Emperor Thread - PDF Format

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PUBLISHED BY CHUCKPALAHNIUK.NET
a writer’s cult.
Editorial Staff – Mirka Hodurova (mirkah), Hattie (SnowWhite), and Dennis Widmyer (Dennis).
Layout by Mirka Hodurova, Rita Su (origamiLips), and Tuffy the Dump Truck (Tuffy the Dump
Truck). Book design and frontispiece by Tuffy the Dump Truck.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and
incidents are either the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. And if you
believe that, Chuck, you’ll buy pretty much anything.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cult, The.
Everyone On This Board Has Died, This Means I Get To Be Emperor / chuckpalahniuk.net:
a writer’s cult. – electronic ed.
p. df.
1. Anecdotes – of varying quality. 2. Hyperbole – perhaps some. 3. Humor – internet.
4. Achievement – whatever the opposite of it is. 5. Things we can laugh about - finally.
I. Title.
CP2004.E229OMFG 2003
223’.54—cd12
20040221
ISBN Uh… no.
Copyright © 2003 – 2004 by the original authors. All rights reserved and God bless America.
February 21, 2004
Online Edition
For Chuck.
Love, The Cult.
21 February 2004
Posted by prototype on 06-13-2003 02:42 AM:
Everyone On This Board Has Died,
This Means I Get to Be Emperor…
Since everyone is dead, I decided to start a new thread for absolutely ridiculous stories of
whatever the opposite of accomplishment is.
#1)
When I was 14, I had my first girlfriend. It was probably a pretty typical
relationship for 14 year olds. We went to see Forrest Gump on a date. This was after we'd been
dating for three months. During the scene where Jenny and Forrest reunite in the center of the
pond in DC, I got a bit sniffly, a bit teary.
At the end, where he says "Little Forrest wrote you a card. He said not to read it, so I
didn't. I'm just gonna put it...here..." and the envelope says "mom," I lost it. I started bawling.
Nothing spastic, but we had chest contractions, full tears and snot. Not dignified, but an honest
reaction.
At the end of the film, my girlfriend stands up and says "You know, there's a fine line
between sensitive and pussy, and you just crossed it. We're breaking up."
And that was that.
As a bonus post script to the story, when she walked out, I turned around and my Global
Studies teacher had witnessed the whole ordeal. I used to brutally mock him in class. He was also
the football coach. He was looking right at me and laughing. So the next school day, before he
could do anything or say anything I threw my book at his head from the third row in the class.
That got me a few detentions...
Posted by Aurelius Caulfield on 06-13-2003 03:06 AM:
You know, before I read that, I was feeling a little depressed. Now I am filled with glee.
Thanks proto.
My story has no humor. It is not, however, some mushy crap, as it may first appear to be.
So read it all.
In tenth grade, during Biology, I had a quiet emotional breakdown. We had a substitute
teacher that week, an old Jewish man with happy wrinkles bent around his eyes and a jolly
rhythm to his voice. He came to the back of the classroom where I was silently weeping and asked
me if I was alright, if I wanted to go to the bathroom, did I need a tissue, whatever. I don't
remember what the breakdown was about, probably something concerning my father. I am
ashamed to be vulnerable in front of anyone and so I pulled myself together and said I was fine,
and thanks. He smiled and retreated to his desk, and class continued.
The next day I was completely different, vigorous and full of witty comments tossed from
my tucked-away corner in the classroom. This substitute had to be enthralled with me and my
shapeshifting characteristics, either that or he was just afraid, because he kept his eye on me. I
badly wanted to redeem myself with some brave or wild act, and the gods chose to plant an idea
in my mind that would eventually change me completely. I stood up and walked to the front of
the classroom, to Catherine Neimeyer's desk, then bent over and began to tongue kiss her publicly. Everyone leaned forward in surprise. Catherine herself was relatively surprised but then
began to kiss me back...hard. This was my first french kiss.
I went back to my seat and, with a smug grin, sat down. She followed me, sat in my lap,
and kept making out with me. In school this is known as PDA or Public Display of Affection,
which is prohibited. But the old Jewish guy didn't give a fuck and just chortled heartily while the
rest of the class pretended not to care.
Catherine told me that later that day the substitute asked her, "Is that why he was so upset
yesterday? You two got in a fight?"
To which she laughed and shook her head, replying, "I barely know that guy."
We went out for a while after that and the only good thing about our relationship was
making out every time we saw each other. A lot of things happened after we broke up, including
an incident in which I...pleasured her with my hands...which was out of revenge, but it's too
complicated to dig into.
That one incident, however, set off a chain reaction, which completely affected my personality.
Such is life.
So it goes.
Holy shit, Auri. That's bloody brilliant. I am in awe.
But riddle me this:
#2)
I used to be a big time cokehead. Well, pretty much anything at all except crack. Anyways,
I used to stay up all night with this one girl I worked with, she had an ex who sent her an $8,000
check monthly and a house all at the age of 23. I was 18 at the time. So we'd sit in her sunroom,
racing lines of coke off the table and drinking cheap whiskey.
The other thing about this girl is she had a prescription for everything. She had god only
knows how many different doctors, I'm guessing. She sold to some people, but mostly they were
for recreation.
So all night we'd do drugs, drink, throw darts and play cards. We would only listen to The
Very Best of Van Morrison and Jesus Christ Superstar (the one with the guy from Deep Purple, Ian
Gillian). To cap off the night, and calm down, we'd usually take some percocet and valium. (In
retrospect, it's a wonder we didn't die every fucking night) This combination produces some
weird brain states.
So this one time, the girl and I drove out of our way to an ARDYKE meeting (don't ask me
what it stands for, but it's a lesbian alliance my roommate and friend at the time belonged to). We
walked in, pronounced our freakishness by being straight lovers, and started making out.
Later, we'd both confess that neither one of us was attracted to the other.
Then I asked, and I felt it was justified and inoffensive and serious: "Is it true you can pick
a lesbian out of a crowd based on the size of her skull?"
Apparently, I'm an amateur phrenologist.
After they appeared less than thrilled and asked us to leave, we drove back to her place
and really got to drinking. I'm a small guy, about 130lbs and 6'2", so when I drink I feel it. I did a
shot and felt nothing. Eager to prove my masculinity, I did another.
To shorten the story, 15 shots and forty minutes later, I was on the second pipe of opium
being passed when I took a turn at darts. I dropped, passed out right there and woke up two days
later on her couch.
I panicked because I couldn't assemble all the details, had to ask what day it was, if I'd lost
my job, had I wet myself and if so - who changed me?
That's when I found out why she got the check every month - the whole time, months and
months, we'd been doing this EVERY FUCKING NIGHT, she had her three kids upstairs. All of
them belonged to her and the guy who sent her the cash, and she had never once mentioned them.
I never went back again.
Now that is a story. I've got more.
Also in my tenth grade year (I did a lot of things in tenth grade...this was the year I
became "rebellious") I was up late with a friend of mine named Travis. He was spending the night
on a Sunday, planning to ride the bus with me in the morning. Him on my bed, me on my
basketball beanbag, we were in a somber mood, discussing the ethics of modern education.
Something had been growing in me...the early stages of rebellion, which infect and fascinate the
host, both burning and tickling his mind. This was another time that I wanted desperately to do
something edgy.
"What if we just...went to California? Right now?"
Travis grinned a bit, not at all taken aback. "Ok."
"We could take my Dad's car...and I bet he's got a lot of cash on him."
"Ok."
We continued to develop a plan for running away, just fantasizing really. We both knew
we couldn't very well leave right there and then, but we had to do something. So we stole my
Dad's car, a little Mazda 626, I having just gotten my learner's permit the DAY before, and drove
south twenty miles to Jameelah Nuriddin's house, the girl of my dreams. She was still in her
pajamas when we got there, and she snuck out of her house and together the three of us went to a
park. We talked or whatever and blah blah and then I kissed her. I like to catch women off guard, I
guess. She thanked me afterwards, which was strange, and snuggled next to me on the ride to
Waffle House, where we had a bite to eat.
Later that year I stood up in the middle of my American Literature class and walked out,
declaring that I was "going to California." (I told that story when I first got to the Cult.) I didn't
actually make it out there until the following summer, when I went with my brother.
L.A. is not that great.
Okay, Auri, game on.
I told this story to Chuck at the 2003 conference and he got a kick out of it.
#3)
During the coke days, I used to bring a vial to work with me. I went to the employee
bathroom one particularly hectic day.
It helps if you've worked in food service and know what restaurants' employee bathrooms look like. There's generally filth everywhere, debris, an overflowing tampon disposal box,
and grease, grease, grease all over the floor. Since no one ever sees them, they never get cleaned.
The food particles on the floor mold and ferment creating a lovely fur carpet and enchanting
aroma to match the tampon box's bouquet.
So I pour what I've got onto the toilet paper dispenser, a little metal thing, and unfortunately for me, that's when a gust of air from someone opening another door blows in under the
bathroom door. My cocaine, the last of my cocaine spills onto the floor.
Without missing a beat I drop and start licking.
About forty seconds later I realize what I am doing. I don't gag. I just stop and think
"Maybe it's time to quit."
I stand up and look in the mirror. There's an enormous, curled black pubic hair in my
mouth, winding out onto my lip.
Post-script: I quit for about two months after that.
My God. I don't think I can top that.
AHHHHHHHHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
I worked at Burger King for a period of two months, the purpose of which was only to
raise money to take to California. At one point I was beginning to get fed up - people of greatness
are not meant to work jobs like this, as you may know - and decided to set up a scam. I pretended
to fuck up and called in one of my managers, some helpless white trash mother with red hair and
a lip wart named Angie. She, being clumsy, typed her code in right in front of me. I still remember
it. 2-2-4-4.
Needless to say, I ended up stealing over $250 from the register.
Posted by The Gucci Ghost on 06-13-2003 04:43 AM:
Ahem
i once helped my best friends father "discipline" him. i knew this kid since 5th grade, and
one night a few years ago, we was chillin in his basement, and drinking quite a bit. his dad comes
down, wasted, and wants us to try some of his super hot salsa he got from Texas. i say, damn
that’s hot! and my friend says, it’s not that hot!
apparently his opinion on the salsa was enough to set his dad off, so they start, fighting. it
was pretty sloppy and my friend was winning, so i thought i would even it out, and i held my best
friend down as his dad got a few shots in. because of the alcohol involved he allowed me to
remain his buddy. i don’t really get trashed anymore
#4)
When I was in seventh grade, this kid used to make fun of me. I hated him for it since he
was barely a step above me on the social ladder, and I thought he should understand the cruelty of
doing such a thing. So I taught him a lesson.
During a social studies test, he left to go to the bathroom. I left a second after that. I came
back to the room, a room full of twelve and thirteen year olds and screamed "ANDREW SEXTON
IS MASTURBATING IN THE BATHROOM!!!"
By the time he came back in, the class was chaos. He was laughed out of the room. By the
end of the day, he had been tripped down a flight of stairs and shoved inside a locker (which
didn't close thanks to his girth).
For the next year he was called "Stickyfingers," "Butterfingers," "Jerk Bait," and sometimes
just referred to by the universal hand job gesture. At the end of the middle school term, about a
year and a half later, it hadn't abated. Not that every other kid wasn't experimenting with jerking
off by then, but he had done it in public, in school.
Now the story went someone caught him doing it into the sink, by an open yearbook.
At the end of that year, he transferred to a private school, someone I knew met him and he
said "I just had to get out. There were all these dumb rumors going on about me."
So I essentially cost him years of emotional turmoil during a fragile time of his life and for
that matter, cost his parents the bill for private school.
I don't think that was harsh enough.
There was a kid named Andrew Miltiotties (I can't spell that shit, it's Mill-tee-ah-tease)
who everyone hated. Mostly because he was just stupid and crass.
Well, Travis, Jerome, Andrew and I were roomed together on a trip to NYC our school
takes annually. We had harassed Andrew pretty bad at this time, but nothing serious. That is,
until he called Jerome a nigger.
I filled a sock with coins and bashed him with it. I think Travis choked him with the phone
cord, but that was after Andrew had hit him with the phone. We did a lot of other physical abuse
as well.
You just don't call my nigga a nigger. Understand?
i once told everyone at my school the magical story of how my father caught my brother
jerking off in the bathroom, and it pretty much did the exact same thing to him. there’s nothing
better than emotionally scarring those you love.
Auri, I hear you nigga. Uh, oops.
This one's kind of long, I hope someone will bear with it as I think it's funny.
#5)
I only took ecstasy once. I was king of the speed people, and had run everything but hallucinogens down to boredom. I took acid more than anyone I know, mushrooms like Flinstones
chewable vitamins and mescaline the way Chinese men munch on the after dinner mints at the
counter in their restaurants. I even took PCP once. But never E.
So this one time, my roommate and my ex-roommate (the lesbian from before) and her
new girlfriends all get some E and drop. They start feeling the vibe almost immediately, maybe
thirty minutes later and we go to a lesbian bar. This is not the fun you think it is. The two girls go
off to a corner to get frisky and my roommate ends up rolling his face off, dry humping a senior
citizen dyke against the wall of the club. They both seem to be having a genuinely good time. I
haven't felt a thing yet.
So I decide that getting my blood pressure up might help things out. I don't dance, so I tell
my friends I'm going home for cigarettes. I sprint the three blocks, and up three flights of stairs to
my apartment. I get there, grab smokes and think for a minute about the way LSD tends to react to
Vitamin C. Maybe it's just an urban legend, but it always seemed to work for me, and since E was
of the same ilk, I decided what the hell. I drank a half-gallon of OJ, ate a bunch of Vitamin C caps
we had on hand. I sprinted back to the club. Still nothing.
The friends decide almost immediately to leave and go to another club. I get in the car and
they ask if I want to smoke some weed. I'm still not high so I say sure. We pull up to the next club
smoking. We park.
Anyone who has ever been in space, or on a roller coaster where you get G-force will
understand the feeling I had where my stomach free floats and I drop to the bottom of the earth
without my head. I couldn't speak.
My friends start laughing and drag me to the front door. This is where the outfit comes
into play. I'm wearing a bright orange pair of polyester bell-bottoms, a yellow knit top and a
stovepipe hat. I tip the hat and start speaking in a broken Cockney accent saying things like "good
day sir" and "blimey."
Inside the club, to the best of my recollection, looks like the cantina from Star Wars. I start
spinning and screaming loudly "I'm hooome!!!" I proceed to drink two liters of water in two gulps.
I then lie down on my back in the middle of the dance floor.
BOUNCER: "Are you okay?"
shining flashlight
PROTO: "Yes, peace be with you."
BOUNCER: "Uh, you're going to have to get up."
PROTO: "The center of time is here. God's eyes are open on me."
BOUNCER: "What???"
more confused than irritated, people keep dancing around this scene
PROTO: "I said PEACE BE WITH YOU."
enter roommate
PHIL: "He's drunk. Oh, fuck, oh fuck, he's drunk. "
BOUNCER: "Well, get his ass up then."
I go to a table and wait for the roommate to leave. He warns me about being arrested and
tells me we're in a really bad neighborhood. When he leaves, I stand up and feel God rising up in
my throat, I scream "Liquid words!!!" and vomit all over myself the water I just drank. I hold a
hand up to my mouth to be subtle but only succeed in spraying it around like when you put a
thumb over the garden hose mouth.
I wander outside, stovepipe hate and bellbottoms and all and crawl under a car since I'm
cold. I realize that I got all muddy doing this and I was stinky from vomit anyways, so I take off
my shirt. Now I'm half naked in mid-30s temperatures, half under a car, half on the curb.
People keep asking me if I'm okay but all I can say is from a multiple choice list in my
head:
A) Peace be with you
B) Wipe them out, all of them (in scary Emperor voice from Episode I of Star Wars)
C) You and me, we're in this together now
D) Somebody put shit in my pants
Needless to say, people run from me.
I lie there and see across the street a giant videocassette. It occurs to me in a few minutes,
that there are no such things and I look back quickly, like I've just solved a mystery. It turns out it
was just a giant baby carriage. Oh. Then it occurs to me that there are no such things, so I look back
quickly and it turns out to be a giant leather couch under a light casting a weird shadow. Oh. Then
it occurs to me...
Three and a half hours later, my friends find me, panicked. They slap me and tell me
they've been calling everywhere, looking everywhere. My ex-roommate is even crying. They tell
me I ruined their trip.
All I can ask is whether or not the warehouse across the street I've been staring at for the
past few hours really has paisley curtains on the outside. They just wouldn't go away and it really
upset me since I didn't think industrial buildings usually had curtains much less such stylish ones
on the outside.
The next day, all day, I watched carts at work play themselves like accordions.
So I never took ecstasy again, needless to say.
Posted by twosmokingbarre on 06-13-2003 09:19 AM:
I lack any good stories due to my lack of emotions and that I stay away from drugs, alcohol, etc. to keep in pristine condition.
I fought off a giant husky that was attacking my dog in the park once. It’s not that much of
a story though. I was walking him and this huge white husky comes charging out of the woods. It
spears my dog in the neck and starts biting at his jugular as it is instinct for dogs to do. Well, I ran
over grabbed the husky by its neck two handed and tossed the dog skidding across the paved
pathway. It jumped up charged me and I stood my ground. The dog suddenly stopped glanced
behind it and the looked up at me again and then made the good decision and ran for it.
Later that week it went after my dog again when my sisters were walking him and they
had to run and hide behind cars from it.
Posted by framstedt on 06-13-2003 10:12 AM:
i have plenty of these kind of stories, but sadly no time today to write them all out. suffice
it to say, however, i had convinced my eighth grade class that i had won the pepsi challenge - the
prize was $5,000 and this was a real contest. i had simply lied. classmates believed. i was stunned,
so i exaggerated the story still further. i told them i had bought a surplus army jeep that was
waiting to be picked up on my 16th birthday. people believed that whopper, too. the best part of
the story is that throughout high school fellow student would sometimes ask me if i won the pepsi
challenge. years after college i bumped into an old classmates and he brought it up again. i
blushed with pride. the lie had survived all these years. again, lies are the only truths out there!
cheers.
proto, dude, i hope you're off the drugs. that's some heavy shit and although i have never
used illicit drugs of any kind my drinking has gotten me into some decidedly sticky situations. i'll
write about them later.
Posted by Fucko on 06-13-2003 11:30 AM:
Damn Proto, I thought I was a druggie.
Lets see, story story story, I got one.
A few months ago I went to Vegas with a three of my buddies. We were going to stay
three days so we had secured about an eight ball for each person, a few valiums, and a pinch of
weed.
Anyway, we party hard for the first two nights and all throughout the day. I think I got
about 6 hours sleep total during all three days. So our last day there, we're all a little tired but we
all want to go to a strip club. But we're thinking about the costs of actually going to one since we're
all starting to run low on cash. So we figure, cab fare there and back, cover charge, drinks, and lap
dances, its all going to add up. So we figure that since we have our own drinks at our hotel, as well
as our drugs, we should get a stripper into our hotel room and save some cash. Seemed like a great
at the time.
So what do we do, we call one of those cards that they pass out on the strip. For those of
you unfamiliar with them, they're these cards with half naked girls named Candy or Ginger on
them with a phone number you can call to "order in". Well, on the back of the card we have it says
that they also do strip shows, so we're stoked and sure that we've out smarted Vegas.
So I get stuck with the duty to call in and order this stripper, and on the card it says she'll
come over for $60, and upon calling I was able to get two girls for $99. Splitting the cost between
the four of us, it doesn't come out to too much. Giddy as all hell with ourselves, we rack up the
lines and down some rum, then go down to the casino to get some one-dollar bills to tip the girls
with.
After waiting for about half an hour like four little boys waiting for Christmas to arrive,
the girls finally show up. Even though we had asked for a blond and a brunette, two blonds show
up instead. One of which is a tad bit thick, the other of which is a knock out. So they tell us before
they can do anything, they need the $99, so we shuffle it over to them. Then they go on to say that
the $99 we just gave them was just to get them over here, and that they're going rate was $600 and
hour, each.
We looked at each other, stupefied at what we had just heard. Obviously these girls were
more than just strippers, so one of my buddies goes, obviously there's been a misunderstanding.
So we haggle with these girls and explain to them that we weren't looking for sex, just a strip
show. These girls are obviously annoyed and decide that if we throw in $60 each, they'll put on a
memorable show that we'll never forget.
Reluctantly and feeling stupid, we agreed and paid up. What we got was the lamest
10-minute show I'd ever seen. Before we knew it, the girls were gone, and we were each $90 in the
hole.
Needless to say, we finished all our drugs and alcohol in that next hour.
Posted by lokigod on 06-13-2003 11:43 AM:
K, I know it can't touch giant inanimate objects, but when I was 16 there was this girl I was
dating. Her name was kate, and about 2 weeks before valentine's day I started asking her stuff like
what was her locker number, and where was it situated in the school. Then two weeks later a
certain dark clad villain broke into her school with a glasscutter and Zippo lighter, at 3am on
valentine's day. Nothing was reported stolen, but kate found a valentines card in her locker that
morning, with a message at the bottom telling her to put the combination that was written in the
postcode squares on the envelope into the combination lock attached to the locker to the right of
hers. ...where she found, *drum roll* a dozen red and white roses! Needless to say she was quite
impressed…
We're best of friends at the moment, though we stopped dating last year
Posted by prototype on 06-13-2003 04:44 PM:
Fram- I've been clean for two years, thanks. I'm much better off. I still drink though.
Loki- awesome story. Ingenuity.
#7)
Somebody mentioned skiing. I've skied once.
When I was fifteen, I had to stop playing baseball. I had been a pitcher and was damn
good, my coaches all fed me the "with patience and grooming" you could make the draft BS. But I
threw sidearm and eventually blew out my elbow. So that was that.
Trying to find something else to do that was up and active, this kid I used to play baseball
with suggested skiing and said he'd even take me. I was psyched since that sort of thing tends to
be expensive and you need skis and all that associated shit, none of which I had the cash for or
knew anything about. So I went.
I figured "So let's go skiing. I'll even take you," meant to a slope. We went to his grandfather's cottage, by a relatively big hill type thing. The skis were made in the thirties. He said this
would be better for me to learn, no one to embarrass myself in front of. I couldn't argue with that
logic. So I got on the quasi-skis and we went to the top of the slope.
On the way down, the way too fast way down for my first time liking, I was impressed
that I had maintained balance. Of course, as soon as I had that thought, I saw a large bush and had
to get all swervy and off balance to avoid it.
I was about to miss it, though I was probably going to fall too, when from out behind the
goddamn bush runs a goat.
Yes, a goat.
And I hit the goat, smack in the side, tumbling end over end into the snow down the
slope.
The poor goat just looked a bit stunned and annoyed.
I'm 22 now and I don't ski.
Posted by Becks77 on 06-13-2003 04:58 PM:
Well to continue with stupid drug stories i got one.
