbie outfits. Our flamboyancy stood out like skittles in a toilet. Drunks jeered as they passed us on the sidewalk. Guys across the street made it known that they noticed us. Even a group of guys in a cab slowed down to laugh at us.

    “That”s fucked up!”

    “American Pie!!!”

    Following the “American Pie” wisecrack, I heard an eruption of laughter, followed by repeated chants of the movie that was ironically paralleling my night.

    “Hahahaha. American Pie!”

    “Hahahahahahahahaha. American Pie!!!!”

    We remained quiet the entire walk to the store. She had remained poised through all the scoffing. It was me who was rattled. She had me go inside while she waited outside with the jugheads. Worried for her safety, I insisted she come in. She said that she felt more comfortable outside. Confused, I didn”t argue with her; she could stick to her virginity.

    I felt a wave of serenity wash over me as I entered the calm and resplendent shop. I”d been to a sex shop once before, but it was years ago, and it wasn”t nearly as big as this one, which was surprisingly packed with normal-looking people. I”d always imagined sex shops would be filled with scruffy dudes with skin problems. But this store actually had a higher ratio of women. Desperate for ideas, I spied on one attractive lady to see what she was buying. Disappointingly, she was checking out some sort of strap-on. There would be no strap-ons necessary for any sexual act I”d ever be a part of. I regained my composure and began my search.

    First on my list: find a dildo. There was an entire aisle dedicated to dildos. Some dangled freely from a hook, while others were neatly packed in hard plastic as if they were action figures. They came in colors: brown, mocha, white, even purple. Some had bumps on them. Most were penis shaped, others looked like orange construction cones. I briefly considered buying her one of the big daddies but refrained because it cost over $50. Fuck that. Somewhere in my mind, casino online I believed that I would eventually fuck this girl. If that was the case, then I had to buy her a dildo smaller than my dick. I settled on a vibrating metallic pink-purple bullet-shaped dildo five inches long with the circumference of a quarter. It cost me $9.99.

    As I clutched the plastic-packaged dildo–which came with batteries–in my hand, my imagination suddenly drew a blank. I had no clue what else to get. I was like the indecisive guy at the restaurant with the giant menu who always needed “more time.” Yet I felt pressed for time, worried about Mary being alone outside. What good would these toys be if she”d been kidnapped. Young, clueless, and in a hurry, I bought a couple packs of flavored sex lotion. One was strawberry, the other blueberry. I walked up to the counter expecting to be intricately assessed and judged by the store clerk. But the pierced gothic chick hardly spared me a glance. I paid in cash, clutched my brown paper bag, and exited. 

    I found Mary alone standing against the outside wall, calm as ever. Mary”s composure flabbergasted me; I”d assumed a virgin like her would be frantically asking me questions like, “So what”d you get!?” or “Can I see?” or “How many things did you buy?” Her behavior made no sense, which led me to believe she probably already knew what I”d bought. Angered by my predictability, we found a cab and went back to the hotel.

    Back in our room, Mary”s eyes had a distinct flicker in them as she opened up the bag. She knew I”d buy her a dildo. It was obvious. She had probably always been too much of a wimp to do it herself and had manipulated me to perfection. She barely noticed the sex lotion. I clumsily opened the plastic packaging of the dildo, and we both got naked.

    To tease her, I laid the dildo on the bed and poured the lotion on her pussy before I went down on her. In addition to tasting like strawberry syrup mixed with malaria medicine, the lotion looked grossly similar to blood. Disgusted, I stopped: the lotion had a stinging side effect on her labia. Mary started laughing, then her eyes welled up and she begged me to lick it off. I did so fruitlessly. 

    To save my sexual opportunity, I grabbed the dildo and started sticking it in and out. I felt awkward, like I was jerking off another guy. When I politely asked her to do it, she refused: “No, it”s too weird.” I continued, but the action went from cool and new, to boring and lame, to frustrating and irritating when my hand started to cramp. She reacted sporadically with pain and then pleasure as the dildo slowly loosened up her confused vagina. The vibrating option was a huge disappointment. There were three levels: slow, medium, and full blast. Since I wanted her to get going, I had immediately started on the full blast level. But it was pathetic, perhaps the level of a vibrating cell phone.

    After maybe fifteen minutes, she finally had enough. She grabbed my wrist and guided my dildo-pumping hand away from her. She wasn”t panting; she wasn”t flustered; and she definitely hadn”t reached an orgasm. Accepting Mary”s doomed climax, I laid on my back and awaited my turn. Mary had told me a few times before that she “hated penises.” She claimed that the big vein down the middle reminded her of a monster. With her tainted mindset she brought out my cock and wouldn”t even wrap her lips around it. Her skills had actually devolved since I first knew her. I didn”t know that was possible. She just licked it like a blow pop.

    Using all my imagination, I was able to come. She made me promise that I would warn her beforehand, but I didn”t. The first squirt went up her left nostril. She half-sneezed-half-burped and then yelled, “Dave! What the fuck!? I told you to tell me!” As I lay down I murmured, “Sorry.”

    She ran to the bathroom to wash up. Through the closed bathroom door I could hear the running sink, some mild splashing, and a several spits. Then a blow dryer started blaring. When she came out of the bathroom, the yelling commenced. “I can”t believe you did that!” she screamed. “You know I hate cum!”

                “Sorry. I guess I got lost in the moment,” I said, lying naked on top of the covers, one leg on the bed, the other hanging over the side.

                “Bullshit. You”re an asshole.” Naked, she started rummaging through her pink suitcase, and grabbed something fluffy–a robe probably–and returned to the bathroom with a noisy slam.

    The next day began with her apologizing for yelling at me. To make her feel better, I said it was my fault for failing to warn her before blasting. Suddenly cheery, she asked about my plans for the upcoming weekends. I made up some crap about studying for exams and suggested we make plans after finals were over. We finished packing and left. We drove in silence.

    I never called her again. I was over trying for something that probably sucked anyway. And she was probably done with me as well. For one, blowing my load in her mouth probably “violated her trust.” Two, I was terrible with the dildo, yielding minimal moans.   

    A week later, she called and began asking lame questions: how my classes were going, how was my week. Dumb. Then came the purpose of the phone call:

    “So, Dave, this dildo is all fucked up. How do you put it on full blast again?”

    I explained to her how to twist the bottom and solved her problem. She asked me some follow-up questions about summer plans and shit, but they were all obvious cover-up questions. She probably fucked that poor dildo silly for the next couple weeks, or months, or years.

    I hope she”s had sex by now. She”d probably be a lot cooler.