One time my roommate at the time and a good friend went down to the valley to see my
uncle who owns a head shop (he sells pipes and "smoking accessories"). We had gotten really high
at my house before we went and when we got into the car to drive down my friend gave my
roommate and i some kolonopin pills. They are for people who have seizures and things like that.
These pills really get you messed up, so we took the pills and decided to drive down there. We
had made all the down there and got off the freeway at the exit and proceeded to drive towards
his shop. Well it was around four and everyone was getting off work so it was full of traffic. Just as
we start to go down the street we started to feel the pill he gave us and we were all really out of it.
So as I’m driving I’m not paying attention because I’m trying to focus on keeping the steering
wheel straight and i run into someone. We pull over and the guy gets out and says "Ohh its
nothing don’t worry about it". I was like ok whatever you say. I thought i was going to get
arrested but he just let it go. So we continue on the street and it happens again. And we pull over
and the guy says the same thing to us. I just thought i was out of my mind cause i really hit these
peoples cars but they said don’t worry about. So to make a long story short i hit about five different cars with different people in them and they all let it slide. I didn’t have to say anything. It was
very strange. How we got home i don’t remember at all because the pills make you forget things. I
stopped doing drugs now but i can’t forget how lucky i was to get away with all that.
Posted by Aurelius Caulfield on 06-13-2003 05:06 PM:
One time this Mexican kid named Daigo pissed off my best friend Emin and so Emin took
a shit on their front porch.
Another time Emin and another Russian named Alex set off fireworks in this old abandoned house and burned it down. I had taught them how to make napalm out of styrofoam and
gasoline the day before.
Two weeks ago, while they were on vacation, Emin, Alex, and I stole our neighbor's key,
broke into their house, stole a pack of $9 steaks and cooked them on their grill. And drank their
Gatorade. It was good.
Emin, Daigo, and Alex, for a long time, did what they called EDA, or Dumb Ass, a rip-off
of Jack Ass. You can imagine the kind of things they did. They've still got tapes.
The stories go on and on and on.
Posted by DoNotTrip on 06-13-2003 07:45 PM:
I am blanking on my stories right now. My friends would be better tellers of my drunken
exploits.
I remember one time when I was a lad, I was setting off fireworks in this guy's backyard.
It was obviously trespassing, but we were kids and we did not give a shit. We were setting off
M80s and the like as well as making chlorine bombs. We were having a grand old time until we
hear a bang that is somewhat out of place. We turn around and the owner of the house is running
out of his house shooting his shotgun in the air. I never ran so fast in all of my life. This crazy
shithead chased us for what seemed like miles in the woods with his fucking shotgun. He kept
yelling "After I shoot you fuckers, I am going to feed your balls to my dog." The strange thing was
that we were laughing the entire time (probably out of fear).
Posted by jane s. on 06-14-2003 12:06 AM:
Okay, with that kind of weird insistence, I will, Gucci. And I can't remember if I've told
this before, so some of you might have heard it.
Okay, I, as many people on this board probably have also, went through a "fight club"
period this winter. It was me and about 3 or 4 other girls, and we got our daily kicks out of
punching each other in the upper arms, thighs, shoulders, backs. No real fighting. WELL, one day
we decide it would be really, really cool if we took the obvious step forward and one of us got hit
in the face. Amber didn't want to, as she had work that afternoon (pansy), and Florence was too
scared, she said she'd go second if someone else went first.
So one day during lunch we were sitting around in the gym and going, "Should we do
this? Let's go do this!" and so we headed off to the girls' bathroom and locked the door.
I rarely, if ever, will say this about another girl, but Florence is HOT. She's Filipino, with
the accent and everything. Just to make the story a little more interesting, I guess. So I take off my
glasses and hand them to Amber, and I tell Flo to hit me right next to my right eye. She, like a
normal girl, is like "Oh no, I can't do this, blah blah." I'm up against the wall, flat-backed, so there
isn't any neck-snapping action when/if she does hit me.
I don't completely remember the sequence of events right after that; I remember I tipped
my head forward to look at Amber, who had cracked a joke or something, and then suddenly
there was this big red ball of pain, in my face and in the back of my head (when I had leaned
forward, I had caused her to miss; she hit my nose instead of the side of my face, and my head
crashed back and hit the wall). It bled and bled and bled, all over the bathroom and my arms and
face. It was the first time I ever had a bloody nose.
Needless to say, my nose cracked like an egg, but I couldn't go to the doctor because I
couldn't tell my parents (I was able to keep it a secret with a lot of makeup and ice packs). So now I
don't really breathe as well as I used to. I was pretty impressive looking there for a few weeks,
bruises all over the fucking place, two black eyes, swollen nose. I know it was a retard thing to do,
but I most likely would not take it back if I could.
Everyone got kind of freaked out after that, and we never did anymore fighting.
Jane: priceless. That, I think takes a tie with Gucci's as my favorite yet.
Suffering amuses, eh? My turn...
#8)
When I was sixteen, I wasn't allowed to get anything pierced. I had my ears done twice,
but always wore my hair down so my mom wouldn't see them. My new best friend had his
tongue pierced and his nipples pierced. Best of all, I found out he'd gotten away with the nipple
rings without his mother's knowledge for about a year. I hatched a plan.
I pierced my nipples that night with an old ear stud. It was surprisingly not painful. But
there was no way in hell I was going to pierce my tongue myself. I needed more.
Another new friend of mine showed up the next day and said that she had just gotten her
clitoral hood pierced, she said it increased the magnitude and frequency of orgasm immensely. I
said, idly, that I wished there was some way to do that for guys. She said that scrotum piercing
more or less do such a thing. Her ex-boyfriend then volunteered that he had one. I hatched
another plan.
That night I took a safety pin to my nutsack. It didn't hurt when I pierced it the first time,
and I thought it looked kind of cool. So I did it again. Three days later, I added a third. I waited for
healing to finish up so I could test out my new uber-orgasm.
Two or so weeks later, I itched like hell. And I hadn't healed much. But I was used to it
and expecting that these things take time. I went to my best friend's house to find that the ex-boyfriend with the piercing was sitting right out in the open adjusting his barbell. I accidentally
walked in on him.
"Dude," I said, "You put a barbell through that?"
And he said "Yeah, what did you use? A hoop?"
"No."
"A spiral?"
"No."
"Then what?" He asked, balls still in hand.
"Safety pins."
"Dude," he said, "don't those rust?"
I excused myself to go finish some homework at my house.
I checked myself and sure enough, they were rusted. And scabbed in pretty good too. I
struggled with them but they weren't coming out. So I hatched another plan.
I ran a bath. Hot water would soften up the rust (I was young...) and the scabs. While the
water was running, I went downstairs to get a steak knife. My mom asked what I was doing, and I
told her some gum was stuck in my carpet.
I took the bath, in fact, I sat in it for hours. Nothing changed. Those safety pins were
lodged good, the hinges and clasps rusted or scabbed shut. So I had to go for plan B.
It's good to mention here that I did think about telling my mom and going to the hospital
to have them removed. But I can't tell my mom I shoved something through my balls to get off
harder. I just can't.
So I steady myself on my bed, put on Marilyn Manson's Portrait of An American Family,
and place the knife in prying position between the sides of the pin. I count to three and pry. The
first one hurts a bit but comes apart and I remove it.
The second one hurts a lot but comes apart too, so I take it out and breathe a sigh of relief
that everything is going to be just fine.
The third one doesn't budge and hurts way, way worse. There's some blood by this time. I
count to three again, and pull, the pin goes nowhere, but the skin is tearing quite a bit. I grit my
teeth and realize that this fucking thing HAS to come out. I count again.
"One...two...three: FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKK!!"
The pin came out in one piece, all three holes merging along the tear.
My mom comes sprinting up the stair and knocks, asking if I'm okay. I tell her "F-fine. Just
singing along to the music..."
You could have put a #2 pencil through my scrotum after that.
Post-script- But in the end, it healed just fine and you can't even see or feel a scar today. Thank
fucking god.
Posted by insomnomaniac on 06-14-2003 08:35 PM:
i went to a party. i had drunk alcohol before, but had never been fully intoxicated. thus i
had no judgment as far as how much to drink was too much. so it was at this girl's apt. i went with
my bf who's not a big drinker. i'm sitting in this room with him and a couple people, shooting the
shit, drinking a mike's hard lemonade, when the hostess of the party comes in with a strange
looking drink in her hand. it was similar in color to beer, but not quite the same, and it didn't have
a head on it, and she had ice in it, so i knew it wasn't beer, but it looked a lot like it, or maybe apple
juice. i asked her what it was. she replied that it was amaretto and sprite, and immediately asked
me if i wanted her to mix me one. i said sure, trying to be polite. i didn't know her too well, so i
didn't know that she was completely cocked off her ass at the time (she wasn't really slurring or
any telltale stuff, she was mostly acting weird, but like i said, i didn't know her too well).
she comes back with a yard glass.
a yard glass full of amaretto.
with a little pinch of sprite for color.
and being me, i drank the whole goddamn thing, all the while asking my boyfriend and
his friends, "what the hell is amaretto?"
"it's liquor," they answered.
"i KNOW, but what KIND??" i kept asking.
"what do you mean?"
"like, jack daniel's is whiskey, bud light is beer, what's amaretto?"
"it's amaretto."
it was like one of those Nut-N-Honey commercials.
So another stiff yard glass and pint glass full of the stuff after that, the cops showed up at
the party, so my bf and i took that as our cue to leave. as i sat down in the car, i felt this sudden
woozy rush. it felt like i'd sat down too fast. "whoa," i said dumbly.
"Are you ok?" my bf asked me, several times on the way home.
"I don't know," I kept telling him.
finally we got to the parking lot where we had to park because UMass is a shitty school
and treats its students like redheaded stepchildren. it's easily half a mile from the dorm i was in. so
we start walking. suddenly i found it very difficult to walk. "since when have all these fucking...
rocks... been in the way down here?" i remarked of the gravelly parking lot surface. my bf gave me
a weird look but we walked on.
we crossed the street, and then, lo and behold, we reached a bush. i became enamored of
this bush. "can we sit down by this bush?" i asked my bf. he looked at me like i'd just sprouted a
few spare heads, and then said, "no, we have to get back to your room."
"but it's so far, though!" i shouted, and then doubled over with laughter.
my bf managed to drag me over to the dorm building (me complaining all the while that it
was so far and suggesting that we camp out there for the night). behind the building are a bunch
of large rocks intended to keep people from parking in this one little strip behind the building.
"LOOK AT THOSE FUCKING ROCKS" i shouted. "THEY ARE ALL IN A FUCKING
LINE."
suddenly it was astounding to me (and a bit irritating/funny) how everything was in a
line. bricks were in lines, windows, the buttons on the elevator...but before we got to the elevator, i
managed to sit down, refusing to budge, by the back door.
we went to the back door, which you can pretty much only get into when someone else is
going out, because we wanted to avoid the front door, and security, and being written up by the
dumbass RA for public drunkenness. as i sat on the little ledge outside the door, my boyfriend
tried to explain to me that when the person we were waiting for came out of the door, he was
going to hit me with the door.
"WHAT ARE YOU THE FUCKING DOOR NAZI??" i demanded.
somehow or other we got into the elevator, and up to my floor, and down the hall to my
room (the doors all in a line were an obstacle i had to fight to overcome). finally we get to my room
and i'm trying as hard as i can to stifle my laughter, as it has just occurred to me that i must look
composed for my roommate (which is bullshit, b/c she and i are really close friends, and she was,
frankly, waiting for the day when i'd remove the pole from my ass and get fucking drunk as is
dumbass tradition). i managed to hold the resolve until the door swung open and i caught sight of
the christmas lights we'd decorated our room with, which were, of course, in a line.
after a while i moved on to shapes. my roommate and i had a gay old time taking my
sorry ass to the bathroom, as i began to notice, in a very loud tone at about 3 am in the middle of
the hallway, that you always see circles in squares (i.e. the doorknob set in a door) but you never
see squares in circles (a friend of mine after hearing this story named one of his creative projects
square-in-circle productions, btw). we got to the bathroom where i managed to piss IN the toilet
(quite the accomplishment for me that night), but all hell broke loose when it came time to get up,
and i found myself, pants around the ankles, swinging like an orangutan from the top of the stall
door. my roommate managed to get me cleaned up, and then we journeyed back to the room. on
the way back, i noticed (or rather, remembered) that a hallmate had an ani difranco poster on her
door. i began to pound on the door and scream about "loving ani" until my roommate dragged me
away after quite a struggle.
back in the room, i began saying things like, "the fucking hebrews and the fucking chinese. they think they're so fucking different. why dont they get with it and write straight, left to
right, side to side, like the rest of the fucking world? what the FUCK???" after a while my roommate told me that every time i changed topics of conversation i'd have to take a swallow of water
(the better to stave off the massive hangover she knew was coming). i must've drank about a good
two liters this way.
finally, lying in my bed, staring at the christmas lights, in the middle of a huge rant about
god knows what, i screamed at my roommate, "HEATHER I HAVE TO GO TO BED!!!! I HAVE
TO GO TO BED, HEATHER!!!"
ever the patient one, she replied, "you are in bed."
"I'M TELLING YOU" I shouted again, "THAT I HAVE TO GO TO FUCKING BED,
RIGHT. THE FUCK. NOW."
and then i passed out.
it's too bad my bf and roommate were the only witnesses, cause i could've sold tickets to
that.
Kitty - the "I shot the bitch" reference reminds me of another.
#9)
I'm sure everyone has seen that comedian on TV who does the things that get stuck in
your head routine. He saw some girl one day who said "and I never would have gotten that far in
college if it wasn't for my horse..." and he never heard the end of the conversation so it drove him
nuts. Same type of thing.
I was in a diner one night, a little drunk, so I was feeling loose. This was in the not so great
part of the city. This guy is railing against something, pounding on the table and out of nowhere
he stands up and launches his coffee cup at the head of the woman sitting across from him. He
screams: "NO, GODDAMN IT!! THAT'S WHEN I FOUND JESUS AND THE MILITIA!!!"
And then he runs outside. The girl followed him forthwith and I didn't get a chance to ask
what the crap that was all about. Odds are good I'll never know. It bothers me still and that was
almost five years ago.
So I got this idea to see if I could do that same thing to someone - become a creature just
lurking in their memory, niggling away at them. I was walking in to a grocery store behind a
morbidly obese woman when I turned to my roommate and said "Yeah, so even despite the lucky
bamboo, that's when I won the moose in the raffle." I caught a turned head out of the corner of my
eye.
About twenty minutes later a pudgy hand with fat little fingers grabs my shoulder and
spins me. It's her. She says "What raffle did you win a moose in? I have to know."
I backed off a bit and told her I wasn't at liberty to discuss that. Then I sort of ran.
So it worked. And I learned two things:
1) I can do anything I put my mind to.
2) The morbidly obese and psychotically persistent are quite scary.
Posted by lupus on 06-14-2003 09:19 PM:
Cute. In a decadent way. I love drinking stories.
The first time I got drunk was on a friend’s birthday. We had gone out to a brasserie and
apart from beer we had also ordered ouzo. But nobody else was drinking the stuff and I ended up
downing the two pitchers by myself (for those not familiar with greek spirits, ouzo is quite strong
stuff - about 40% or more). I was always a drinker and never drunk, so I figured I'd be ok. And I
was. Completely sober, walking in perfectly straight line and all that. We then went to a really
posh ice cream parlour for desserts. As soon as I sat down my head started spinning and the
contents of my stomach demanded to go out to see what all the fuss is about. I spent the next hour
in the bathroom puking my mother's milk up, all the while my friends pounding on the door and
telling me to come out. I did and when I returned to our table two thoughts flashed through my
brain in the same fraction of a second: 1) VOMIT! 2) WATER GLASS! Being too well-mannered to
just throw up on the table, I grabbed a water glass and with perfect aim puked inside. I remember
it in slow motion: me doing the technicolour yawn in the glass, my friends watching transfixed,
someone clapping, the snob, shiny-shoed arrogant waiter going pale and looking at me as if I'm a
cockroach. Finally he managed to suggest to my mates to 'take the young lady outside because the
fresh air will do her good.' I believe he then proceeded to carve a voodoo doll of me (that would
explain the next day...) As for me, I didn't show my face in that place for years and to this day I
never drink from their glasses...
Mighty fuck that's nasty.
And having been a waiter, I can say I wouldn't have waited to carve an effigy, I'd have
carved you into an effigy.
Can a person be an effigy of themselves?
Drunk tales, eh?
#10)
I'd always been the one beer drinker, just one beer and I'd stop. When I was 15 I got
invited to this party that this moderately big band The Chesterfield Kings were throwing for
Halloween. The lead singer or his girlfriend or someone was my best friend's cousin, so I got to go
with him. I went dressed as a priest.
I had a beer. I had a second.
And then, somehow I was standing up, and everything was all shady and shifty. The
room was vibrating and everything looked the way it did underwater. I was trying to light a
cigarette and just couldn't. My friend, who hadn't done much drinking that night, came and lit it
for me. He asked if I was okay. I said sure, why wouldn't I be? And he told me I had just finished
my 11th piña colada.
For the record, this came as a complete shock to me. I don't even now remember drinking
them, nor do I know where in the giant warehouse that this party was at did I get them made.
Did I make them myself? Maybe. I don't know.
But I assured him I was fine and went to sit down to ponder the new development. I took
the butt end of someone's beer with me. I sat in a La-Z-Boy. The TV was playing a tape of old
movie clips, looped. There were three clips, something about UFOs and the army and then
something about the Three Stooges. But over and over and over again. It was so very postmodern
it was dizzying.
The dizziness got to me, so I tucked my head under my arm into the side of the chair and
promptly started to vomit. It wouldn't stop. I kept going, and going and going. Soon, it was running out onto my boot, so I decided it might be smart to switch to the other side of the chair. I did,
a pulled up the cushion and started puking there too. I had worn gloves, which were now
destroyed from this, so I took them off (still puking) and threw them somewhere.
Where I threw them was in the face of the guitar player. He was less than pleased about
this, and then his chair. The entire party turned mutiny and said that they had watched me flood
the recliner with my vomit. I swore that it was like that when I sat down.
Honestly, I didn't realize everyone had been watching me and not the TV. I swore again,
that it was like that when I got there, then I charged the guitar player and punched him in the
mouth screaming "how dare you insult my honor."
I was carried to the bathroom , my shirt was removed and I was placed on the floor by the
toilet. It was all quite gentle - don't get the idea they were abusing me.
About thirty minutes later, I was told that I could come out if I was done, which again, I
swore, I had never vomited. They took me to the front door, opened it so I could get some fresh
air, lit me a cigarette and asked if they could get me something to wash the taste out of my mouth.
I asked for a piña colada.
And the guitarist knocked me out.
My friend took me home later.
Posted by The Gucci Ghost on 06-14-2003 10:57 PM:
when i was about twelve, i was slow, fat, and weak as was my brother. so we're playing
basketball at a school with our friends, and some fellas come up and ask if we'd like to partake in a
game. These kids were mostly little biatches, but there was this HUGE kid who looked about 19
playing. anyway, we won somehow, and my brother starts talking loads of shit to these kids for
some reason. of course, as soon as our friends left things got complicated, because the four of 'em
were following us home. so we walk as they taunt my brother, call him names, threaten his life,
etc. and in an incredibly idiotic bout of confidence i said: "you mess with him and you mess with
me motherfuckers"
now, i dont know how much this scared them, coming from a short fat weakling, but i was
now their target. we continued to walk, and the huge kid says something about my mother, and so
i say: "why dont you all just fuck off?"
Huge guy: "huh? did you just call me a nigger?"
other kids: "he did! he did! kill that white motherfucker!"
the huge guy picks up a piece of loose gravel from the street and bombs it at me, it
smashes my elbow, and pain ensues. so he grabs this broken tree branch and begins to advance on
me in my crippled state. thank fucking christ a vigilante stopped his car and scattered 'em,
because they would have beat me to a pulp.
i kept my mouth shut for quite a while after that, and i never, ever stuck up for my idiot
brother again who laughed at me by the way
my sister told all the kids on the bus who made fun of me in elementary school when i got
my first training bra in fifth grade. they psychologically tortured me till the end of the school year,
but i gave my sister a good pounding at every opportunity after that.
when i was in third grade a bunch of us formed a little soccer group to play at recess (i
know, geekville). one game i was a goalie against this "tough" girl. at one point the ball went
toward the sideline (which, brilliantly, was the wall of the school, and we, brilliantly, were using a
black ball, which got lost in the shadow), so an argument ensued.
now this girl, i'll call her "becky" had recently gotten glasses, and you DID NOT mention
them in any way or your ass was grass. well, as the argument got more heated, she shouts down to
me, "maybe YOU need glasses!!!" and it was all, OOHHHHHHH!! from the other kids. so i puff up
my chest and in my loudest voice i yell out loud and proud:
"I WOULDN'T WANNA LOOK LIKE YOU! FOUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
EEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYYYYES!!!!!” she walked very calmly across the hot top and stuck me, head
first, into the snowbank that had served as my goal net.
i confounded everyone when i came up laughing.
and then the bell rang.
ah, childhood.
Posted by lokigod on 06-15-2003 01:03 AM:
The first time I got drunk it was the school walkathon, and I had four orange flavour
breezers (back in the day when there only 2 dozen premixed drinks on the market, tops) and had
them in my camelback. So hot, sunny day + physical exertion + lack of water = me sucking the
tube something fierce.. I was getting drunk in front of the teachers, getting them to sign my
checkpoint card and all, and they didn't have a clue.
Other drunken moments in my life involve me smuggling a bottle of bundy rum into the
olympics, and not sure if I've mentioned it before, my drunken 3am rockclimbing at the school
camp.
Posted by lupus on 06-15-2003 01:20 AM:
We aim to please
It is also fun when it happens the other way round. You know, when people are eavesdropping on your conversation (or just can't help overhearing) and you deliberately talk about
shocking/absurd things. Following an old woman with shopping bags and going on how your
mom wants to put you into rehab again since you took her silver spoons to the pawn shop to get
your dose and you fucking hate the fucking place and, incidentally, does your mate know where
so-and-so dealer is because you desperately need a fix... I know it's infantile, but I enjoy it.
Another favourite is following a woman alone late at night, never letting her see I'm a girl, pausing when she pauses, crossing the road when she does, watching her grow increasingly nervous
and clutching her bag more tightly... Love that.
In that mind framework, I guess that whoever wrote the piece of paper did it on purpose
to puzzle the finder, jane.
All right Lupus, fair enough... but I can only find one.
And Jane, I'm all whiney because I don't laugh at my own stories, only other people's.
Particularly yours and Gucci's.
#11)
When I was seven years old, I got my first record. It was the seven-inch recording of "Rock
Me, Amadeus." I listened to it over and over and over. My family grew accustomed to this over a
week. When my mom had a meeting one night and my babysitter came over, she had not.
She showed up with her boyfriend, as usual and I went up to my room. About the twelfth
time I played it she came in the door. She walked over calmly, took it off the spindle and snapped
it in half. She said something like "we'll be having some quiet time now." She left and I did
something else, don't ask me what.
About an hour later, I went downstairs and saw my babysitter and her boyfriend naked
on the couch lying down and bouncing, or something. Now I hear they call this sex. She saw me,
yelled for me to go back to my room, and I did.
Later when my mom asked how things went, I told her "Heather and her boyfriend were
all naked and on the couch together. And she broke my record."
A day or so later my mom told me that from now on when she worked her night job, I
would be babysitting myself as an extra adventure. "It'll be fun. You'll see."
I could have given a rat's ass about the sex, I just wanted another Falco LP. I never got one,
damn it...
Embarrassing one? Let me think. Hmm, that's not a very good one but the first that comes
to mind. It is summer and we go to a friend's summer house for a swim (a guy that I happen to
fancy). We return from the beach, his whole clan is there: parents, little brother, grandfather,
grandmother, an uncle and a couple of family friends. they invite us to dinner out in the garden
and we accept. I'm hitting it off fabulously with the grandpa, he finally found a girl who likes her
drink. And we keep toasting each other. we run out of booze, so we cycle to the local supermarket
and get some more. We keep drinking. The grandfather after a while goes to bed, I go to a quiet
corner in the garden to drunkenly contemplate my love. Kid brother comes and says something
along the lines she's gonna climb on the tree (I could have imagined that part, though). There is
indeed a tree, some distance away from the garden wall, and I think 'what a load of crap, I have no
intention to climb any fucking trees.' Next thing I do, I start climbing on the tree, and from there,
go to the wall. I tightrope walk some ten meters of the wall, I do some acrobatics and land on the
roof. I walk up the roof. I walk down the roof on the other side and wave hello to the dinner party.
My friend's mom has a fit and pleads with her husband to get me down before I break my neck. I
say no worries and come down by myself. Next thing I remember I am in the bathroom throwing
up (of course) and the grandmother is making me some extra bitter coffee. Amusing note: the
grandfather the next day remarked that they must've had mice in the house - he could hear them
moving around the roof at night...
I have just realized that i have spent all night in the computer lab not doing the essay I
should have handed in a month and, um, nine days ago. So feel no guilt.
As for the story I guess the drunken saga continues. And this time it involves high school
reunions. I always go there with the full intent to show what a cool, serious, and all-together
person I have become. Instead...
Reunion#1. I didn't even know about that. I bumped across a schoolmate of mine who
told me. I was having coffee with a friend, so I brought her along. We went to a really nice tavern,
had oceans of lovely red wine. Apart from kissing my friend at the request of the boys, I launched
into a long, abusive monologue against a guy I never really liked. Then I kind of passed out and
lay slumped on the table, trying to focus at my knife for about 35 minutes before I gathered myself
enough to raise my head. Not exactly the impression I'd like to give.
Reunion #2 Tavern again. Red wine again. People keep coming in, so we keep moving one
place to the right. And at some point I move again one place to the right, but there is no chair and I
fall down to general amusement. That night I also learn that because of my antics in the last
reunion I'm now believed to be a lesbian. Normally I wouldn't care but I'm drunk and take it to
heart. after confessing to a girl that I was marking her down as absent even though she was
attending the classes (she didn't believe me) I go home, phone long distance the crush from previous story who was then studying in England, complain and demand to be told a story to go to
sleep. I fall asleep still holding the phone and he keeps yelling my name to make me hang up.
Reunion #3 Guess where we went. Yes, a tavern. Guess what I did. Yes, drank red wine.
There was live music and I somehow I was moved and started crying. I had never let those jerks
see me cry in six years. Anyway, by the time i got a grip on myself, changes had happened. Our
group had got quite pally with the next table. Someone there had his birthday and they gave us
one of their birthday cakes and cigars. I found myself facing an annoying guy that was trying to
hit on me. I tried to explain that it wasn't a good time for me and I would appreciate being left
alone. He didn't get the hint. He insisted and at length I had to threaten him with the cake. He kept
saying something like he wouldn't mind a cake in the face from a girl like me. To cut a long story
short, I finally threw the cake in his face. We had to leave the tavern in a hurry...
Reunion #4 Resolved that i wouldn't get drunk and I didn't. But some innocent joke ended
in one of my classmates offering me money to have sex with him. If you're wondering, I didn't
accept. I think i avoid reunions in the future.
God, my storytelling skills really suck now. The stories are really lame, but then, I had no
sleep or coffee. You probably fell asleep by now.
the episode's title is Pranks That Failed. Some years ago, one of my friends (let's call her K)
had an affair with a guy doing his National Service in the army (it is compulsory in Greece). He
was her first. They communicated by phone and letters. Her parents being conservative, she didn't
want them to know, so he sent the letters to her name but my address, and I played postman. One
day we were gathered at another friends house, and sure enough, she had a letter. We called her
and waited for her to show up in the meanwhile we got bored and considered opening the letter.
This, however, was WRONG. And it was decided that I should forge a letter. I didn't have a
stamp, so I used a... my English fail me now. Thingy like a stamp that you put on official
documents and the government gets money. Don't even know if you have them at the states.
Anyway. We didn't have a rubber stamp, so I drew one with a black marker. And I didn't know
the guy's handwriting - I tried to make vaguely boyish letters and remembered to include the
necessary spelling mistakes. We never expected that to work. In the letter i wrote that he didn't
want to do this by text message or in person, but he wanted to break up with her. He felt that she
had used him to lose her virginity and didn't care about him blah blah blah. She is a rather jealous
type, so I ended with him sending kisses to the girls and especially me.
When she arrived, she demanded the letter. We played difficult a while, then gave in. She
took a good look at the envelope and for a while got us worried. Turns out she was being careful
not to tear up the letter as well. She starts reading and halfway through, she has trouble breathing.
Then she crumbles it into a ball and bursts into tears. She is crying her heart out and we are frozen
where we are, because we simply cannot believe it. One of us is hugging her, another is
whispering 'Tell her! Tell her!' Finally we snap out of it and we tell her it is not true, the letter is
fake, etc. but she is so worked up she doesn't understand what the hell we're talking about. It took
a good quarter of an hour to calm her down. I didn't feel too good afterwards...
Well, I went out and did things last night just so I could have some stories to tell on this
thread. It's pretty life-enriching. Everyone should try it.
Emin and I went to the movies and I told Emin to pick out three women for me to hit on,
regardless of age and attractiveness. It didn't take him long.
1.)
Our first victim was a girl in a Teen Girl Squad, giggling with all her idiot friends, all of
them being relatively attractive except, of course, the girl Emin had chosen. This chick was skinny
and pale, with a weird cleft-chin and bangs cut straight across. Perhaps she was the younger sister
tag-along. None of them were older than 15, I should think.
I set the plan in action, tossing very specific glances, pretending to talk casually to Emin,
edging closer. Then I made my way over, using all my tricks (which include staring directly into
her eyes and walking confidently with a half-smirk), and before I had even gotten to them they
were all shifting their eyes in my direction and turning their bodies gradually towards one
another in conspiracy. I think there was a general air of surprise when I spoke to the Cleft Chin
and did not even glance at the cutest of the bunch (reminded me of American Beauty) . They
became deathly silent, grinning, and what-the-fuck-not.
"Listen," I began, applying all those hard-earned acting school techniques. "I've been trying to come up with a good pick-up line since I saw you, but this is really the best I've got. You are
absolutely beautiful" - I could hear Emin snickering and had to swallow my own desire to laugh "and if you would do me the honor, I would love to take you out sometime."
Dude, it couldn't have been any fucking better. She clamped up, turned a bright shade of
pink, tried to speak and kind of just mumbled. So one of her friends, acting extremely excited for
her little friend/sister/thing, told me the number, which I wrote on the back of one of those
BoFlex cards. My cheek muscles hurt I was smiling so hard, and I kept trying to turn away so they
wouldn't see me grinning. I suppose if they saw me they would only suspect I was giddy about
the success of the encounter. (Emin was gone, I found out later that he was further back near the
bathroom, desperately choking his laughter.)
I managed somehow to control my face muscles and said, "And by the way, I hope you're
into midget sex."
And then I winked, shoved the BoFlex card in my back pocket and strolled away. Needless to say, they exploded with giggles and OH MY GAWDs a few seconds after I was "out of
earshot" (they knowing full well that I was not).
Wow, that was longer than I expected. I'll tell you of the second and third, should you
wish to hear them, when I've got more time.
Bwuahahahaha. Yes. Yes, it was. Maybe I'll call the girl just to give her some lovin'. This
one is the worst of the three. I've written them as clearly as I can remember, but obviously it's a
little fudged. Adrenaline drowns effective memory.
2.)
Second victim, Emin chooses a slutty-looking Latino woman - somewhere between 23 and
28 by the looks of her - who is standing in line at the concession stand with an infant in her arms
and a three-year old poking at her butt. From my slippery grasp of sociology I would guess that
she had gotten pregnant as a teenager, been deserted, then done it all over again. I also assumed
she was single, wearing a double-caked gloss of pink lipstick, a cleavage-friendly black shirt, and
white Capri pants two sizes too small. No wedding band on her finger that I noticed - you wear it
on the left hand, correct? Her right hand was cupped under the baby's butt, so I couldn't see.
Anyway, I didn't have the balls to pull the exact same stunt with this chick, so I just
walked past her and then stopped suddenly - as if in shock.
"What are you doing here?"
She blinked a few times and replied, "Excuse me?" or something to that effect. She had
surprisingly good English, but her voice was strangely high. I take pride in my performances,
hence the reason I am an actor. I became flustered and spoke quietly, as if I didn't want anyone
else to hear. "You don't call me for a week and then I find you here, with the kids? I thought you
said you were SICK?"
She kind of grinned wryly, amused but peeved. "Oh, I get it. That's real fucking cute." she said that phrase exactly.
"Yeah, I try." The toddler was looking up at me with a grin and the infant was swatting at
her neck. The one emotion I absolutely cannot stand is pity, which I had for them at that moment. I
didn't know what to do after that, so I just smiled weakly at her son and grumbled, then walked
away. "Nice kids."
She shook her head and turned back towards the concession stand. Even Emin didn't get
much of a chuckle from that one. I begged him to let me approach someone hot and someone my
age, which would be an actual attempt and not a prank. He said fine, but we could not find anyone suitable at that time and so we saw the movie, The Matrix Reloaded, which I had already seen.
We found her after the movie. On to numero tres.
Posted by mirkah on 06-15-2003 05:07 PM:
Auri, your stories are giving me a Salinger moment:
"I went down by a different staircase, and I saw another "Fuck you" on the wall. I tried to
rub it off with my hand, but it was scratched on, with a knife or something. It wouldn't come off.
It's hopeless, anyway. If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn't rub out even half the
"Fuck you" signs in the world. It's impossible."
And a light-hearted story that really belongs to my friend who I will refer to as a "Absolutely Sweet Marie".
ASM met this guy at a bar and exchanged numbers. A few days later she called him.
Conversation:
ASM: Hi, "Michael"
Michael: where are you?
ASM: In the car
Michael: Are you here?
ASM: Yes
Michael: In L.A.???
ASM: yes
Michael: Can you come over
ASM: I don't remember how to get there...
Michael gives directions. ASM jumps in her car and drives over. He is standing outside
his building waiting for her. She gets out of her car and Michael is like oh hey, hi....?
ASM: I'm in L.A.
He's startled but laughs and they end up dating for two years. He never tells her who it
was he thought he was talking to.
Side note: for one of his B-days she gave him a brown grocery bag of bullshit. It was
actually cow shit because we couldn't find a bull even tho we drove all the way to Reseda. They
had a rather volatile relationship.
That fills me with joy.
Yes, it's certainly a serious issue!
I do believe I am a carver of Fuck You. With the last encounter, the karma came back
around anyway, mirk, so you can relax. You don't have to save the world from us.
3.)
Upon exiting the Matrix, both of us feeling that familiar Fight Club tingle of mischief, we
spot the last target just as she disappears into Legally Blonde 2 or some shit. She was with a group.
"That one, right there. And you're coming with me this time, you pansy." We trickle in
after them. It's a big stadium-seating theater, complete with the red plush and reclinable
cup-holders. It's a group of two white girls, a Spanish girl (my target) and one black guy, who
have made their way to the very top row. In retrospect, I must have been high on the night's
stupidity to not realize that these people were not here to see the movie.
I walked up the stairs, Emin close in tow, feeling the old familiar throb of anxiety in my
gut. You'd think you would become adjusted to it and it would stop happening, but for me, the
adrenaline is always there, it's just a matter of knowing how to cover it up.
They are tucked away to the far right corner and no one else, save two guys at the
opposite end, are on the row. Emin and I sit down next to them, the order being Emin, Me, the
Latino, White Girls, Black Guy. That is when I realize suddenly that the girl is not at all Spanish,
she is an extremely tan Caucasian. Disgusting, salon-brand, painted tan. Nevertheless, I had come
so far...
"Hello."
Tan Girl seems at first interested, her response a soft, "Hi." Then, as the white girls and
black guy lean forward in disbelief to look at us assholes, she remembers her place and becomes
Insta-Ghetto. "Whut tha fuck you want?"
"Just conversation."
I can't help but smile, and then as I look them all over I realize they are up here to fuck each other,
and we are intruding. Interesting. I wasn't quite ready to go yet, however.
"Maybe she doesn't want to fucking talk to you, herb," White Girl #2 says.
"That's fine. We'll watch the movie, then."
And I sit back and Emin gives me his famous nervous glance.
"Hold up. Let me sit next to this motherfucka."
Uh-oh, its Rodney King. The black guy gets up and the three girls scoot down. He sits
very close to me and leans into my face. He does not look tough in any sense of the word. He has
one of those stupid faces, if you know what I mean. "You betta git your ass up, nigga."
I look calmly into his eyes, which took some effort, as I was feeling the itch of violence
take its hold. "I'll just watch the movie, thanks."
"Oh, you're a smart ass, huh?" He turns to the girls, making a big show of this. "He thinks
he's fucking smart."
And then he takes off his shoe. "I'mma kick your ass, bitch," he declares, brandishing the
shoe. If I wasn't so caught up in the moment I might have mocked him severely, for surely he did
not mean to kick my ass in his socks. Beat me over the head with the sneaker, maybe? It was an
act.
"Alright, man," I said, chuckling. "You got me there. You win."
And I stood up to go. I began to walk away when - SURPRISE - he shoves me as hard as
he can and knocks me into Emin. There is something you must understand about Emin. He flares
quickly. He is vicious in Cappucino. I was impressed when he did not push me aside and knock
this kid in the face. He got between us instead, saying, "Whoa, whoa, whoa," as is common with
interluders. "You wanna get the fucking cops on us, dude?"
I was trying not to appear tousled, but I was angry. He was roughly my size. I figured
with one well-landed punch I could knock him over the side into the row below us. I pictured it
several times later that evening, in varying degrees of carnage. But I just looked at him and walked
away, leaving him to his "bitches", as he no doubt called them.
The two guys at the opposite end of the row snickered as we passed them, which, as you
can guess, made me feel plenty less angry.
We left.
Rough night, Auri?
And what's this concept of "going out" I don't understand. I'm not familiar with it. You
say there are things outside of this BBS? Strange. Like science fiction.
#13)
I am shy. Painfully shy. Anyone I've ever dated has been someone I'm close friends with
for a while first just because I'm really too shy to make a pass at someone.
Well, more or less. When I was 18, I decided this had to change. And I've tried my luck 4
times since. The result being I am shy. Painfully shy.
The first time took a lot of drugs to bolster me. I was all coked up, but not noticeably so.
Cocaine is a wonderful thing for the weak of self-esteem because it's instant confidence powder.
Christ powder. I was at work, cooking this one day and there was a hostess who I had had my
eyes on since I started. We'd had a few conversations over smokes in the break room, before I
dropped out and then she did too, we had both gone to the same college. We were both looking
for new ones. She thought I was funny. So it wasn't totally out of left field.
Later that day, even though I had resolved to do it that morning, I "happened" to casually
end up in the break room smoking right when she came in. We started talking, and someone
called me back to the kitchen, so I stood up. So did she.
I said "Hey, do you want to go out and get a cup of coffee sometime?"
And I've mentioned before, I'm not overweight, nor ugly. I may not be Brad Pitt, but what
she did was unwarranted, I thought.
She started at my feet, and looked me from there to my face, painfully slowly, like she was
mentally undressing me or something. She gets this furrowed look and says simply "No." And
then she walks away.
So I'm cooking again and I should mention that I had used the same pants to cook in for
three years by that point. They weren't dirty as I washed them once a day, but grease takes its toll
on cotton after a while.
I bent to get some hash browns and all of a sudden the kitchen got a lot cooler. I was
happy about this. Hot air rises, I remembered. I went on cooking.
Later I bent to get more hash browns and that hostess came back to tell the kitchen
something and she stopped and said "did you know you have a rip all down the back of your
pants?"
Let me add that, at this point in my life, I was a commando. No underwear for me. And
this rip was wide, WIDE open, affording a scenic view of my ass and the backside of my hanging
member.
I abruptly quit my job and went home. With no ass in your pants, leather car seats are
quite hot in the summer.
That was about enough embarrassment to keep me from asking someone out again for the
next two years. Seriously.
Alex, you masochist.
And Mirkah, you all the way across the country tease...
#14)
So two years after that I was into this girl. She was a physically perfect specimen in my
book, but that was actually secondary to how cool she was. She and I had the same birthday which
got her talking to me, weird as that is, and we discovered that we were both artists, both eccentric.
She seemed sooooo awesome. She was a year younger than me at the time, which meant she was
19. She got fired one day and it was my job to call her up and do the "Exit Interview." This is when
I was a manager. It's a "why did you quit," "what could we have done to make you stay" type of
thing.
During the interview, we broke off and started joking around and talking. After about an
hour on the phone nowhere near the interview, I decided to chance it, since she was talking to me
and had started the whole thing, I figured maybe this is creepy, maybe not. I asked her out. She
said definitely.
The night before we were supposed to go out, a friend of mine who had joined the
Marines was home for the two-day break between boot camp and whatever the other thing that
they do is. So we got pretty fucking drunk. There was all kinds of alcohol at my house, beer, wine,
whiskey and some sort of malt liquor type stuff.
The next day she comes over, I don't know how she got there since I lived in the city and
she lived with her parents in a suburb. She had no car. She just showed up. She came in and did
two things.
#1)
Made me feel the bumpiness of the tattoo she had gotten the month before right along her
collarbone. This is an odd way to say hello, but for the record, not one I'm opposed to.
#2)
Opened my fridge and slammed a beer.
Since we were both artists, and SHE HAD MENTIONED IT, we had planned to go across
the street (literally) and check out the last day of the Maxfield Parrish exhibit in town.
She looked out the window after the beer and said "Screw it, let's get hammered."
Oooookay....
So she finishes the beer. I'm nursing a whiskey and coke since my head is still a little
rough from last night. She moves on to the whiskey and by the time I'm on my second drink she's
had nine beers four or five shots worth of whiskey and has moved onto finishing the wine.
She's not even showing a bit of tipsiness. She's talking a mile a minute though, I can't get
in a word edgewise. It's more like watching a TV show than being out with someone. Or in, as the
case was. Then she promptly screams "We should go to my house and have a vegetarian picnic.
There's beer there."
I figure, what the hell, whatever she wants to do is fine with me, any plan I had was shot,
so why not. She fills a giant beer stein with wine and says "You don't mind if I bring this in your
car, do you?"
I was so surprised by this I say "Uh, no."
We go to her house and start cooking soy nuggets, fake chicken, when she passes me a
Coors in a can and I start it. She pounds hers and opens another and says "Shit! There were only
three. We've got time before the nuggets are done- let's go to my mom's house and steal her beer."
At this point, I really wanted to object, but she gets all flirty and says please so I say
alright. I knew that was a ploy, but what the hell. I figured I might as well see where the day was
going.
We steal her mother's beer. A twelve pack. We go back to her house, eat the mildly burnt
nuggets and she drinks four or five more.
She starts asking if I have a fake ID, could we maybe go buy some more beer? I tell her I
don't which is true. She tells me I have to call my old roommate, who is 21, and get him to buy us
some.
I tell her no, he's out of town, which he's not, but why should I call him? What the fuck is
going on?
She starts dancing around and calls me back to her bedroom. At this point, I don't feel like
I've made any kind of connection and I don't think I would have been all too comfortable fooling
around with her anyways, but she calls me and I follow.
She starts confessing all sorts of things, how she was beaten by her dad when she was a
kid, how her last boyfriend made her an alcoholic, how she was once almost dead in a car crash.
She's all welled up and says she's so glad I called her, she felt like we could have something special.
This is ambiguous and I'm about to ask her what she means when she puts her hands on
my thighs and says "So...why did you call me." She's all coquettish and I'm thinking maybe I could
just pull this out. What harm is there in just a bit of making out or whatnot?
I blink and start to say that I was interested, and then I notice, she's fallen asleep. So I
cover her up and open her bedroom door to leave and right there, right fucking there ready to
knock is the father, I assume she was referring to, who used to beat her.
I just ducked and ran.
That was the second time I ever asked a girl I wasn't already close with out.
Posted by DoNotTrip on 06-15-2003 08:31 PM:
I feel like posting a morgue story:
So I'm going to work kind of open it was going to be an easy day. It has been raining constantly and it makes me lethargic when the weather is so shitty like this. So I get to the morgue and
I am told that we have a big case today. What I didn't realize was that big was meant in a literal
sense of the word. The motherfucker was 500 pounds. He was a 34-year-old morbidly obese man.
The fucking guy was huge. He was a med school dropout because he got depressed after seeing
sick people. He basically ate himself to death.
It took 4 guys to move this fatty from the gurney to the autopsy table. I thought I was
going to get poked in the eye by one of his enormous tits. The man was also not very fluent in the
area of hygiene He hadn't shaved or cut his hair in months. His beard was touching his gigantic
breasts. He also had fingernails and toenails that were beginning to curl. He had feces and dirt
caked onto his feet and arms. This motherfucker smelled worse than a decomp case. When we
turned him over so the doctor could look at his back side, he had TWO asses. His thighs made
another ass. It was horrific. This man really smelled like shit. When we cut him open, there was 6
inches of fat under his skin. That is half a foot. When the autopsy was over and he was all sewed
up, it was a very close fit getting him into a body bag.
This fatty was one smelly piece of crap. I don't understand how someone can eat that
much. It blows my mind.
More pain. Fine. This is a really long one, but I think it's a good one.
#15)
About four months after the other bad date, I was still managing the restaurant when this
girl came in for an interview. She was gorgeous, so I made someone else interview her before I got
myself in trouble. She got hired. She only worked for about a month and then went back to her old
job, but I had talked to her a bit and she seemed cool, smart, well read and fun. She had been
dating this real shithead DJ guy who smacked her once and then got caught selling weed so he
was on trial.
Her friend Amy still worked there and about a month after she quit, Amy was talking
about her to someone when I walked into the break room. I asked how she was and she said fine. I
asked if she was still dating the abusive fucker and she told me no, he went to jail, and then got all
smiley and asked why I cared? I told her I just wondered, which was true. She got even more
giggly, the way scheming women tend to, and said that she thought I thought her friend was cute.
I agreed. I did.
The next day, Amy comes into work and tells me that Amelia, her friend, is going to Buffalo to buy a dress and she needs someone to keep her company. She says she mentioned my
name and Amelia was amenable to the idea. I think that this is a little odd, but what the hell. It's
not like I'm getting too far on my own. Amy takes my number and that weekend Amelia calls.
For the record, I had worked these shifts: Thursday night 4PM to 4AM, Friday morning
8AM to 4PM, Friday night 10PM to 8AM.
I was also in a five-month sobriety spell because of work. I had a compulsory drug test the next
Monday. During this spell I discovered that, probably thanks to the speed I did, I now had panic
attacks every once in a while. Anyone who has these will know that they’re no laughing matter.
Anyone who doesn’t have these, like I was before I started having them, probably believes they
don’t exist.
So she calls me up and tells me to meet her at the Wilson Farms down the street from my
apartment. I haven’t slept in two days. I’m feeling a little sketchy. But I go anyways. I get there,
wait for about thirty minutes and then go to leave thinking it was some kind of cruel joke. Amelia
pulls in with Amy. Odd, I think, but what the hell. They tell me to follow them, there are some
more people to pick up in this suburb. Odd, I think, but what the hell. I follow.
After thirty minutes of driving we pull into an apartment complex. Amy directs me to a
spot in front of this garage and I park. She tells me to come and ride with them. I get in the back
seat, and right after I do, three other guys get in with me, all dressed really slickly. Odd, I think,
but what the hell. We leave for Buffalo, which is about an hour and a half away.
It rapidly becomes apparent what we’re all doing in the car. Each of us thinks he is on a
date with Amelia. It’s mass dating, an efficient, possibly German idea. Amy starts the first of many
joints going, which I am by no means uncomfortable with. It’s when they finish the ounce between
the five of them that I’m a bit nervous.
We pull into the bad part of Buffalo. Abandoned buildings, bars on the windows. A gunshot. It’s like a fucking Dick Tracy comic it’s so stereotypical. Our destination soon appears to be a
trailer park. Odd I think, but I’m just along for the ride.
We open the door after someone gives A PASSWORD. And I realize that this must all be a
dream. This kind of shit never happens in real life. Amy, Amelia, the Bachelors 1, 2, and 4 all
commiserate with the man and girl who live in the trailer. There are drugs. Lots of drugs.
Ketamine, cocaine, crystal meth, ecstasy, LSD, PCP, GHB, weed, Lithium, heroin, hash.
Everyone circles the table like a fucking buffet. Except me of course. I can’t or I’ll lose my
job. By this time I am so fucking sketched out it’s crazy. I pull Amy aside and she says “Oh, by the
way, I forgot to tell you we’re going to a rave. You want to come?”
…
Because at this point, I clearly have a choice.
It’s when I see the trailer guy load his gun and stuff it into his pants that I tell her maybe
I’ll just wait here. I tell her I haven’t slept. She tells me what she can do. Amelia has agreed to let
me sleep in her backseat while they go to the rave. It’ll be okay because they’ll only be gone an
hour or two and the parking garage is dangerous so it’d be nice to have someone watch the car.
…
I agree to this because what else can I do and I ask when we’ll be heading back home. She
says before midnight.
It’s around 4AM, after not sleeping in the car, crammed between the back and front seats
because of all the insanity going on in the garage, when everyone comes back. They’re all burnt as
hell, drug-hungover. We drive back to the trailer where everyone claims a bed, a couch, a sleeping
bag, a chair.
I ask where I can sleep and the owner has a beach towel spread by the dog’s dish for me.
Odd, I think, but he’s tired and burnt and HE’S GOT A FUCKING GUN SO I’M NOT GOING TO
COMPLAIN.
The next morning I wake up to someone slamming the nearby bathroom door into my
head and yelling at me for being in the fucking way. We drive the hour and a half back, me
crammed into the backseat between the other contestants.
We get to the apartment complex I left my car at and it’s got a note on it that says “NEXT
TIME YOU PARK YOUR FUCKING CARS IN OUR DRIVEWAY WE’LL DO MORE THAN
BREAK YOUR WINDOWS.” And sure enough my driver’s side window is broken.
Amy says from Amelia’s car “Maybe things’ll go better next time!”
For Alex, a waiter story
#16)
These two women, very bitter, Jewish jewelry store owners used to come in every Monday to this dive restaurant I worked at. It was a family joint, so there was an expectation of quality,
but it was a shit hole so we were always short .
My roommate and I one Monday got screwed into having to split the dining room, just
the two of us. That's 21 parties apiece and if you've never waited tables, that's a bad thing. A very
bad thing.
The previous week, my roommate had waited on these women, the heifers all dressed up
in their furs and gaudy diamonds. We had a swapping policy. One week I would do it, the next
him. Last week, one of them hit him, not too hard, but still WHY WOULD YOU HIT THE
WAITER?? The manager gave the women free food. Our restaurant had been sued successfully
and it was obvious we didn't have what you'd call a crack team of lawyers, so the management
policy was appeasement.
So we knew that anything from that point on that was unacceptable had to be handled by
us or not at all.
They came in at about 1PM, and the restaurant was full. They sat themselves down in my
section, which again for the uninitiated is a very fucking rude thing in a restaurant that you're not
supposed to seat yourself in. I had 20 other parties, I was frantic.
These women always wanted fresh decaf. They would always refuse the first cup saying it
wasn't fresh enough. They also always ordered items that had to be specially made, not on the
menu, which is expressly forbidden by the text on the menu itself. But someone let them do it
once, so they would always say when questioned "We've done it before. Don't make us get the
manager."
That day, I didn't have the time or patience for them.
After passing the table once to go to the kitchen, I came back with a tray of food. They
must have been there at a dirty table for, oh, say a minute and a half before I waited on them.
Carrying this tray over my head, one of them grabbed my pants pocket and said "Excuse ME!" I
nearly dropped the tray.
"We want some service!"
I couldn't believe it. When she let go of my pocket, I didn't even respond, I took the tray to
the table and came back. they got quite huffy about the mess the table was in and I held my tongue
although it was totally their fault they sat down in a dirty booth.\
I cleaned it as they sat.
I left and came back to another table with drinks.
They told me I missed a spot. I went back, got the cloth and wiped it down again, bringing
with me their decaf. I went to take another order.
The woman snapped her fingers at me and told me "This tastes terrible. I will not drink
this." (It was, in fact, due to the business brand new coffee) She then proceeded to wipe the cup,
spoon in it, coffee and all, onto the floor and my boot, a new low for them.
What do you do? I was stunned. I just picked it up and took it into the back. I brought out
fresher coffee and took their special order.
Ten minutes later, it came out and I took it to them. They said everything was okay. Then I
came back again, and the woman grabbed my pocket AGAIN, and said that her salad smelled of
beef.
Smelled of beef.
She picked out a chunk of what was obviously chicken, tossed against the crotch of my
apron and told me to take my mystery meat back and have her "prepared another salad." She also
told me to get her a new spoon, since "you took my old one."
That was about it for me.
I told my roommate what had happened. We blew snot rockets all over the salad. And I
decided to bring her a brand new cup of coffee into which, to quote Chuck, "an amount of urine
had been passed..."
And the spoon that came out with it, had been jammed, uncomfortable as it may have
been, directly up my ass.
At the end of the meal I told them that part of their flatware had been inside of my asshole
and if they ever wanted to eat a sanitary meal they had best do it somewhere the hell away from
my restaurant since not only I, but the entire staff knew them and would gladly taint their food.
I also assured them we would deny it to the management and in public. I smiled and told
them I would be glad to take their check up, and to have a nice day.
They never came back while I was still working there.
I've had bad stories. But nothing of that caliber.
The worst one I can think of off the top of my head:
As I mentioned before, it's quite common for people to come into the restaurant in which I
work, look at the menu, and attempt to order an item that is clearly put under the 'LUNCH
SPECIAL' heading. People do this every day. People who have been coming to this restaurant for
10 years will do it, repeatedly, which makes me think that as you get older, your intelligence is
reduced to one lower than that of a trained monkey. (Also, people are always asking me if they
can have breakfast, even though it has another big heading over it that says BREAKFAST SERVED
ALL DAY.)
Most people will cease and desist after you point out the fact that it is not lunchtime (I
never work lunches, only dinner). But every once in a while you get some tough cookie who figures that they control you, or that since they know the cook/s personally, they can do whatever
the fuck they want.
So this one day a guy comes in with his two small kids, cute as buttons. I go over to take
his order, and he tries to order the lunch special. I politely and humorously point out that he cannot. He asks me if I please couldn't go check to see if they have any left over. I know, from
experience, that even if they did have some left over, the cook would emphatically yell "NO!" at
me and slam something down with force. So I told him no, there was no point in me asking the
cook, he could not have it (I should also mention here that it was Sunday, and that they lunch
specials are only served on Monday-Saturday, which was also marked on the menu).
At this point the guy basically loses it. He tells me he wants me to go back and tell my
manager that he wants to have the noon special, that that's what he came in for, dammit (saying
this in front of his kids, btw) and that he had come in yesterday around the same time of day
(about 5 pm) and they served it to him.
So I went back and got my manager and told her there was this ranting man out front and
blah blah blah, and she went out there and assured him that he could not have it. He argued with
her for a little bit, and then stopped.
So I went up to the table, asked them if they knew what they'd like to eat, and he puts his
head in his hands like he's in intense pain and says they're not ready yet.
So, I go back to their table 3 times over the next 10 minutes or so, and never does the guy
know what they want. Finally I just let them sit there for about 15 minutes and then come back
and let him place the order (3 cheeseburgers). As soon as the food comes, he disappears (I've no
idea to where) and the kids sit there and eat their burgers. I tried to talk to them but it was like
talking to deer caught in the headlights.
The kicker of the story was that when I went back and asked one of the other cooks why
she had given him the lunch before, she said, "umm, I didn't. He's lying to you." I pointed him out
to her, and she said, "Oh yeah, he came in the other day," described his shirt (which I remembered)
and recalled that he had eaten a grilled cheese sandwich.
If he ever comes in again I'm stepping on his food before I serve it.
Niice. I love those people, Jane. And I think I know what restaurant you work at because I
think it's the same chain I used to manage. We had the EXACT same problem all the time.
#18)
I used to have this customer who would openly abuse his retarded children in the restaurant. Emotionally and spankings which I definitely classify as abuse. I "accidentally" poured hot
coffee all over him once. He didn't come in for about six months.
Then one day I was the only server on, this is when I was 17. I had spiky red hair and four
earrings in each ear by this point. I was 6'2" and 130lbs if this gives you some idea.
The entire next town's high school football team came in for pancakes, which I knew was
coming, but not how many there would be. It was pretty simple - 35 glasses of OJ, two cups of
coffee for the coaches, and 37 full orders of pancakes. But simple as it was, it was hectic as hell.
And in the middle of it, Lou, the child abuser came in and sat himself down.
He asked for a milkshake and I told him it'd be a minute before I could make it - for
non-waiter types this is a giant pain in the ass, making milkshakes - since we were incredibly
hectic.
The football team was throwing creamers at me screaming "I need more juice, faggot," and
the coaches weren't doing a damn thing about it. For that matter, neither was my manager.
One kid on the team even stuck his leg out to try and trip me, nearly succeeding.
Prompting the question "Honestly, how old do you have to be before that's not cool?"
Right about then, Lou grabbed my arm hard and said "Are you planning to make that
damn shake?" It had been roughly five minutes since he asked.
So I made his shake all right, and I stuck a pen down my throat until I vomited just a little
bit into the bottom of it. I hope he enjoyed it.
If you enjoyed this story see also the time I gave the Mormons who told me my mother
was a hell bound harlot for getting divorced and remarried twice caffeinated coffee with crushed
ephedrine in it.
Posted by Alex on 06-16-2003 10:20 PM:
I used to have a bunch of funny stories to tell, now I don't have any, I've got to dig, I know
they're in there somewhere. They aren't all about me but they're there. I will find them and post
them, it's my goal.
Here's one that almost counts, when my friend (source of many amusing stories) was little
he went skating, he was skating around minding his own business when he started roughhousing
with this kid who was about half his age (like he's five the other kid is three or so) anyway the kid
falls down and starts crying. Last year his father told him the end of the story that he wound up
skating over the kid's hand and cut off one of his fingers. I have more about him, no wonder he's
fucked up.
Other story about a different friend (they all lead more interesting lives than I do). He
went to an amusement park with his family and there was one of those rides where you get
slingshoted up in a ball, all fun, he goes on it, gets off and leaves. A bit later someone dies on the
ride. Kinda makes amusement parks seem a lot more exciting if not terrifying now.
#19)
Amusement park story. When I was thirteen, my mom started to feel bad about a few
things. She worked two jobs and I grew up in a little shitbox apartment. I never took a vacation, I
never got to go with my friends to the amusement park - stuff like that. So she decided that she
was going to fix part of that and sent my half sister with me to the amusement park about an hour
away from us. My mom couldn’t go because she had severe spine problems that made it virtually
impossible for her to do anything at the park except walk around.
So despite everything I could do to A) not go to the amusement park just me and my half
sister and B) not let on to anyone that I was terrified of heights, I ended up there one day in July.
First thing she wants to do is ride “The Predator.” This is a large wooden roller coaster
that’s rickety in the same way toothpick houses held together by spit in jail cells are. I try everything I can to get out of this ride, but she’s not having it. She was forced to take me, so she gets to
plan the day. It’s that simple.
After waiting an hour to get on, we do, in the car about halfway back behind an enormous
woman.
Read enormous as: Gluttony victim from Seven.
The roller coaster begins its descent and I’m white knuckled rushing with adrenaline. At
the hardest curve, the tracks are set so the coaster hit’s a wall of air maybe - I don’t know what
happens, but the speed halves itself and then it picks right back up almost instantly. It’s the
amusement park equivalent of being pimp slapped in the middle of a dead sprint.
During this accosting, the woman ahead of us snaps forward, then back and screams.
Well, sort of screams. Her howl is muffled as we pick back up speed (still at about 40mph) and she
chokes on her own vomit. Vomit at this speed just seems to kind of hang in the air, that is, until it
hits something solid.
Or a thirteen-year-old boy’s face.
To be fair, a little got on my sister too, but she thought it was funny.
At the end of the ride the paramedics came for the woman, she had apparently gotten
whiplash because she was incorrectly fitted into the car. The ride operator didn’t even offer me a
towel.
Imagine vomit baking in your hair in the hot July sun. Imagine the smell of that car ride
home.
Posted by disx on 06-18-2003 02:38 AM:
I don't have any of myself, just of my friends. I'm not interesting. XChuck reminded me of
this one, actually...
So one day me and some friends decide to pay this friend of ours a visit. He's a goofy ass
motherfucker, but that's why we keep him around. He's 6'5" or so and kind of
oddly-proportioned. Has pretty short legs, and just a huge torso.. Weird ass guy. But anyway, we
come over one day and he's all laughing really goofily and such. Then all of a sudden we hear a
moan... And yeah.. turns out he's having phone sex with his girlfriend.. on speaker phone... Man,
that was nifty. Then he told her to keep going and she went all crazy then he's like "HAHAHA you
just came in front of all my friends huhuhuhh"
Man.. what a frickin goofy guy.
Posted by mirkah on 06-18-2003 03:03 AM:
quote: Originally posted by prototype
See! See!!
I went for a date with an amputee once is a story! Tell it.
If I can make "I once went on a date with a surprise alcoholic" a story that entertains,
then "amputee" is a guaranteed winner.
Story = when I was 15 I meant a fab boy at a party and we became kissy friends. We
talked, read Rilke to each other, wore each other’s clothes, made out, slept all entwined etc.
Well, one day, he tells me he has a fake leg. I think he's kidding because Flannery
O'Conner is my favorite writer and he knows this. (see story 'Good Country People'). He insists
and pulls up his pants leg and shows me. He then proceeds to take the fake leg off. I burst into
tears and blubber "no, I can't…"
There's more, but its pathetic and takes place years later.
Damn straight.
But to prove you wrong about the wee boy thing...
#20)
When I was in fifth grade I was the skinny kid with the straight A's in the advanced class
who everyone beat the living snot out of during lunch. I was beaten up at the rate of twice a week
for years.
Taking the cue from years of being babysat by TV (see story #7 to find out why), I saw an
episode of Full House where Uncle Joey says "if you make fun of yourself before anyone can make
fun of you, you'll be popular instead of a geek." So I did this and became the smart skinny guy
who just wouldn't shut up. This irritated teachers immensely.
One day, my teacher had had enough of this and confined me to my desk. I raised my
hand to go to the bathroom and he came over and told me that school would be over in an hour, I
could just wait. I don't think he believed me. But I wasn't lying. I had to shit like there was no
tomorrow.
I held it in for about a half hour. Then we had to move our desks into a quad, four desks,
two facing each other, two next to each other. Standing and walking must have loosened me up
because when I sat down, I was crowning.
I sat facing Brian, the kid who took the most cheap shots at me. He tripped me down the
steps off the school bus earlier that year resulting in a concussion. He also pushed me off the
uneven bars the year before resulting in, yes, a concussion.
Suffice it to say I had reason to hate him.
When I sat totally down, the crowning part, the turtle's head of poo broke off and I panicked. Not wanting to mush it into me and smell like shit for the rest of the day I started to surreptitiously shake it out my pantleg. When it dropped onto the floor I kicked it under Brian.
Shouting, I jumped up and told everyone "BRIAN JUST POOPED HIS PANTS!!!
LOOK!!!!!"
It wasn't a joke, it was a massacre.
He was never the popular bully after that. In fact, when we got to high school, I sold the
rich white suburban fuck oregano as weed for six months, provided I told everyone he was my
customer, he was so desperate to seem cool.
So poo-poo to your "I'm just a wee boy, maybe I'll have some stories when I'm older."
High School story.
I hated high school. I had no friends I could communicate with there (although there were
some people I cared about), and for some weird teenage reason i was never my real self. Just a
quiet kid scribbling away in a notebook trying not to commit suicide out of boredom, watching
the sky change colours as the long hours dragged on. A very exciting life.
In my final year I started to come out of my hibernation. Some introspection showed me
that I had never handed in a blank paper (is this how you call it? When in a test you give a paper
with nothing but your name on it?). That was easy. In our next (unexpected) Literature test, I
handed in a blank paper and left the classroom. Oddly enough (well, maybe not so only if you
consider this was a school where we would take over the building and occupy it for days with
demands like 'Bettter Cheesepies in the Cafeteria!'), my classmates viewed it as a sign of protest
and one by one handed in blank papers and marched outside. I never found the heart to tell them I
wasn't really their revolutionary leader...
The introspection also showed that in all my 12 (13 if you count kindergarten) years as a
student I had never been expelled. Not once. This was unacceptable. I picked my target carefully.
My Latin teacher with the quick temper would do. I would be expelled in no time.
If only it was that easy.
For the next few months it was like the sequence in Fight Club where the members of
project Mayhem try to pick a fight with a stranger. I would talk loudly in class - he would give me
disapproving looks. I would not do homework - he would just look hurt. I would chalk up the
edge of his desk so that when he leaned on it he would end up with a white line on his jacket - he
kept doing it until I stopped out of pity for his wife. I would blow my nose noisily while he
reprimanded me - he would mildly advise me to stop being a clown. I broke a window - he
thought it was an accident. I would take out nail polish and start doing my nails - HE WOULD
IGNORE ME! I gave up in despair.
Then one day the girls sitting in front of me turned and asked if I had any scissors. I didn't,
but the guy next to me had a paper cutter. As he leaned forward to give it to them, he switched on
the blade. Being stupid airheads, they screamed. I might have laughed. Most likely, I just
sniggered. My professor, going red in the face, eyes bulging, veins standing out on his neck,
bellowed: 'Lupus, GET OUT!’
I couldn’t believe my luck. I grabbed my books and disappeared.
The next day I bumped into him in the corridor. He actually apologised and said he
would cancel the absence he had given me. I had failed again...
Authority loves me. I don't really know why, but they do. Most recent attempt was to
transgress the non-smoking policy my uni has been ignored [between us, I find it disgusting.
making a whole building non-smoking without allocating even a small corner for us who love our
fags (cigarettes! I mean cigarettes! ok?). It's bad enough to know I'll die of cancer without catching
pneumonia from smoking outdoors in wet cold scotland...]
I lit up in the middle of the cafeteria. Nobody noticed. I lit up in the classroom. They figured the previous exams were enough justification. I smoke like a chimney in the computer lab
and my favourite security guard gives me a light when I forget my lighter.
I just can't get it.
Same with cops. I used to yell 'Cops, Pigs, Murderers!' (when drunk. I have nothing
against them. at least in Britain they are supercool) to their face and they just laughed.
I'm not cut out for this...
Posted by moe.ron on 06-19-2003 12:35 AM:
quote: Originally posted by prototype
I've told like 20 stories in this thread. And I'm bitter that many people laugh and laugh
but no one tells me stories. It seems lopsided because I know all my own stories and
therefore cannot be entertained by them...
i do feel guilty about this, so here's my contribution.
when i lived in boston, my office was in the downtown crossing area, basically, boston
tourist central. on sunny days, my co-worker and i would take our lunch down to the common to
enjoy a little fresh air. we usually sat on a bench somewhere, but one day it was kind of chilly in
the shade, and the only sunny spot with someplace to sit was near this huge fountain. so we sit
down, begin eating, and out of nowhere, a couple of tourists come up and ask if i wouldn't mind
taking a picture of them in front of the fountain. i say sure, put down my lunch and snap the
picture. not 5 minutes go by, but another couple asks me the same thing. i think it's kind of weird
everyone wants a picture by this stupid fucking fountain, but i take the picture. as i'm handing the
camera back to the second couple, i notice some people standing to the side, clutching their
camera, looking at me anxiously. as they're arranging themselves for the picture, i look over at my
friend, and she's posing like a cover girl, trying to be funny. so, instead of the people, i take the
picture of my friend. when i tell her, she gets giddy with conspiracy, and decides to make it our
lives' mission to ruin tourists photos. so, from that day on, every time we took lunch in the park,
we sat by the fountain. some of the better shots would be me standing behind a couple of people,
giving them the bunny ears and one of dee pretending to spill something on another group of
unsuspecting victims.
another time i appeared in some random vacation photos was when i lived in monterey,
ca...another tourist hot-spot. as locals, you learn to spot the foreigners pretty easily, but sometimes, it's a no-brainer. so i'm sitting with a group of friends at this trendy martini bar (everyone's
wearing black and looking too chic to care) and in walks a cowboy. i'm talking hat, boots,
way-too-tight wranglers, and, of course, the hat. this guy sticks out like a sore thumb, but he's
totally hot. so, i'm making jokes with my friends, "i'd like to shoot the horse and ride the cowboy,"
etc. meghan looks over and says, "well, his name is jim, you should go talk to him." i'm like, how
the fuck do you know his name... to which she responds, "it's on his belt." sure as shit, my cowboy
is wearing something akin to the world heavy weight champion belt around his skinny waist, JIM
in big letters. well, now i've got to go talk to jim, and find out why mamas shouldn't let their
babies grow up to be cowboys. jim's bellied-up to the bar (duh) so i strut on over, with a huge
smile on my face. he keeps looking behind him because he thinks i'm looking at someone else, so i
say, "jim, who are you looking for?? don't you remember me?" and i can tell he's searching
through the mental filing cabinets, frantically. i start asking all kinds of questions, remember? in
texas? it was memorial day weekend? and the guy's blushing and stammering, and i'm starting to
feel bad, but i see meghan behind him, talking to the guy he came in with, and she points to the
other guy and mouths "andy." so, i'm like "andy! i didn't see you there" and hug jim's friend. but
meghan's given him a briefing, and he's all about making his buddy look like an ass. he starts
feeding me all kinds of stuff, and i'm running with it. finally, jim's like "wow, that must have been
a wild night, because i don't remember you at all." so, i tell him i'm just pulling a little prank on
him, and we've never met...ha ha ha...but then he goes, "how did you know my name?" that's
when i realized that my cowboy's trusty steed rode off into the sunset without him, so i needed to
make a graceful exit. not before i take a picture with my new friends, insists andy. so i'm cheezing,
and just before meghan snaps the picture, jim plants a kiss square on my lips. meghan says it's
sure to be a comical photograph.
sorry this isn't as funny as your stories, proto, but i'm a much better storyteller than
storywriter.
a story? i will give you a story my friends.
my mother and father have had a rocky relationship for the 19 years they've known each
other. he used to fuck up because of drugs and she booze. needless to say, my home is a funhouse
of bipolar and passive aggressive rage. my mother, who i once respected as an intelligent person,
has taken on an internet/phone boyfriend in a stupor of desperate/alcoholic behavior. needless to
say, my father does not approve. this means fighting, this means screaming, this means some
prick calling my house to either chat up my mother or piss off my father. i don’t know too much
about the guy, but i answered the phone once, and i know that he’s a creepy fucker. and if he
didn’t live a thousand miles away, id be right with my dad to back him up as he caved in this
fucker's skull. its weird, creepy, and above all just fucking stupid.
so, now my mother wants a divorce, and i support it, as these two clowns really should
not be together to fuel each other's fires any longer. the problem being my father, who chooses the
creepy phone boyfriend to be the patsy for his years of annoying and reckless living. now he’s
trying to make me help him hire a PI to get this guy checked out. i'm starting to lose my patience
with these crazy bastards.
so, to the actual story:
my father gets this great idea to have a pseudo intervention for my mother, a nice surprise
after a twelve-hour day at work i would assume. for some reason i think, ok maybe we can stop
her from inviting this creepy fuck over for sunday dinner with rational and intelligent dialogue.
oh was i ever wrong.
apparently the strategy was to issue my mother an ultimatum. this guy or your family. the
"intervention" ended with my little sister crying, my brother laughing his ass off, my father
screaming/crying/throwing things, my mother sighing, and i could only watch the show. it was
indescribable and enough to convince me that this marriage was doomed from the start.
so, my father is bipolar, which basically makes him a drama queen, this means that i
couldn’t tell either of them how stupid they were being and moderate the negotiation of the settlement. when all the fighting was wrapped up and my mother finally started ignoring him, he
turns his anger on me.
"Thanks a lot for backing me up you little fuck!"
nice, very nice
maybe not a great story but it just happened so i thought id share
When I was a kid, I went to day care at this woman's house up the street. She had a son
who was younger than me, Paul. There is a series of stories of Paul getting me into trouble.
#1) Paul and I Decide to Build a Catapult
A board and two rocks are all you need to get in trouble when you're 8 and 5, respectively.
We set up the board onto one, made sure it was balanced in its center of gravity (of course, we
didn't know this term, but whatever), and set about finding some ammo. This was a very simple
project. Paul was Labor and I was Management. I basically yelled at him while he ran around
inspecting rocks, sticks, etc. and holding them up for my approval of them as catapult-worthy.
Because we were kids, and therefore retarded, we tried a cinder block first. Needless to
say, it didn't exactly fly - in fact, it broke the first board.
But we found another. A springier, much improved board. And then we found a beautiful
rock, perfect, smooth, dark grey, round. The kind of rock that people actually sell as decorative
items. We put it carefully on the business end of the catapult. I did the honors of stepping on the
other side of the board.
If Paul had stayed where he was, everything would have been fine. But he tried to avoid
the rock, looking up in the sky and losing it in the sun, and he ended up directly in the path of the
rock, which I must say had reached an impressive height before plummeting to Earth, or, rather,
Paul's skull.
It made the most horrible sound I've ever heard. If you've ever dropped a watermelon or
pumpkin on cement, you know what sound it is. And there was BLOOD. Wow, was there blood. I
stand there gawking as Paul runs off toward his house screaming, then I run and catch up with
him.
I got a HUGE speech from his mother when the dust settled all about how I was the older
one, I should have been more responsible than that, etc.
But I didn't learn my lesson:
#2) Paul and I Improve the Slide
For some reason, the daycare owner had a lot of blue plastic barrels in her yard with both
ends cut off, the better for us to make tunnels, or just plain hurt ourselves, whichever came first.
We set up one of the barrels at the end of the slide on the swing set, and the whole group of us
took turns sliding headfirst down the slide, and through the barrel. Whee.
Well fucking Paul thought it'd be cool to slide down feet first, but unfortunately his feet
caught in the barrel, and he sits up a little, and WHAM! he cuts open his forehead on the edge of
the barrel.
Once again, I was caught with Paul while he was bleeding. Nothing I could say could
convince his mother that it wasn't my fault.
And then came...
#3) Paul Climbs a Tree
Needless to say, he decided to dangle off of a branch and try a death-defying Sly Stallone
action move to get to a higher branch. Needless to say, he fell and broke his arm in two places.
WHUMP! he fell to the ground. I stayed long enough to throw up my hands and say,
"Well, shit."
And then, needless to say, I ran away.
my sister was crying at the idea of dealing with my crazy depressed father and "uncle
scott" at the same time. my brother was laughing at the situation, i laughed myself. i can’t
remember just what was said, but my brother and i were trying to referee, and it almost got pretty
damn ugly, in a hilarious way.
i’m not too broken up about it. although if it happened a year ago and i wasn’t leaving in a
few months it would be different. instead my attitude is that of : fuck 'em, they wont have anything to do with me for much longer
I'm allergic to my favorite food.
No, seriously. Talk about your all-time existential bummers, eh?
My favorite food is steamed clams and boiled lobster, especially when served at a seafood
joint in Seabrook, NH, called Markey's Lobster Pound, or for short, Maahhhky's. I've been eating
this stuff since I could chew solid food - no joke. My father fed me my first steamer when I was 10
months old.
Then somewhere around my 20th birthday, I began noticing that when I went to the
beach, I always got sick. Not vomiting-sick, but queasy. But oh well, I loved steamers and lobster,
and you really can't eat them when they're not in season, which is most of the year. So I figured a
little bellyache would be worth it for my favorite - and the meal we traditionally went out for on
my birthday.
So my 20th birthday rolls around, and we hit the beach, stopping at Markey's first. My
mom tells me to take it easy, and so I just eat half an order of steamers, fish, and no lobster. I also
had some fries and onion rings, which are cooked in the same batter as the clams.
I immediately felt sick, but thought I could take it. I'm one of those people who'd rather
feel sick than vomit, even if it makes me feel better. And I always - always - try to hold puke in as
long as possible.
So we get in the car and we start taking a drive up the seacoast to show my grandparents,
who are visiting from North Dakota, the sights. I'm in the wayyyy back of my parents' brand-new
minivan. Next to me is my father, on the other side of him is my sister. My one grandfather is in
front of me to the left, my grandmother to the right. My mother's driving and my other
grandfather is in the front passenger seat. We're driving up the wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinding seacoast road,
going around major S curves, and my stomach begins its rebellion. I'm still thinking I can hold it
in, but I open my mouth to say "Pull the car over, I think I'm going to be sick," and proceed to
begin projectile vomiting. Projectile vomiting shellfish. I don't think you need too many chances to
guess how that smells.
And it keeps coming. Seriously, I've never puked like this in my life. I can't stop. And it
really is projectile vomit. By the time my mom brings the car to a screeching, rubber-burning halt
on the side of the highway, and I get out to puke out several feet of my small intestines onto the
shoulder of the road, every single person in the full-size minivan has puke on them somewhere.
My dad and my sister are almost as soaked in it as I am. My sister, who's one of those people who
can't see, hear or smell vomit without puking herself, has just done all of the above, and so she
joins me in leaving some food for the seagulls next to the road.
Would that it were over just then.
Now wise to my game, my parents plopped me in the front seat (to minimize the carsickness) and watched me like a hawk. Not once, not twice, but three times, they had to pull over
just in time for me to get the door open and let up another belly full onto the side of the road.
Eventually we stopped so they could clean out the car a little and so I could have a toilet to puke
in, at the New Hampshire State Line Liquor Store. I did so, obligingly, six times. And a couple
more times in the car on the way home from there.
I've never eaten another clam or piece of lobster again. I have, however, accidentally eaten
shrimp in a Chinese food egg roll, and other minute portions of shellfish, and puked. I have also
eaten french fries and chicken fingers cooked in the same fry-o-lator as fried clams. And puked.
I'm officially allergic. Even whitefish makes me sick to my stomach now.
And the kicker is, it still looks appetizing to me. I mean it. It's my favorite food. And I can
never eat it again. Woe is me.
P.S. I swear, I can still smell puke in that car. My mother says it's my imagination, but I
swear to God it's still there.
Posted by jane s. on 06-19-2003 11:57 PM:
Actually we've only ever gotten half a dozen calls from telemarketers the whole time
we've been living here. Which is like 20 years.
Ok! Good telemarketer story!!
Whenever I go stay with my aunt, who lives in Westchester, NY, she gets at least 2 or 3
telemarketer calls a day. One time one called, and my brother picked up the phone (to think this is
funny, I guess you kind of have to know my brother. He is one of the calmest, most unruffled
people I know) and the telemarketer asked, "Hello, is Mr. [my uncle's name, who has been dead
since 1989] there?" My brother tells the telemarketer in this really polite voice, "No, he's been dead
for about ten years."
They probably thought we were lying, but oh well. How could someone have been dead
for ten years and still be on those lists?!
Posted by Rents on 06-20-2003 12:29 AM:
Ok, I don't know what the topic du jour for stories is right now, but I'm going back to the
old standard: drunk stories. Better yet, drunk klepto stories. Unfortunately, all of my stories are
about people I know and things I've witnessed, not me making an actual fool of myself. I apologize. Anyway, story time.
Last year, my roommate Elliot (a notorious drunkard) and I went to a friend's party early
to help set up. We took the bus over to Wallingford (where Dave Matthews currently lives, btw)
around six in the afternoon. The front door is blockaded with speakers from the band that'll be
playing there, so we head for the side of the house to enter through the back. We come around the
front of the house and the first thing we see is this old, busted ladder crusted with what was once a
nice white painting but is now nothing more than a series flaking gray scabs. We stop, stare for a
moment, and then turn to each other, our thoughts unnecessarily being transferred through the
kleptomaniacal look in our eyes.
"That's coming home with us," Elliot says.
A couple hours later, we're still the only ones there. I've downed 6 beers by this point, my
roommate only four, but he was waiting for the party. I was just thirsty. Anyway, 6 was enough to
get me drunk for the first time, and I was really starting to feel the drunk munchies. It was time to
take a trip to friendly local QFC (supermarket type place). I skipped up and down every curb,
annoying the hell out of Elliot. Finally he yelled at me to knock it the hell off because the cops
might see us. I scoffed and continued to do it, just to piss him off. At the QFC we climbed some
stairs where I found, to my amazement, my legs seemed to be a lot lighter.
"WHOA!!!" I yelled, loudly enough to make people look, the quickly clasped my hands
over my mouth to stifle my girly giggles. Attempting to communicate my awe through a combination slurred whispers and laughter, I said, "My legs *giggle giggle* feel like *giggle giggle
giggle* their *giggle* floating!" We got the hell out pretty soon after that.
The party went well, the bands were decent (one did some kind of fucked up cover of the
Oompa Loompa song), there were a couple decent chicks there, but so were their boyfriends. I
only had a couple more drinks the rest of the night. I was apprehentious about riding the bus
home less than sober. In retrospect, it probably would've been a lot more fun. Hindsight is 20/20.
Anyway, it's now 2 and I'm ready to leave. Elliot is pretty fuckin' drunk (I've seen him
drunker though) and wants to stay, maybe even go to a rave with a few people he's met. I take off
for the 5-block walk to the bus stop. I'm just chillin' there, waiting for my carriage to arrive when
down the street, I see my roommate's signature red hoody and red kangol cap, along with a big
kinda white blob. He gets a little closer and I realize that he has the sorry excuse for a ladder with
him. He waves enthusiastically like a small child. Some guys I'm at the bus stop with laugh a little
and wonder who the hell he's waving at. "He's my roommate," I clarify.
Not long after Elliot and the ladder join us, the bus comes and we board. Needless to say,
we got looks. Elliot is stumbling up the aisle carrying a busted 6-foot stepladder and I'm just trying to make sure the kid doesn't break something, whether it be a window, himself, or another
passenger. A guy sitting in front of Elliot starts making some jokes with him, but Elliot's got no
fucking clue what's happening. He's just got a big stupid grin plastered on his face that isn't
budging.
We get to our stop, Elliot waves goodbye to the nice man, and we decide to take the back
alleys as Elliot's reached his paranoid stage. Suddenly he thinks the cops are hiding in every bush
and gutter, waiting to pounce on him and his drunkenness. Meandering through the alleys we
come across a cone.
"Pick that up," he orders me in an eight-year-old voice that comes out when he's had too
much to drink.
"Fuck you, you pick it up if you want it so damn bad," I reply. So, he does.
There we go back toward the dorms, Elliot now walking like Quasimodo because the
weight imbalance and his daze and me a good 10 paces ahead of him. We finally get back to the
dorms and ride the elevator up to the 8th floor, Elliot trying to balance all of his loot and cover up
his giggles from the looks people are giving him. He stashed 'em under his bed and crashed hard.
The next morning he woke up, looked at his newly acquired booty, and asks, "Where the
fuck did those come from!?!" I just laughed for a good 5 minutes before explaining the whole story
to him. Impressed by his prowess in thievery, he kept the pieces as medals of valor until the end of
the year, when we put them in the elevator to make them magically disappear.
Nice one, Rents. Good to see you in this thread.
In my first year at uni, we had been out drinking with some friends. When we decided to
call it a night and the guys were walking me home (my friends are such gentlemen) we were in a
state of happy intoxication. Passing through a nearby square, we noticed that they had been
changing the road signs. The old ones had been taken away and the new ones were lying on the
pavement, waiting to be installed. 'Oh, I WANT one!' I said, and looked expectantly to my friends.
As I said, they are real gentlemen. We picked up a sign, post and all, carried it for several blocks
and since it was too tall to fit into the elevator, we carried it up the stairs for four floors. Finally, we
reached my apartment. The door was opened by my mom. She was none too pleased to have her
daughter return at 3:30 am, carrying a roadsign that was obviously stolen. She was also horrified
that we would get into trouble for that. She made us take it back.
It took me a year to find another sign to replace it.
Lupus in Bathroom Crisis
When I was eighteen, I visited England for the first time. The plan was to stay one week at
London with my friend Chrysa, then one week at Portsmouth with Nikos. Chrysa had a lot of
mandatory classes to attend, so she would wake up early in the morning, take the train and go to
her uni which was 45 minutes away from the residences - and another hour or so from London
center. I would sleep late, go to the city, do some sightseeing by myself and then in the evening
take the train to her uni so that we could go back together.
One day I woke up earlier than I had intended to, although my friend had already left. I
decided to have a shower. When I got back to her room, wrapped in a skimpy little towel, and
tried to open the door i suddenly remembered something quite important. The door was one of
those that lock automatically when they are closed. The keys were inside the room. At that point,
as in cue, the extremely annoying alarm clock went off: tut tut tut TUT, tut tut tut TUT, tut tut tut
TUT...
I summarized the situation to myself. I am locked out of the room. The porters' lodge is on
the other end of the campus. I would have to walk the whole campus in my tiny towel and
slippers, catch pneumonia from the icy February wind, and even then I would be in trouble
because I was not supposed to be there in the first place. Lovely. There is no mobile phone I can
reach my friend to (and my phone card plus all my money is in the fucking room!), she will be
waiting for me in, um, 7 hours at her uni, and all her housemates are in classes as well. Just great.
Denial, denial, denial. This is sooo not happening to me.
Then I remembered that one of the housemates' boyfriends had come to visit. I knocked
tentatively at the door, hoping to borrow at least some of his girlfriend's clothes. Fortunately for
me, said girlfriend had decided to skip class, so she got me an extra key from the cleaners and let
me in. First thing I did was throw the damn alarm clock to the wall. And for the next few days my
friend's housemate kept teasing me that I went scantily dressed to her room with the sole purpose
to steal her boyfriend...
After my London experience I was overjoyed to see that in Nikos's residence the rooms
were en suite. True, the bathroom was about the size of a phone booth, but there was no way I
could lock myself out. So I went to have a shower.
From my London shopping spree I had acquired some packets of strong spice flavoured
tea from Covent Garden. The smell permeated everything in my bag, especially my towels. It was
strong but quite nice. I had a long, hot shower and the small bathroom was full of aromatic steam.
I was drying off when I realized that something was wrong. I felt lightheaded and dizzy, my knees
were trembling, my eyes couldn't focus and I was swaying. I somehow managed to wear my
panties, wrapped hastily the towel around me and opened the door. I took two steps. I collapsed.
I was rather scared because I prided myself on never having fainted, but I also felt...
slightly drunk. Everything was blurred and distant and fuzzy at the edges. My friend was just
scared shitless. He was calling my name and I kind of surfaced enough to tell him in a weak,
pathetic little voice: 'can you get me to the bed, please?' He carried me there.
ME: (in weak apologetic voice) - Sorry I'm getting your sheets wet...
HIM: - ...
ME: (still drowsy) - Can I have some water please?
Him: - There. Are you feeling better?
ME: (dreamily) - Can you fetch me my bra please?
[He goes to fetch it]
ME: (starting to go underwater again) - Not the blue one, the purple one.............
I am still not able to smell spice-flavoured tea without feeling dizzy. Is there a moral?
AVOID SHOWERS.
quote: Originally posted by jane s.
Ok! Good telemarketer story!!
Okay, a quickie then I'll post a good one later.
I once almost got a telemarketer to have phone sex with me. Albeit I had to pretend I was
gay, and he had to hang up because the calls are recorded, but it was soooo worth telling that
story. The shifty fuckers. I love screwing with telemarketers.
Yeah, see?
I post again, and everyone dies again.
I reiterate: jerks.
And for the promised story:
#21)
I got really drunk one night. Black out drunk. Doing things I never do and in public and
not recalling even the thought of them drunk. I know everyone's thinking "what a surprise!" right
about now. But this story is actually about the next day.
I woke up for the last time at my apartment at six PM on a Sunday. I wasn't hung over
anymore but everything tasted like dirt and I felt guilty as hell about the night before. About the
overindulgences. I went typical next day overzealous. I went for a run, about five miles, then I
came home and made a vegetarian casserole and ate the whole thing. I rented a movie. I stayed in.
I behaved. Still, everything tasted like dirt.
Around three AM, I decided that it was such a nice night out, it would be a shame to
waste it. So I went for a walk about a block away to the corner store for a drink. I figured things
might taste normal by this time. The store was closed, despite the lights being on.
I knew there was another store, a better store about ten or fifteen blocks away and I figured why not hoof it since it was just starting to sprinkle. It had been hot as hell lately and a walk
in the rain to get an iced tea sounded nice. So I kept going. I kept my guard up all the way there
because A) it wasn't the nicest part of the city and B) people like to fuck with skinny white boy no
matter how tattooed he is. But nevertheless, I got there without incident. Even through the crack
house district that is so well cornered off, you'd think it was zoned by the city planners.
I was almost back, waiting on a crosswalk two blocks from my house when a car almost
hit me coming to a stop. I looked at the driver and thought for a second I knew him - this loser guy
who used to hang around the places I hung out trying to be absorbed by my circle of friends. A
wife beating, underage parent schmuck. So needless to say, I didn't look twice, I just kept walking
and hoped he didn't recognize me.
The car pulled up and around the corner the way I was going, past the crosswalk and
eventually into a parking lot on my side of the road. Suddenly, I realized that in all probability it
was not the loser kid, it was someone who was ready to make a buck or two by jumping me at
four AM.
I used to be a pretty fair martial artist, I was halfway to black belt in Tae Kwon Do when I
had to quit for lack of funds. So I started going over all the blocks and step sparring moves in my
head and I felt confident that this guy who was about to mug me would get what was coming to
him in a surprise flailing of skinny white limbs. Just for fun, I bunched all my keys up between my
fingers too. But he wasn't getting out of the car as I approached.
I got close enough and finally saw his shoulders wobbling and his right arm moving
downward. I assumed with relief that he was just packing a bowl of greens, getting ready to
smoke himself to sleep. I relaxed.
Finally passing his window, I was so "guard down" I looked right into the car and saw
him whipping on his huge, erect dick. Punishing it like he'd just caught it trying to steal his car. I
was shocked enough I stopped mid step and he looked over at me and screamed, perfectly lispy
"Can I suck your dick? Let me suck your dick."
I was more shocked by this than I would have been a gun. I was prepared for a fight. In
my awe, all I could say was "No, thank you, but you have a nice night."
I sprinted home.
Postscripts - I found out the next day that everything had tasted like dirt all day because I
was force fed hair mousse all night while I slept by some eager photo-opportunists and I didn't
remember it.
I've also got a good story about the time I was really mugged if anyone wants to hear it.
Hey, Greek vampires are the shit. If you sleep in a coffin, I want to know about it.
#22)
Ever notice how a lot of my stories start with the sentence "I was really wasted this one
time"? Well, this one isn't any different. I was really wasted this one time. Really. I had taken half a
ten strip of acid and stayed up all night checking the Xerox and Bausch and Lomb towers in my
city to make sure they were made out of stone. They looked like construction paper and damn it, if
I'm in The Proto Show, I want to know about it.
I got back to the apartment I had started the night off at and that's when I spilled this
enormous glass jellybean jar. I panicked, still a little trippy as I was and ran to my car dressed in a
teal zoot suit and bowler hat, but without shoes. My car was parked across the way, through a
seedy little "park" and in an alley where a "harmless and insane asylum" was.
The harmless and insane have bathrobes instead of straitjackets and can smoke pipes on
their screened in porch.
This is a hell of a sight late at night and coming down from acid.
So I get in my car, throw my wallet on the seat next to me and try to find my keys. I get
hot, so I roll down my window. I realize I'm not wearing shoes. I'm distracted enough to forget
what it was that I was doing in the first place. It's then that I hear an incredibly loud screech in my
ear.
"Maaaaaaaaaaan, you gotta help me. I'm diabetic and I lost my insulin. I need more or I'll
die."
I'm not wasted enough to buy this. This is a common bum tactic, I learned later, but I
thought then it was only probably bullshit. The man is white, wearing a yellow windbreaker and
sweaty as hell. He looks like shit. He's balding and emaciated. I figure he's either a crackhead or
maybe he really does need insulin. One way or the other, the guy needs something bad enough he
looks like he's about to collapse. Regardless , I tell him no and continue looking for my keys.
He reaches in and pats me on the back and says "Please man, just anything, I need anything. I offer to drive him to the drugstore around the corner. He declines and says he can only get
his insulin at another drugstore further away. I'm pretty sure this is crap now, but still, my
conscience is niggling at my judgment. I worry, "what if he's telling the truth and is so
insulin-confused that he can't talk right?" I don't want him to die on account of me.
DISCLAIMER: I am stupid. I am an imbecile. Besides that, I was in hour six of a heavy acid trip.
Do not expect this decision to make any sense.
I open my wallet and find a twenty, a ten and two ones. I removed the two ones and find
my spare key which I place in the ignition. I give them to him. He pulls up the windbreaker,
removes a gun and points it at my eye. He says "I'd rather have it all."
To which I reply "Of course you would!" I hand it over and say "Good evening, sir."
I turn my key and peel out (which is an impressive thing to see in a 1988 automatic
transmission Volkswagen Jetta). I almost hit this other car turning into traffic. He's turning onto
the street I just pulled out of. I drive like a maniac, frightened that the man on foot might catch up
with me, I suppose.
About a block away is when I notice that the car I almost hit is following me. I assume the
driver has picked up his buddy, the Insulin Mugger, and they're coming to harvest my organs for
their black market value.
Anyone who knew me then would have said I was a bit paranoid in those days.
I pull off three or four blocks later into the most public place I could find, a Denny's
parking lot. The car pulls in after me. It looks spookily familiar. Could I have dreamt this before?
Was I living out my own foreseen death? I remove my snowbrush, cock and level it like a shotgun
and point it at the car. The door begins to open. This is when the LSD takes control.
I run full steam at the car, screaming and jump feet first into a crouch on the hood, denting
the hell out of it, and try to drive the snowbrush through the windshield. This, of course doesn't
work, but it cracks a bit and I feel my point has been made.
The driver's side door opens and I hear a voice say "Dude, THAT was fucking trippy."
It's the friend whose apartment I left. He came to track me down because he wanted me to
know he wasn't mad about the jellybeans or the glass since we were both tripping our faces off. He
pulled into the alley just in time to see the mugger and wanted to follow me to check and make
sure I was alright.
Insurance covered the damage done by the "Unknown state construction vehicle" cracked
the windshield.
Apparently, by the way, no one, anywhere, EVER will buy that a snowbrush is a shotgun.
I was so much older than, I'm younger than that now
This is a relationship/rain story.
When I was 20 I met some crazy guy at a party that pulled up his shirt to show me his
scars. So as things seem to go we ended up dating. This was a guy that said I'm going for a bike
ride and when I said, "oh, I'll go" would say "I mean, a real one".
Yep.
He was also a vegan and he used to make millet pilaf and such things for us to eat. He'd
put the leftovers in the fridge and put a piece of masking tape over the bowl with the date written
on it with a sharpie so we wouldn't accidentally eat spoiled food. Then he'd come over and see all
the spoiled leftovers and say "baby, didn't you like the pilaf?" And I'd say "baby, when you're not
here I eat bacon" and then we'd have a huge fight about the fact that I ate meat and he went on 6
hr. bike rides.
The rain part is kind of symbolic because part of the story takes place in the shower (and
its raining outside)
So one rainy day my friend JLTTB is at my apt, he's male. I'm taking a shower and Vegan
BF calls. JLTTTB answers the phone and tells VBF that I'm in the shower, does he want to leave a
message. VBF hangs up without answering. I get out of the shower, get the message and call VBF
back. He keeps hanging up on me.
Because I'm 20 and lovish VBF I drive over to his house. He won't open the door and tells
me thru the door that he's really pissed I'd take a shower with a guy in my house. I explain that its
better that JLTTB answered the phone because that meant he wasn't in the shower with me. But he
just says "fuck you etc."
Because I'm a patient loving person with issues of my own, I tell him, "look I'll sit in my
car for exactly half an hour so you can process the fact that I can lovish you and still have male
friends"
I go sit in my car and read and keep looking out the corner of my eye at him where I can
see him at a window watching me. After 25 minutes I think WTF am I doing and start the car. As I
drive away he comes running out the door and chases the car down. I stop the car and he says
(swear to god) "you only waited 26 minutes"
Ok, frammy, you can skip the Pene and call me whatever you like.
Meanwhile...
now that prototype is gone again... *sniggers*
Short and silly story with a bit of vampirism thrown in:
Christmas of 1999 and our gang took to the mountains for a change of scenery. The place
was lovely, and the guesthouse we were staying at really cozy, with a nice fireplace and everything. There was only one problem: our landlady had a seven-year-old grandson.
As you probably know by now, I'm a dedicated child hater. I just despise them. Most
times I try to ignore them, but the kid was persistent. And annoying. And always somewhere near
me. Still, I was patient.
It was when i was playing backgammon with Chrysa and he came into MY room and sat
on MY bed that i started reconsidering my tolerant attitude. I was about to tell him to leave, when
he asked: 'What time do you go to bed?' 'Well, I never go to bed,' I grunted. Stupid me. As if I
didn't know what he'd say next. 'Why?' he asked with the irritating tone only a 7 year old can
master. 'Because I'm a vampire,' I told him. 'We go around at night, bite people in the neck and
suck all their blood out.' He looked slightly alarmed. 'But don't worry. We will not suck your
blood out.' That relieved him a bit. 'Why?' he asked again. 'Oh, we have other uses for little boys.
We skin them alive and with their skin we make magic boots that allow us to fly...' Now he was
seriously scared. 'You... you can't do that. I'll go to the... police. And I'll tell them to put you in jail!'
'Oh, yeah?' Nikos sneered. 'And we will tell them your grandpa is a poacher and they will lock
him away FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE!'
We agreed not to tell on each other.
The following days he was avoiding us and I was giving him knowing looks. Until his
grandma came and asked me to stop. Apparently, I was giving him terrible nightmares...
quote: Originally posted by lupus
Mirkah! The story! Now!
okay, but the story is the sappy
At my last job I was in charge of hiring off site chefs and wait staff. One day this wholesome short Benicio/Jimmy Stewart type comes in. Straight out of culinary school, no real resume
to speak of and I just hire him on the spot because he's so earnest and cute.
Well it turns out I have a serious crush on him. I start dallying at events so I can give him I
ride home. We get to his house and chat for 20 mins. then 30 mins. then 40 mins.
I'm really stumped at this point because I'm starting to think I lovish him but I'm his boss
and that’s strictly hands off (for very good reasons). Well one night after 40 minutes of chat I say
"we should have a drink". He says, "yes! There's this bar... blah blah".
We are parked in front of his apt. building across from a liquor store! So I take his remark
as a sign that the lovish is all in my head. So we go to this bar, have a few drinks and I drive him
home. We sit in the car chatting again for close to an hour than say good night.
A few minutes later my pocket phone rings. It’s him. He says, "I wish I'd invited you in"
I do a U turn and a year later we have 3 dogs and an herb garden.
#23)
Okay, a relationship story. This is an old one, like six years ago with my first love. What
you have to know about us is that we had the least functional relationship I'd ever seen. She
would yell about things like "was I going to wear the pants with the loose threads on the bottom
out in public?" or "How can you ask me out for coffee and only give me an hour to get ready?"
But I loved her. Ah l' amour.
I did her homework for school, she made out with my friends. I posed for her photo projects, she fooled around with the skater boy in her class during darkroom time. We once broke up
because I had slept through the designated time she had decided we should lose our virginity. I
was not awake at precisely the hour she called, 10AM, when she had given me no warning about
whether this would be a morning, noon or night kind of thing.
But I loved her. And we were both 16, then 17 together. Things were bound to get a little
dumb.
The last time we got back together, we did finally make love. We had this thing about the
number 11 and it actually worked itself out that at 11:11 on November 11th we were in the act for
the first time. And things went well for a month. We were happy. This is after two years of on
again/ off again stuff.
Now, to the point. After that blissful time, things got a bit squinchy again. She started
fooling around with some other guy again, and I found out and since this was strike 5: the fifth
time she'd cheated on me, I was really upset. I had let it slide the other times with a
passive-aggressive "no, it's okay, I probably deserved it, I will love you better try not to do it
again" then wait for the refutation sort of thing.
A week passed. We sat watching the TV movie version of The Stand, which I had bought
on VHS. I loved it. She hadn't seen it. She asked to watch it marathon style, all four hour and a half
episodes back to back to back to back. Around hour 5 of six, I had to make dinner for my mother
since she only had an hour between her day and night jobs.
She got irate, accusing me of putting other people first before her. I responded with "like
breaking our plans to fool around with another guy? Like that?" which, I suppose, was a bit provocative. She starts screaming and says "I THOUGHT FORGIVE MEANT YOU COULDN'T
BRING IT UP AGAIN??!!!" I mentioned calmly that I hadn't forgiven her cheating the last time, I
had never said that I forgave her.
Nothing makes a mad person more enraged than someone being calm at them.
So she slapped me.
I don't like to be hit by people who are supposed to love me, I had had well enough of that
before I even met her. So I went a bit crazy, the first and last time I ever did anything of the sort
and I put my first through the wall. She slapped me again.
She told me she was leaving and that maybe we should be over. I said I didn't want that
and maybe we could talk this out now that we'd both gotten out our abject hatreds.
She told me she wanted to give us up. I asked if she was sure, she said she was. I told her
I'd do anything to stay together. She said no. She stormed out of the room.
I followed her down the stairs and out to her car and said "Last chance - I want us to
work." She said "Leave me alone. Please. Don't do this." I asked again "Are you sure we can't talk?"
She said yes and drove off.
Ten minutes later, the drive time between our houses, a phone call. "HOW COULD YOU
LET ME LEAVE LIKE THAT YOU MOTHERFUCKING DICK????!!!!! THAT WAS A TEST!!!!!
YOU JUST DON'T GET IT!!!!!!!!!"
"I don't like being tested," I said. "I told you I wanted to work things out. We still can.
Come back over."
"NO!!!! WE'RE DONE, OVER, THROUGH AND I HOPE THE NEXT GIRL YOU DATE
PUTS YOU THROUGH WHAT YOU'RE DOING TO ME RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!!"
You'd think there was a part of the story I'm not telling you, but there isn't. I was a pretty
good boyfriend for being 17. So I told her I loved her, and she hung up.
Ten minutes passed.
The phone rang. "AREN'T YOU EVEN GOING TO FIGHT FOR ME???? WHAT THE
FUCK??? WHY WON'T YOU WORK THIS OUT????!!!!!!"
That was about my fill. I told her to call me the next day. She didn't. I expected to see her
in school when winter break ended. I just was not going to play more head games, so I waited the
three days until school started again.
Her parents had her committed to the local psych ward for attempting suicide.
That was the way my first love ended.
#24)
This same girl, six months before the break up tried to do something "special" for me.
I had this dream one night that my house had been broken into. My clothes were hung on
the walls and the phone was off the hook echoing a fast busy signal out. I knew someone was
there waiting for me when I noticed the music was loud and blasting instrumental Marilyn
Manson.
There was a bra on the bed and I knew whatever was in the house had killed my girlfriend. There were cigarette butts sticking out of my computer keyboard.
That's when I turned to get out and something shadowy cut my throat and I woke up.
So one day, I went to school like normal (where everyday I was expected to spend my
lunch money in the morning buying her either a rose from the corner store or a roll of Mentos, her
favorite munchie - I'm not kidding about expected either). We ate Mentos in the morning and I
told her about the dream. She got all panicky and told me it scared her so I dropped it. She told me
she had something to do after school, so I went to another friend's house.
Around five thirty, my mother calls crying.
"Proto, are you okay???"
"Yeah, mom, Jesus. What's wrong. Take a breath."
"The house. The house has been robbed." I'm a bit freaked by this. I used to worry a lot
that I would accidentally foresee the future and no one would believe me.
"What happened mom? Where are you? Did you call the cops?"
"Yes. I called the police. They're here. Your room, it all happened to your room. Does
someone at school hate you this much? They broke the bathroom window downstairs."
"Mom, what happened to my room?”
"There's clothes on the wall, a bra and underwear on the bed. Your computer is a mess
with cigarette ashes. The stereo was loud enough I could hear it from the car."
This is when I surmise what's happened. My girlfriend is trying to be cute. I tell her to
send the cops away, but she doesn't want to. I finally convince her not to press charges, but she
won't go without calling her parents. She got in a LOT of trouble, blaming me, of course.
She told me I should have been home because I would have laughed. I actually think I
would have passed out from fear of what I would have seen as my inevitable end. She told me
everyone should have known it was alright because the song she put on the stereo was "Joyful
Girl."
Oh me god Proto.
and Mirkah: Aww, cute. Consider me green with envy. Mostly about the dogs.
Since I've started with my mountain vacation, I'd better continue with that.
After a night of drinking and ruining the vacation of our newlywed neighbours (we
kicked their ass at Trivial pursuit and they had a massive row after that), we retired. But I had the
blues, being unlucky in lovish, so I returned to finish off the whiskey we had. I drunk what was
left (and there was plenty of it, we had stored up good) and thought I might just as well go for a
walk. I put my jacket over my bear pajamas, wore my hiking boots and left the house.
I was aimlessly walking. I walked and walked and walked. And then I walked some
more. Finally I arrived at a construction site. A house was being built, and I could see it would
have a lovely view all the way to the sea. I climbed over the fence, explored the house and settled
down on a large boulder overlooking the sea. The moon was mirrored in the water, the night was
clear and freezing, and I was overcome by the beauty around me. I fell asleep.
Couple of hours later, I woke up and headed back home. I don't remember this, but the
guys tell me that i was trying for ten minutes to get in the room I shared with Chrysa. I couldn’t
figure out how the door handle worked. Apparently I get locked out a lot. They took me in their
room, but I hit a blubbering pocket and started talking nonsense. Exasperated, they sent me to my
own room - after they opened the door for me.
The next day I had to get breakfast for everybody (I'm the official Breakfast Provider). I
got lost and I was terribly hangover. I found myself in the middle of nowhere, head pounding,
stomach doing cartwheels, and ready to fall down. Eventually, two hours later, I made it back.
'Oh, you came!' they chorused. 'We were so worried!' 'Really?' I said flattered. 'Yes. We
thought you weren't able to find any food. Where's my milk?'...
#25)
This same girl. The first time I met her parents I got to go to their house. I walked inside.
My girlfriend says "Mom, dad, this is Proto." I say "Hi." They're silent, stoic even. I went to take
my shoes off and her father says "STOP."
I look up. He says "Stop right there. Don't even bother. See the doormat?"
I'm standing on a beaten orange doormat on an even more beaten red carpet. "Yes,” I say.
Then add "sir."
"That carpet is where you'll stand when you come here. You will not leave it."
Her mother is in the other room flipping back and forth between a game show and a talk
show. She's not adding to the conversation. My girlfriend has sprinted upstairs without saying a
word.
"Do you know why?" he asks.
I say "No, why?"
And he says simply "Because you have a penis. And the only person with a penis allowed
past the doormat is me." He then walks away. I sit down on the doormat and their dog, agitated by
me being in the way, snaps at me, clamping onto my head, leaving a pretty good gash in my
temple. I don't want to piss them off even more, so I just refine myself to a stifled "Ow."
The only thing her mother says is "So I hear your mother is divorced and you live in an
apartment complex."
I tell her it's a halfway house. She just mmms in reply. My girlfriend later got very angry at
me for "not giving them a chance" when I told her the story and expressed misgivings about my
treatment.
Ok, I'm back. First, a little 'relationship' interlude.
Two years back i was having a casual relationship with my Welsh flat mate. He said he
loved me, I assured him he didn't (yeah, I'm like that sometimes) and that I didn't either. But we
were having a good time.
A few days later, he told me he wanted us to end it. Why? He was not in love. *shrug*
Neither am I, where's the problem? apparently, he could not function that way. Ok, I said, fine
with me, let's go to the supermarket. Civilized things.
After that we were even better friends than before. And at some point, he started talking
about the break-up. He had discussed what he planned to do with his parents (jesus) and his
mother told him 'But be careful how you tell her' 'That's so sweet' I thought, she was so considerate of my feelings...
And then my friend continued '...because you never know how these Mediterranean types
can react.'
Had I known, I would have smashed every plate in the kitchen and yelled at the top of my
lungs... Talk about stereotypes...
To continue with the mountain holiday...
The night after Hangover Day, we were sitting in the lounge around a big dining table.
The girls had gone to bed (I'm considered one of the boys), the guys were playing cards, and i was
sitting at the corner of the table reading a book. My bookmark fell on the floor and I bent to
recover it. Just then, Thomas deemed it appropriate to let out a mighty fart. I straightened up,
dizzy. I bent the other way trying to get to the bookmark. Nikos farted at my direction too. The
Cacophony Society of the Fart ensued. I lovish my boys and I don't mind their farting/belching/
behaving immaturely and generally being their adorable selves, but this was too much. I took it as
my cue to retire. Went to my room and although there was snow outside, I slept with my window
open. I needed the fresh air.
This story sucks when written. You should have been there to appreciate it. Sorry 'bout
that, folks.
Foot-in-mouth Disease (too brain dead to think of anything better)
Christmas party of a former classmate and I'm chatting with a guy. I reach for my
cigarettes but can't locate the lighter. There is a candle on the coffee table though. I am eyeing it,
and I tell the guy that there is this old superstition that every time you light your cigarette from a
candle, a sailor dies. 'Really?' he asks. 'Really,' I say. 'But who cares. Let's kill him' I say and reach
for the candle. He looks at me straight in the eye and says: 'My father is a sailor.' Oops.
My friend was at the gas station tonight buying smokes. He goes to leave and then
doubles back and says "Oh..." and the clerk says "Not again." This puzzles my friend. He says "I
need another pack of smokes." The clerk tells him "Oh, I thought you were going to ask for a Mega
Millions ticket."
My friend, puzzled again, decides to be nice and make small talk and says "Oh, yeah, I
know I mean what a waste of money. I mean no one really has a chance to win that thing, I mean
what are the odds?" The clerk says "They're only a dollar. I just didn't want to have to tell you that
it's passed the time I can sell them to you."
My friend says "Yeah, I know but you might as well buy a scratch off ticket and then you'll
have some chance at least. Only an idiot would buy Mega Millions." He's still just trying to make
small talk.
"I bought ten," the clerk says.
"Camel Lights," my friend says and pays the man.
A friend of mine was in Law school. He was walking in the corridors with one of his
classmates and they observed how filthy they were. Empty packs of crisps, cigarette ends, pieces
of paper, dust, cans of coke, everything. they see a woman coming towards them, very shabby and
disheveled, obviously a cleaner. The classmate says: 'For God's sake, do your job and clean! This
place is a pigsty!' the woman stares at him perplexed and replies sheepishly: 'I'm a professor here.'
#26)
When I started 11th grade, I was feeling better about myself. People had stopped fucking
with me because they started thinking if they beat me up, I would eat them and their family. This
was pre-Columbine, 1996.
But that year everyone was standoffish. Terrified in some cases, I might even call it.
People spit on me and then ran when I looked at them. People left desks open around me in
classes.
I finally had had enough around the third week of school. In the middle of a class, I stood
up and screamed "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT??!" I gave a rampaging soliloquy about how
pissed I was about being the victim of such intolerance just because I dressed differently, had different interests. I said that I had given everyone else a chance, why shouldn't I be allotted the
same.
That's when some girl said "Yeah, well I don't know what 'chance' means to you, but to me
it doesn't mean 'burn down the church.'"
Needless to say, I said "what??"
I found out that apparently earlier in the summer someone in the city, around my age and
with the EXACT SAME NAME had burnt down some church in the city. And here I was talking
about tolerance for people, dressed all in black and wearing a shirt that said "KILL GOD, KILL
YOUR MOM AND DAD, KILL YOURSELF."
When I graduated almost two calendar years later, there were still kids who believed it
was me. There was even a rumor that I had been allowed to still attend schools because I had
bewitched the officers who arrested me.
My school had an unnatural predilection towards blaming everything on witchcraft and
black magic, now that I think of it.
Posted by Wesley Sonck on 06-21-2003 05:05 AM:
Ok.
#1
prelude: i was in an interesting relationship that started in last '98, and ended - my fault as per
usual, in late '00... i was at school, graduated in '99, and moved to sydney, to go to college.
story: ok, so from feb - sept in '00 i was living in student accommodation, and as you can guess sex was flying about the place like seagulls at the beach. i managed to, ( and i’m not so much
proud of it, it just happened ) to roger 4 diff. girls.... while all the while still seeing, let’s call her
Bunny. 1 of the 4 was a 28yo irish barmaid. i was 18. woo-frickin-hoo.
so, there was this girl at college. i knew it was a mistake. but, i did it anyway. i tossed
Bunny aside cos i’m a total asshole. all the while, she never stopped caring/loving for me etc. yes,
asshole, that’s moi.
so, from sept '00 to sept '02 i was seeing this college girl, lets call her Kitty. we developed a
good working relationship as well as a personal one. but, as time passed, it became very serious,
so i pulled the plug. and not only just for that i was interested. HALF, maybe more of the reason
was i wanted to fuck my designer friend's brains out when i was going on holiday w. her. and so, i
didn’t in fact feel guilt.
but the thing is, i realized the only reason, well, the starting point of the me and Kitty
thing was, that - i was never a conscientious student, i mean, a bit of a smart-ass, quick, easy to
adapt, but i didn’t have any discipline. she did. that’s why i went with her. i milked the situation
for all it was worth.
<direct any insults to me *here*>
so, i learnt, i leeched, i adapted, i became, IMO a better designer than her. i've realized
now, i’m not so much better, as i am different, in attitude and style. so, end of last year, i was so
friggin' confident id nail this job at a v. reputable design firm ( that was open for students at our
college only ), that i didn’t even prepare too much.
so, grad. nite came, the nite it would be announced.
i didn’t even make the shortlist of 3 ppl.
i didn’t even get to congratulate the winner.
it was her.
oh, did i mention she hated me?
ok, so, it’s a pretty poo poo tale, but it grounded me a bit. for the first 3 months of this
year, she had a real job, i had nothing, which further drove me into stupid moods/bugging my
friends/abuse of various kinds - lets not go into it. and i questioned why they wanted someone so
'safe' in their design practice, i.e. her. i mean, i still think i’m better. but who really knows. if the
director of LKS thinks i’m not worth it to make, last 3, i must actually suck at it.
so yes, i leeched for 2+ a bit years, but she nailed an easy beginning, and most likely better
one to her career. i still don’t know exactly how to feel. who won?
End.
thanks, sorry to all if that sucked. and those of you that didn’t think i’m scum before,
might do now.
Posted by Wesley Sonck on 06-21-2003 12:29 PM:
Ok, so this is semi-folklore here.
#2
Ok, so i was as we say 'doing the dirty' shagging this bird, out of wedlock as it were. this
was in the student accommodation / 'dating' Bunny phase. ok, so we were balling away, lets call
her 'P'. she had a warm single room. anyway, so the phones there are communal, and i was
expecting a major call from my mom, so, we were all answered the phone there, so i hear the
fucker ring ( its right outside her door )..... and she’s warm, naked etc.- and i jump up to answer it half undraped.... and *SNAP*, i maim my L4 and L5 disc in my spine. fall, injure my vertebrae.
fuck. so i was in pain for about 3 months the, and didn’t take care of myself to fix it.
and, as some of you recently know - it happened again. 3yrs of neglect added up and i was
a temp. cripple again.
so, yes, that might help expl. why i nailed the 'dying whilst getting sexed award'
ps. neither of us came.
End.
Do we have to use the name Kitty in these stories of Wes' debauchery?
OK. Another lovish happily ever after story for me. I've been w/ my bf. for 3.5 years and
counting. By this time next year, I hope we're engaged. By this time in two years, I hope we're
married. In five or six, kids. For serious.
Anyway. No one is more shocked than me that this has worked out. If you'd asked me
before I met my boyfriend - hell, AFTER i met him but before i decided to date him - i would have
loudly proclaimed to you that THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS LOVE. i had an EXTREMELY bad
experience mid-to-late high school that persisted throughout early college, and i had some pretty
twisted views about relationships in general that, were you to have witnessed said bad
experience, you probably could not have blamed me for. i told the story to jane s. when she was
talking about that kid she was in love with on another thread a while back.
ANYWAY. Another reason that no one's more surprised than me is that i rarely, if ever,
know what's best for myself, and rarely, if ever, make the smart choice, especially when it comes
to interpersonal relationships.
Witness: Alex, the Russian violin-playing Jew.
Do not attempt to adjust your sets.
I dated this person casually (thank god) for a while when I was still getting to know my
boyfriend as a "friend". I guess I felt that his russian violin playing jewishness made him exotic
and interesting. i neglected to realize at the time that he was also the biggest most colossal dork
ever put on the planet. they broke the dorkass mold when they made him, i mean it.
Example: our first "date" (again, this was casual). he asked me if i wanted to go get coffee. i
say sure. so we're driving in his car, he's telling me how to say my name in russian (which is still
quite beautiful imho), so i'm charmed, and then he asks where i want to go. i said it was up to him.
and he says, and i quote, "we could go to rao's [a chic coffee shop in the center of town]...but i hate
it there."
then he continued. "i also hate coffee."
but our second (and last) date takes the whole enchilada, i tell ya. my boyfriend and i were
now really good friends, and kinda sorta gettin to the whole, ya know, lovishness thing, but not
quite yet, and it was all very intriguing, and meanwhile alex takes me to a movie. he picks me up,
and i'm thinking we're going to go to the good movie theater a town over, but he takes me to the
shitty one in town, the one that is the only remaining open business in what local parlance refers
to as "the dead mall."
amherst, massachusetts, which is where i went to school for all who care to know, is five
colleges and bustling centers of academe plopped down in the middle of abject rural nothingness.
so you have the curious mixture of rednecks and peace activists mingling with dorm high-rises
bordered by cow farms.
when the weather starts to get warmer, those cow farms, and the chicken farms, which are
also nearby, they smell. they TEH SMELL. (the chicken/turkeys smell much much worse than the
cows and horses, and both together is an astoundingly awful stench).
and alex says, in his thick accent, "thees ees whad eet smellt lak een Russia."
Then he took me to see the movie Sleepy Hollow. Yeah, stellar choice. Oh, *and* he confessed to me later that he "does not lak thee scarry moovies." wonderful.
Then later he told me he didn't think he could keep dating me, because i reminded him of
his mother.
the next day, i ran into my boyfriend's open, waiting, wonderful arms and never looked
back. we've been teh happily ever after ever since.
my bf still makes fun of alex.
SAVE THE THREAD CAMPAIGN.
Well, as mugshot of Yours Truly is now available, you might have noticed that I dye my
hair very red. I have also been through brown (natural colour), black, various others shades of red,
and an abortive effort for blond that left my hair orange.
Last month I decided to do something I had been pondering about for months: become a
purplette. I figured it would be my last chance to do it, since from September I'll have to try and
look respectable for my job. So, I went to a classy hairdressers.
Apart from a tint, I also wanted a haircut. Long hair is a bitch in the summer and with all
the chemicals I have been using for years my hair could do with a break. I discussed with the
hairdresser the cut, we agreed on the style, but then she started speaking that particular lingo
hairdressers do when they want to dry you from any penny you possess: 'We'll do a shiatsu head
massage, and a special treatment for... and... and...' I was seriously alarmed. Timidly, I asked:
'Eerr.. How much will it cost?' She has a whispered consultation with the reception and proudly
announces: '£94' [that's 153 US dollars, or 235 Australian dollars, or 209 Canadian dollars] I
promptly have a heart attack, explain that I have a student budget and settle for just the haircut
(£22). Hair looks lovely and I head to the mall to buy purple dye. I'll do it myself, bitch.
The dye kit suggests that I bleach my hair beforehand, and I buy the bleaching kit as well.
Same brand, just to make sure. We follow the instructions to the letter and, true enough, my roots
are blond/white. The rest of the hair though is rather orange. We wait some more. And some
more. And some more. By then I'm seriously worried about the effects of peroxide, and I go to
rinse it off, even though the ends are still orange-ish.
The tube of purple dye looks blue to me, but i hope that the result will be purple. And i
love blue anyway, so I don't sweat this one. I apply the dye and wait.
Once in a while, my flat mates come and inspect. They reluctantly make encouraging
sounds: 'Yeah... It's good. Needs some more time. You know, like, to really work... Don't worry,
it'll be great'
The look of pity on their faces is unbearable.
I leave it more time just to make sure, then I rinse it off and dry my hair.
I look into the mirror.
An old woman is staring in horrified disbelief at me. Her roots are turquoise blue, and the
rest of the hair is basically grey and green, with slight purple flashes all over. Grey and green Grey
and green. Grey and green.
That was me.
The next day (which happened to be my birthday), I crawled to a hairdressers (not the one
I had the haircut at) and whispered: 'Help.' They were very good. They didn't scold, they didn't
laugh, they didn't ask questions. They just fixed my hair. I lovish them.
I will never have purple hair. It's just not meant to be.
ok so the story as promised on another thread of my friend using a movie to come out to
his mother. oh boy.
There's a movie "Jeffrey," that's your general gay romantic comedy (well, maybe not
YOUR general - i hang out w/ so many gay men i think my worldview is a bit skewed). it's not
terribly risqué, more of a human comedy of errors than gay, per se. well, anyway, they get to a
scene where two men are lying in bed together - not going at it, not kissing, not even touching, but
in bed together, and his mother suddenly, finally gets what's going on and says to him, "what the
hell", etc.
and even though she's already kind of freaking out about the movie, my friend decides
now is the time to ahead and out himself.
i was in indiana at the time, on a car trip with my parents, and he was in massachusetts,
but i told him later, i swear, i saw the mushroom cloud from there.
so they fight, and fight, and fight, and fight, all over the house, i mean, we're talking total
nuclear meltdown here. then eventually they're both exhausted and they go to go to bed, and my
friend's in his room and his mother's in hers, and andy's just drifting off to sleep when his mother
throws the door open so hard it bangs into the wall and knocks some of his stuff over, and then,
choking with rage, she screams at him,
"DO YOU KNOW HOW GAY MEN HAVE SEX???"
"Whu...?" he's saying.
"I SAID, DO YOU KNOW HOW GAY MEN HAVE SEX? DO YOU? DO YOU?"
"Mom - "
”UP THE ASS!!!!!!!!”
oh, boy.
ok. another story.
And Now Here It Is, Your Moment of Zen.
At UMass, I was once walking from my English Lit class to be a reporter for the school
newspaper when I came around the corner and witnessed this at the campus center:
1.
The "Crazy Jesus People" - who visited campus once a year, usually in the autumn, with
their HUUUUGE banners screaming "SEEK JESUS NOT A JOB" with their glassy-eyed
children handing out flyers and chick tracts
2.
Right next to them on the student union lawn, a job fair completely with climbing wall,
game booths, and the obligatory credit-card-sign-up table sponsored by Volkswagen
3.
Right next to THAT on the SU steps, a rally by the republican club (all 9 of the pasty faced
motherfuckers) in support of the war in Afghanistan
4.
Across the way from that, a counter-rally by assorted UMass hippies denouncing the
republican club, the VW fair, AND the crazy jesus people in one fell swoop, complete with
guy with bullhorn atop the parking garage being shouted at by a campus groundskeeper
to get off the roof
5.
and finally, in the midst of it all, an unfortunate campus activist group with a table set up
to promote sex education, including the handing out of free condoms and pamphlets on
safer sex, and - the piece de resistance - a person dressed up in a gigantic condom suit,
who was promptly chased about the area by one of the Crazy Jesus People, while the
republican club people cheered them on, while the counter-protesters rose to its defense...
no real story there, just a scene...that's UMass for ya.
Okay, this is kind of a dumb story, but talking about birds reminded me of it.
As some of you know, I have an aunt that lives in Westchester, NY, which is this
extremely posh suburb north of NYC. I was staying there a couple of summers ago when my aunt
Kay's ancient neighbor Geraldine had to go to the hospital in the middle of the night.
Now, even though Kay is from rural Nebraska and grew up on a farm, and their other
neighbor Mary grew up in rural Ireland, these women are city as city can be. It makes me giggle.
When I go stay with them, they always make me pick out their vegetables from the grocery store,
because they think that I'm somehow more connected to the land and can pick better veggies
(which I can, for some reason). Anyway, the next day Geraldine calls Mary and tells her to go get
me to go over to the house and water the plants and check on her bird, a small finch.
When we go over to the house, the floor is littered with tiny downy finch feathers that the
finch has been pulling out of itself. I raised chickens and ducks for about ten years and knew, since
it was the middle of summer, that the bird was just molting. I told this to Mary, who was very
deeply upset, because she was thoroughly convinced that the bird was trying to commit suicide
because it missed Geraldine so much. Much as I tried to reassure Mary, she would not believe me
until we got Geraldine on the phone, who confirmed what I said was true.
I *heart* city people.
Posted by Tuffy the Dump Truck on 06-25-2003 01:29 PM:
Because you asked...
Okay, so a few years back, I hit my local dive in the middle of the afternoon. It's dark and
mostly empty inside - just the way I like it - and I commence to drinking heavily. I end up sitting at
the bar with this Indian woman talking, laughing over drinks - we bond fast. This goes on for
quite a while until the bartender tells us that there is a 'No Snogging' policy in effect in this particular bar and that we have to cut it out or take it elsewhere; somehow or another, we'd ended up
making out pretty heavily as in her shirt was open and she was fondling me through my pants.
What the hell, I was single, lonely, and loaded... It was after midnight now. So we finish up our
drinks and go to her car. I have no idea how we made it to her condo, as whacked out of our skulls
we were, but we did, and actually made it as far as her living room sofa in the process of removing
each other's clothes. Being loaded, we're in it working for the long haul - no foreplay, no promises,
no sweet talking, none of that was needed, just good, solid, old-fashioned,
ankles-over-the-shoulders, sweat in your eyes, hair in knots fucking on the couch with that
crazed-yet-vacant look in your eye that so many of you women have looked up and seen so many
times before. This goes on like forever - as I said, I was whacked out of my gourd inebriated, and
the main advantage to that, for me anyway, is that it just plain takes me forever to get anywhere
near coming. So, we're going at it, I don't know, 45 minutes? 90? Two or three hours? Beats me;
time was lost in the heat and musk. It's 4:30 in the A of M and a door slams.
She: "Oh, shit, my husband!"
Simultaneously, several thoughts ricocheted through my head – “You didn't see fit to
mention this before?…How can I get out of here alive?…But…I'm sooooooo close!…What the hell
is he doing coming home so late, anyway?”
I sprang, tiger-like, from all fours, straight into the air and backwards, landing about four
feet away facing the sofa. Being still somewhat drunk, I did a three-quarter clockwise turn and
took a step back - the backs of my naked knees coming in contact – forcefully - with the edge of her
glass-topped coffee table causing me to sit down. Hard.
I seemed to hover for a split second... There was a sound like an explosion, and I suddenly
dropped another two feet, my kneecaps jerking upwards to meet my chest as I folded in half.
Glass fragments a quarter-inch thick and the size of dinner plates flew in the air. I only wish I
could have seen my face; hers went caucasian. My only lonely thought as I sat there looking at her
dumbly, was, "Oh, shit, he's gonna be mad when he sees that I broke his table." I jumped up and
ran, naked mind you, into the kitchen and ducked behind a cupboard. And waited.
Finally, I heard a very calm voice say, "Mom, there's a naked man in the kitchen." Mom?
"Yes, honey, I know. Go to bed."
"Okay."
It was her teenage son coming home too early from an all-nighter at a friend's house. I
hear a door close, and I walk back into the living room. She's wrapped in a sheet, picking up glass
chunks.
"Are you okay?" she says. Right now, I'm anything but. I think I just aged 40 years, but I'm
unusually relaxed; I'd helped myself to a beer from the fridge. I touch my left hand to my back,
just above my kidney, and it comes away washed in red. She thinks I need stitches, but I don't
think it feels too deep. I finish the beer & ask her if she'll drive me home. I dress, and immediately
soak through my clothes with blood. She gives me a towel, and I keep it between the car seat and
my back until we get to my house. The sun is coming up. I have to be at work in about two hours. I
kiss her hard right there in the front seat, reach down, hit the lever, and recline her seat all the
way. Get her pants off and I'm inside her again. This time, I finish in minutes.
We went out several more times after that, but it was never as good as that. I have a large,
L-shaped scar on my lower-left back.
True story.
In my first year at uni, I foolishly thought i had too much free time and I should get a job. I
found a position at a radio station that was owned by an advertisements newspaper. They wanted
to promote radio advertising, so my job was to call businesses, inform them about the promotional
ad packages we had and, if they expressed interest, go to their offices and do the presentation of
the amazing advantages our station offered. I would get a commission - no salary at all.
Most people said 'no' on the telephone. Some of them were nice about it. Usually they
demonstrated varied degrees of rudeness. But I did get some people to agree on the in-person
presentation.
Among the malakes cases that i had was the manager of a shop selling air-conditioners. I
had to go an absurdly long way to the other side of the city, but i gave him an excellent presentation, in which he seemed deeply interested. And then he tells me: 'All this is very nice, lass, but we
trade in air-conditioners. We usually start advertising after Easter and now it's not even
Christmas.' THEN WHY DID YOU TELL ME TO COME, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE???
Another place I had to go to was a gas selling business. I arrived there to find two guys in
their late twenties/early thirties. One of them was downright annoying, trying to flirt with me in
the stupidest way possible. The other was just smirking. After talking for ten minutes I was told
that it was their dad i had to speak to. Fair enough. We arrange another meeting with the dad a
few days later.
When the day comes, I go there, find the old guy (very polite I have to admit) and give
him the details. He tells me 'Umm, that's really interesting, but i'm the kids' grandpa. it's my son
you have to talk to. Fine. We arrange another meeting.
I go there for the third time, make sure I've got the right person and give him the presentation again. He's a bad-tempered bastard. He waits until I've finished and tells me: 'No. We are
not interested. Go away.'
The next week I blew their shop up.
Okay. Story type things. One is the one someone reminded me to tell, one Lupus made me
think of.
#27)
When I was seventeen, I lived with just my mom in a tiny, shitty half house. My girlfriend,
the insane one from other anecdotes, usually came over and ate dinner with us. Earlier this same
year, I had gotten the reprieve from making dinner for my mom and I like I had since I was seven,
because she got a better job with commission. So I did nothing to help out in the cookery, time off
for good behavior. Often, we'd be upstairs fooling around when the holler came up the stairwell
that "Dinner's ready!" Then we'd come down all red eared and sweaty thinking no one was the
wiser. Like maybe I put those stupid fucking sparkles all over my own face on purpose.
So one day, mom shows no sign of being home on time and we start to have sex. And
right in the middle, there's a knock on the door. We panic, hike the blankets up to our necks, even
though it's painfully obvious we're naked what with all our clothes in a pile on the floor, and after
a minute of hoping that we had hallucinated it, the knock comes again.
"Come in," I say.
My mom and I had never had a sex talk. When I was ten, she happened to leave that book,
The Joy of Sex in a place where she knew I snooped for birthday presents. The next day it was
gone. I think that was her way of discussing it with me.
With my mom, you could talk about sucking abortions through a straw outside the
backdoor of planned parenthood while enjoying a nice vegetarian dinner, but you DID NOT discuss sex. We just never mentioned it.
So when she opened the door, and there's still a withering lump in the blanket, and the
whole room smells like sweet, thick musk, it was a bit of a shock to see her holding a box of condoms. She throws them onto us, neither one of us reaching up for them so they just tumble onto
our faces.
"You know, just in case. I don't need her parents yelling at me again."
Then she shuts the door and leaves.
And no one ever said a word about it again.
#28)
When I lived in this tiny, two bedroom apartment in the bad part of the city, I lived with
four other people and a cat. No one ever changed the cat's litter pan, and the whole place smelled
like a mix of stale bong water and cat piss.
One day, the fourth roommate (who had no job, no money, who the two rent paying
roommates ((me and this guy Phil)) had been supporting food and house wise for months, who
we eventually seriously looked into claiming as a dependant on our taxes...) well, this fucking kid
brought home another cat.
Our one cat, let's do a little bio on him.
Boo!: A black cat with seven toes on each of his front feet, Boo was born epileptic. He had
some problems adjusting and was known to just randomly attack people an inanimate objects. A
violent little kitty who likes to pee in the bathroom sink and shit in the kitchen sink since no one
cares enough to change his litter pan. Boo also loves pot smoke, coming running to the lap of
anyone who ignites a lighter just to check what he might inhale. Boo is unneutered because Phil,
his owner, says that "if the situation were reversed, I wouldn't want him doing it to me."
Then we got the new cat.
Akira: Kira, for short, is an untrained grey female cat from the streets. She will forage for
food, fight you in your chair for a sandwich. She shits on things she can tell you value, things you
shoo her away from. She never shits solid either so anything you don't catch her in the act of doing
becomes an object encased in a sort of Magic Shell like the candy coating for ice cream we last saw
in 1984. She is also unspayed.
Now, after about two weeks, we start noticing that every day there are at least a few hours
of Kira bolting around the place chased by Boo. Hatred? No. This is springtime. It's mating season.
But no one wants to get rid of Kira. She just keeps fleeing and shitting all the livelong day.
The first time Boo catches her, everyone stops what they're doing, scared to death. It's an
unearthly noise to hear a cat hollering about how it doesn't want to be fucked. And it's even
scarier to hear a fucking cat holler his war cry about what he's doing. Both of these at the same
time is a terrifying cacophony.
Rounding the corner, what do we see. Boo has one of his seven toes paws on Kira's throat ,
the other on her stomach, and he's banging away IN THE MISSIONARY POSITION. This is
enough to render anyone speechless. We figure it's a fluke of the struggle.
A few minutes later, Kira comes running out and starts wiping herself all over the
furniture, writhing like she feels dirty. It's sad and gross all at the same time and all five of the
housemates feel just a bit dirtier.
For the next three weeks, we're treated to at least on show per day of Boo catching Kira
and having his way, all in the missionary position . Eventually, two of the other roommates start
cheering him on while he's at it, a disturbing social comment on something, though I'm not sure
what.
Several months later: We return from spending $300 between four of us at the grocery
store. We've just smoked an ounce in one sitting, and eaten some mushrooms. We're covered in
cracker debris and flat cans of EZ Cheez are rolling around the floor. This is when one of the guys
mentions "Dude, what's with the slimy giant shit Kira took in your bedroom." And I say "What???"
And I run to check it out only to find it's not crap, it's a kitten, and there's a whole trail of the
buggers to the bathroom where she's lying.
No one even noticed the fucking cat was pregnant. We just thought she was getting fat.
Post-post-script: The $300 worth of food was gone by six PM the following day, a
reminder that marijuana is more harmful than we all thought.
#29)
Two quick ones that may or may not be funny depending on whether or not you knew my
mother.
A. Sitting at the dinner table with my friend when we were about thirteen, we're all having conversation about pop culture. My friend asks about the rapper Domino, and inquires where he got
his name. My mom postulates "Maybe he comes in thirty minutes or less." I leave the table,
forthwith.
B. My girlfriend and I, this is about five years later, are having dinner with my mom. Always
eager to make me happy, my girlfriend starts asking questions about my dad. Some of you might
know I've never met him and this is a touchy subject for me.
So in an attempt to change the subject and pronounce my displeasure, I say "I don't know why
you married the fucking guy anyways." And my mom, without losing a beat says "he was good in
bed." I leave the table, forthwith.
These three stories are about the only times my mom ever mentioned sex. There are things a
kid should never have to think about his parents doing. Later, thanks to another skew comment
about where I was conceived, I was unfortunate enough to piece together being conceived on a
fold out couch in my half-sister's father's house late at night on the day of Thanksgiving.
Now I have to live with that thought.
[shudder]
It might be a good idea to stop the stories. In my search for embarrassing moments, I
stumbled on memories that are quite traumatic. And ever the masochist, I will share ( I try to see it
as a form of therapy - don't start charging me though).
About six years ago, going on a winter vacation, we passed through a town where some of
my friend's relatives lived. (this friend is the crush in front of whose parents I had made a drunken
fool of myself - see one of the previous posts). We decided to drop by and say hello to his aunt,
uncle and cousins.
They were very happy to see us and they treated us to some baclava (traditional sweet).
Holding my plate, I sat down on the sofa. The sofa broke.
My face went through a slide show of fascinating hues: first completely white, then totally
red. No amount of 'don't worry, it was ready to break anyway, it's really not your fault, it was
going to collapse any time now etc etc' could console me. My friend laughing at me (as he is prone
to do) did not exactly help. I muttered that maybe it was not such a good idea to have the baclava
after all. I felt dejected for days.
Postscript: This Christmas I was in my friend's house. Amid general comings and goings, a
middle-aged couple came. 'I don't believe I know the young lady' said the woman. I didn't know
who she was either. Before I had the chance to introduce myself, my friend piped in: 'Sure you do,
auntie: she broke your sofa!' Oh. My. God.
'Gosh,' said the aunt. 'You've... lost weight' ...
My evil friend laughed some more.
now this one is gold, i just remembered it.
one night my dad got hungry and went out to taco bell. he was a bit inebriated, but he’s a
veteran of drunken life, so i gave him my keys. i’m chillin' in ma crib wit my bro, and were just
slangin'. so we're sitting in the living room watching adult swim ,like ya do...and suddenly we
hear sirens. at first i thought it was the tv, then i hear "Stop the car now!" from a megaphone, i look
outside, and of course there is my father pulling into the driveway tailed by the pigs. he gets out,
and was apparently a tad drunker than i first suspected because he was belligerent as fuck, and
started calling the cop a "motherfucking faggot" as he dug through my car. my mother was asleep,
so i went to wake her up the cop was like, "well, have a good night" laughing and giving me my
keys. so my father refused to take a breathalyzer and was carted off to the hospital for a blood test
and we watched the whole thing from the lawn, it was...spectacular.
sad ending though, cause i had to play chauffer for my dad afterwards, and to top it all
off, i found out that my digital camcorder had been sitting in my room with a full battery and
fresh tape the whole time.
Gucci, sometimes I think about how much I hate not ever having a family, not ever having
a dad, then I hear your stories and think how I might just be okay with the way things are after all.
#30)
I was about to get engaged to this girl, I loved her dearly, and we'd been best friends for
years. The only thing was, since we'd always had a really awkward crush on each other, we had
stayed clear of discussing really deep sexual matters lest we betray ourselves.
So one night, right after we get together, right after we move into out new place, we're
talking about how much we're in love, being gross and sappy and we start kissing. We end up
making love in the swatch of moonlight coming in our new bedroom window and everything is
perfect.
And then the post coital chatter starts up and she asks how many people I've slept with. I
tell her she's the third, which is honest at the time, a nice, round number for a 20 year old.
I ask her the same since she's brought it up. She was a bit older than me, 22 at the time, the
age I am now. She had dated a lot, and was extremely attractive so I expected her number to be a
bit higher than mine.
I have all the time in the world to think about what might be an okay number that
wouldn't prod me on to disturbedness. Then I realize, I have all this time to think.
Why do I have all this time to think?
We're lying there, naked on the sheetless mattress, in each other's arms and she's got her
hands behind my back counting on her fingers. I was lost in thought.
She mumbles things like
"Did I...oh, yeah."
"What was his name?"
"I don't think that counts because it was ...well, I guess it does."
I don't know how under her breath she's trying to be.
She laughs about Ken, the guy we had worked with, who said "Wow, that was easier than
I thought" right after he nailed her. I half-assedly join in.
She remembers the guy who shit his pants in Pizza Hut on a date with her, the guy who
unpromptedly pissed on her in the bathtub.
Then she says, "You're my 23rd."
There were some problems after that.
Posted by insomnomaniac on 06-26-2003 12:32 AM:
my friend kellie's brother got married.
doesn't seem like much of a story, but oh, it is.
her brother's fiancée is the Bride from Hell. in an effort to protect the not so innocent, i will
henceforth refer to her as BFH. i will refer to her brother as HG, for hapless groom. or huge git.
ok to set the scene: father's day, my friend and her mother and father are at a restaurant to
meet HG for brunch. given that BFH had effectively kept HG from seeing his family during every
single holiday for the entire past year, HG's family is really looking forward to seeing him.
HG comes running into the restaurant late. "we have to go," he tells his father breathlessly.
"she knows i'm here."
apparently BFH had found out that HG's family had had the audacity to invite some
cousins to the rehearsal dinner (which they were paying for and organizing, while BFH's family
(FFH for short) was organizing the wedding itself) without consulting BFH for permission. BFH
was apparently now preparing to have "words" with HG's mother, in the restaurant. on father's
day.
another scene setter: HG's mother gave him and BFH a little christmas tree on christmas to
keep in their apt. BFH flipped out, kicked him out of the house, and called off the engagement (for
the second of five times) because she was "tired of dealing with his controlling family."
another example: BFH, ever the jealous and insecure one, forbade HG to have female
friends. too bad HG had a really good female friend who, around the time this decree was made,
ended up in the hospital after having a stroke. not only was HG ordered not to visit her (he did
anyway), but around this time BFH began referring to the girl as "fuckface".
and yet despite it all, they were getting fucking married come hell or high water.
so my friend, who is a large girl, went through hell, first when BFH vetoed her offer to
sing at the wedding (my friend is an opera singer with a degree in music) and basically forced her
to be a bridesmaid with her two, size-zero, wicked-stepsisters-straight-out-of-the-fairy-tale sisters
and her equally unpleasant cousin. and then came the wedding...the ceremony went off pretty
well (except for the fact that BFH insisted on having bridal and bridesmaids' bouquets made
entirely of lilies - you know, funeral flowers, which my friend thought was bitterly appropriate)
but afterwards during photos, the poor photographer was lining up different groups, and as is
customary, asked for a picture with the groom and his family.
"WHY CAN'T I BE IN IT??" BFH demanded immediately.
"Um...because...um..." the poor photographer stumbled.
"I AM SICK OF THIS SHIT" the BFH said, or something to this effect, and stormed out,
wedding dress and all, to the bathroom to cry.
the fact that there had been a picture of the bride with just her family, without HG, was
apparently irrelevant.
and then my friend gets elected to be the one to go after BFH and try to coax her back to
finish the pictures, given that they're holding up the entire wedding reception due to this little
tantrum.
my friend finds her in the ladies' room...surrounded by the equally from-hell female
members of her family.
all of them turn on my friend, and a verbal massacre ensues.
my friend finally just says, "look. the photographer feels really bad. he just wants to know
if you're okay."
"OF COURSE I'M NOT OKAY," BFH shrieks. "WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU THINK
I'M OKAY."
"that photographer is not here to make fucking decisions," her Mother from Hell (MFH)
tells my friend sternly. "now get out."
somehow or another the pictures got taken.
at the reception, everyone had to stand and watch BFH and HG have their first dance. the
whole thing. the whole loooooong song, which, insult to injury, was "Heaven" by Bryan Adams.
originally they were going to use the techno version, but apparently someone talked BFH out of it.
the reception begins, and my friend and her family proceed to begin getting as drunk as is
humanly possible.
during the receptionist, the DJ sang "That's Amore" to the couple. After which BFH
stormed up to him, jabbing a finger in his face, and shrilling, "THERE WILL BE NO MORE SINGING AT THIS RECEPTION."
later on, the DJ (apparently this was part of his package deal, why they were not aware of
it i don't know) played the tenor sax to one song. to which the BFH stormed up again, again with
the finger, and hollered, "THERE WILL BE NO MORE INSTRUMENT PLAYING AT THIS
RECEPTION. just play the fucking songs. that's what we fucking hired you for."
my friend gets drunker. later on she calls me, as drunk as i've ever heard or seen her.
today she told me her dad got so drunk that he began telling an also-inebriated cadre of
friends and relatives from HG's party that he was Jesus Christ.
my friend also told me today that her date kept saying to her incredulously, "she's your
sister in law now." she says even though she couldn't stand up, she almost slapped him.
My story of meeting chuck during the lullaby tour:
We were standing in line behind these stupid guys, in the rain, sans umbrellas, none of us
too happy to be near each other (I guess Kellie and I offended them by having the audacity to be
female and weigh more than 120 lbs., and they bothered us because they were assholes), when a
very obviously gay man sashayed up, Lullaby in hand, wire-rimmed-hair-gel-leather-jacket
uniform snugly and firmly on, and lisped loudly, "OK people, the reading's been cancelled. You
can all go home."
WOW, he was gay. I mean, I know my fair share of queens, but this guy... my eyebrows
were singeing. And could he be any more stereotypical? What is it with gay guys and crunchy hair
and wire-rimmed glasses? How do all of them need glasses anyway? Do the ones that don't
actually need prescription glasses buy some clear-glass or lens less ones just to fit in? And I have
to say I was none too pleased at his attempt to joke with those of us who'd already been in line for
about an hour, in the rain, sans umbrellas, near people who bothered us, by attempting to suggest,
in a humorous manner, the one scenario that could surpass our current one in suckage.
After a gratuitous pause for a laugh, which he did not get, he stormed off to the back of
the line. Fine. Good riddance. Be gone with you. Whatever.
Now, he was very gay, and he was very obnoxious, but my mind does not connect these
things. Apparently it takes minds like those in front of me in order to make such a connection, and
once they had, they expounded loudly and at length on the subject of the man's gay obnoxiousness. Or obnoxious gayness. Whichever. The point is that to these shining ex-National Honor
Society leaders, the two were interchangeable, and inseparable.
"Fucking..." they started, because that's how they started most sentences. And then one
spat, "Homo!!" like he had just taken a big bite of a shit sandwich and was now spitting it out
again. They all stood back in awe of their wit and cunning before proceeding with more arguments about the man's obvious personal defects, not the least of which was his obvious homosexuality.
Oh, God Bless America. What a wonderful world.
I was about to bash them all in the head (not that that would have made much difference,
though, ha ha ha) by the time we were all standing in line waiting for Chuckie P to sign our books,
until I noticed something precious about them: all were carrying hardcover copies of every single
one of Chuck's books, all with the dust jackets removed. I am enough of a bibliophile myself to
know that the number one reason for removing a dust jacket is to avoid damaging it. Dust jackets
are God's scourge upon book-reading mankind - they get wrinkled, ripped, wet, dirty and/or
faded at the seeming drop of a hat. But, being as much of a lazy person as I am a book geek, I
know I have only bothered to go to the effort of removing a dust jacket before taking a book out of
the house when I really, really, really, really didn't want the dust jacket to get hurt, which is pretty
much only when I really, really, really, really, really loved the book and wanted to display it in a
place of honor on my shelf, or perhaps under glass, once I was done taking it wherever I wanted to
take it.
I also noticed that the naked canvas covers of the jacketless books they were carrying were
completely spotless - no small feat in and of itself. This communicates to me that not only were
they obsessed enough with these volumes to remove the dust jackets for preservation before
taking them out to the book signing, but that they had rarely ever taken the books out of whatever
rat-infested hole in Southie they live in, jacket or no jacket.
That means that these boys seriously, seriously love these books. Which would be sweet if
they weren't such jackoffs.
And when they got up to meet Chuck, they truly outdid themselves, especially for boys
who had been shouting homosexual epithets in public at a busy city intersection moments earlier
because a gay guy tried to crack wise. They fawned. They slathered. They gushed. They asked
him, "Do you know how to get the limited-edition hardcover version of Invisible Monsters from
the U.K.? We've had a horrible time trying to find it on Ebay."
"No," he told them, dumbfoundedly.
"Fucking homos!!" I wanted to yell. But I didn't.
It was supposed to be a reading, but once we crowded like cattle into the ridiculously
small theater they decided to bring such a celebrity to, he said, "You can always read the book
when I'm gone. So I'm just going to tell you offensive stories."
After that, it's hard to describe, but to sum up: passed out in a bathtub full of three inches
of piss and blood, you'll never look at stained tupperware the same way again, guess where your
name is? do you KNOW what kinds of toxins are in a Sharpie?, that's it, i'm not signing your
damned book, and oh, yeah - Margaret Thatcher has eaten my sperm...five times.
I don't really think there's much else I can add to that.
Sweet. He told some great stories at the conference. If that documentary comes out, I
highly suggest everyone buy it.
And another crazy girlfriend anecdote Lupus reminded me of.
#31)
I broke up with the one girl I dated seriously and did not love on March 6th, 2000. It was a
pretty casual thing, I thought, it's the black mark on my conscience when I think of whether or not
I'm a good boyfriend. In retrospect, it was just idle chatter, friendship and sex. We were both in it
for that. Again, so I thought.
The big problem is that I got together with my next girlfriend on March 10th, 2000. And
since we'd been roommates and best friends and lived together before, we got an apartment on
March 14th, 2000. This wasn't a hasty lust thing, we just both had to find a new place before the
end of the month and why not move in together when neither of us could afford a place on our
own?
When we broke up, it was actually because of the girl I ended up getting engaged to.
When she told me she was in love with me, I wasn't going to cheat or waste time. While I broke up
with the girl, I never told her it was because I found someone else. It went very, VERY badly, but
that's a story in and of itself. One I'll tell later maybe.
So I still had to work with the ex-girlfriend and I told everyone not to mention the new
girlfriend to her. I didn't want her feelings to be hurt anymore than I had already hurt them. When
we broke up she told me she had been in love with me and I felt really bad for A) not reciprocating
and B) not realizing.
Things went badly with the ex at work, she told customers I poisoned the food, I whacked
off in the food, things like that. She told black parties I hated black people and white parties that I
was a drug dealer. Badly.
But then things calmed down.
A month and a half later, she was working less and we were on civil terms. Then one day,
my phone rang. The caller ID said it was her. I didn't answer since my girlfriend and I were
cooking dinner.
When she left a message, I checked it. I went a little something like this:
"YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!!! I FUCKING HATE YOU YOU FUCKING SHIT. YOU
RUINED MY FUCKING LIFE YOU DICK AND FOR HER???!!! FOR HER??? THAT SLOPPY
CUNT IS GOING TO PAY IF I EVER SEE HER. I HATE YOU!!!! I HATE YOU!!!!!!!! I HOPE YOU
BURN IN HELL!!!"
I let my new girlfriend listen to it, and we both wondered what happened.
The phone rang again. It was the ex, again. Message #2 went pretty much the same.
I turned the phone off after message number three. An hour later, I turned it on and
checked voicemail to hear "You have seventeen new messages."
The highlights include:
"NO ONE WILL TELL ME, BUT I'LL FIND OUT WHERE YOU TWO LIVE AND I'LL
CUT OFF HER HEAD AND SPIT IN HER THROAT."
"I LOVE YOU, WHY DON'T YOU KNOW THIS?"
"FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING FUCK."
"I'M FUCKING GLAD YOUR MOM HAS CANCER!!! I HOPE YOU GET IT TOO, AND I
HOPE SHE DOES, AND I HOPE YOU KNOW YOU RUINED MY LIFE!!!!"
I got a bit angry at the last part. But whatever. I figured she was hurting so I let it go. I
have this problem called "being a bigger person than that" complex. I never yell at the right times
or people and give all the wrong folks a second and third chance.
Anyways, the best part came when I found out what had happened. She had been
working and someone came in and told her that I was living with a new girl who she realized was
my old flame.
She threw a coffee pot twenty feet into a wall and tipped a table. She made all 19 calls, left
all 19 messages at top volume in the middle of the restaurant. With people watching. Well, those
who didn't run. Apparently, she stopped when the police showed up.
The upside is A) I didn't have to work with her anymore, B) I got a weird story to tell out
of it, and C) years later she apologized and we're still friends.
dude, the keanu pic has a story behind it. seriously.
another story!
my bf, before he met me, lived with this crazy asian kid who had an even crazier girlfriend. they had their beds bunked in their extremely small dorm room. my bf was on the bottom,
the roommate on the top. made it really a cool ride for my bf to be in bed when they would have
sex on the top bunk. anyway. one night they're going at it, he's trying to sleep, then all of a sudden,
in the middle of the act, they start fighting. like physically, fighting. one thing leads to another,
and then the girlfriend, half-naked, leans down and pulls out a knife on my bf's roommate.
they struggle. my bf tries to keep quiet, wondering if she's going to kill both of them. "I'LL
FUCKING KILL YOU" she's screaming.
the fight spills out of the bunk. both of them are mostly naked, both of them screaming,
and the girlfriend is trying like hell to stab the roommate. finally, my bf, unable to take it any
longer, gets up, throws open the door and screams, "IF YOU GUYS ARE GONNA KILL EACH
OTHER, TAKE IT OUTSIDE!!!!!"
the roommate, seeing an opportunity to escape, takes off out of the room. the girlfriend
isn't far behind.
all night, my bf hears the sound of running footsteps up and down the hall, and screams
of "I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU," and the boyfriend, in response, "YOU FUCKING CRAZY BITCH."
the next day, my bf is trying to go to the shower when he spies the girlfriend outside the
building, at one of the doors. she knocks and looks hopeful at him, as if she wants him to let her in.
my bf, who is really not like this at all normally, flips her the bird.
a week later, the girlfriend and the roommate were back together.
Oh my gosh. I'm just sitting here with my head nearly on the keyboard because that story
has affected me so deeply. Oh my gosh. That is so psychotic.
And just for the record, proto, I totally back you up about the girl who had had 22 partners before you. I cannot even imagine the level of uncomfortableness I would feel if I was in a
committed relationship and someone dropped a bomb like that.
Actually, reminds me of a story. I grew up next door to a girl named Lindsay. Lindsay
was mostly a good kid, but she had had some family problems in the past, and ended up as one of
those girls who A) loved boy bands and B) equated sex with love.
About a year or so ago, when she was nineteen, she came home for the weekend, and she
and I went for a walk. She rambled on and on about the different partners she had had, whom she
was dating (and asked me about ten thousand times in the process WHY didn't I have a boyfriend
yet) yada yada. At one point she said, "I don't consider myself a slut. A girl who is a slut has sex
with just about anyone who will take her. I love every one of the guys I've ever had sex with."
So naturally I asked her how many it had been. She said 12. And she was 19 years old.
And she lost her virginity at 17.
Not only does the thought make me gag slightly it serves as a prime example of someone
trying to justify behavior that deep down, they know is wrong.
Thanks for the backup, Jane.
Kitty- another fucking classic. Naked intra coital fighting. I like it.
#32)
A quickie: I once had to stop having sex with this girl (the crazy phone call girl) because a
roommate who had a crush on her since before we got together came over one day.
This girl was LOUD in bed. I don't mean normal loud, or even loud loud, or trying to
imitate porn loud. I mean ridiculous loud. A future boyfriend of hers who happens to be a good
friend of mine pulled out their first time and said "This is just stupid. I'm not going back in there
until you simmer down."
You get the idea.
So anyways, one day we have the house to ourselves so she's as loud as she wants to be I
don't like it, but whatever gets her off. And then we hear creaking footsteps up the stairs, and then
the door and then the footsteps and then they stop right outside my door.
I wonder, but she's still moaning. Then I realize who might be coming over.
This roommate is in the process of moving out, the one who is into my girlfriend, and he
still has a washer and dryer here. He's come to do laundry.
I'm thinking this while still banging away. Then I hear more creaking. Odd creaking. Fast
tiny creaks. My dick becomes the opposite of erect so quickly and so intensely that it later took a
toilet plunger and a pair of tongs to pull it out of my thorax.
I jump up nude and sweaty and open the door to find this roommate jerking himself off in
the hallway outside my bedroom.
Maybe that won't bother everyone that much, but it grossed the fuck out of me.
And actually, I am telling another story before I go to sleep.
#33)
I was fifteen. My mother made me go and get a physical before the health insurance
lapsed and went away.
When a boy is fifteen, he is a bottle of hormones, like a shaken can of soda. Sometimes, he
might find himself the not so proud owner of a raging hard on without any reason why. No sexual
component at all. Just hard for the sake of hard.
Well, I was sitting and waiting for the doctor to come and do the "turn your head and
cough" thing and all of a sudden, there he is, saying hello. Hard as possible. I start to pray to any
god or goddess who will listen for this thing to go away before the doctor comes in, but before I
utter a single word, the door opens.
The order comes, "shorts off."
And all I can say to the man as it sits there, perpendicular to the rest of me is "I do believe
north is that way."
I was thoroughly humiliated and sometimes, when I think about that day, am glad that I
haven't been able to get a physical for the past eight years.
Okay, I thought of this last night when I was telling Kitty about my high school Bio
teacher. You may or may not think this is funny, but the first time I heard it, I laughed so hard I
cried.
My teacher, Dale, has been an EMT for many years. I don't think this happened to him
directly, I think it was a friend of a friend sort of thing, but for the sake of simplicity, I'm going to
pretend it happened to him.
So ambulance was called in to a house because a meth lab (which are common around
here) blew up some guy's house and set him on fire. And it was some kind of phosphorus meth, I
don't remember if it was red or white. The important thing was that it reacted strongly with salt.
So, this guy being severely burned, Dale takes a look at him and says, "Poor guy. I should help
him out with those burns." So he picks up a bottle of saline solution and pours it all over the guy.
The guy promptly bursts into flames, for the second time. The EMTs put him out and cart
him off to the hospital. The guy is still alive, but just barely.
So, at the hospital, the doctor takes a look at the guy, realizes he's burnt quite badly, and
proceeds to pour saline solution on him. The guy starts on fire for the third time, and finally he
dies.
I thought it was funny. But I'm kind of sick like that.
Pity fuck is an ugly term.
I have friend who I'll refer to as Desolation or D for the purpose of the story. D is the nicest
guy you'd ever want to know and funny as shit. He and I have known each other since 2nd grade.
D comes from a messed up family and so do I. We have lots to talk about and laugh about.
We can spend hours playing rummy.
D's problem with women is that he has burn scars which he's embarrassed about and
make him hesitant getting naked. He really doesn't want to explain where those burns came from.
I'm not going to explain it either. That’s not the point of the story.
The story is he fell in love with a great girl and she loved him too, burns, wit, brains and all. Well
she died in an extremely ugly way.
D can't deal with the way she died and he never wants to touch another person or be
touched again. He wants to play drums, write poetry, do coke and get into fights. This goes on for
2 or so years. Its terrible to watch.
One night drunk, he tells me "I can't ever do that shit again. The only point in fucking is
looking and seeing someone looking back at you"
Another night he tells me "I might be an asshole. This can all be bullshit how much I loved
her. Maybe it’s because she's the only person that could look at me"
So yeah, I undressed him and looked at him etc.
For a quickie story.
#34)
Yesterday a woman coughing up something that smelled like colostomy and looked like
chewed Twizzlers came into my bookstore yesterday. She was in this little zippy pod thing that
used to be white but was now bone white from, I'm guessing, nicotine. She had the ambiance of a
doctor's latex glove turned inside out, still sweaty.
She couldn't reach the porn shelf.
This kid who had a moth eaten or asphalt burnt Grateful Dead knockoff shirt came in. He
smacked his girlfriend over the head in a manner that was just playful enough to make me only
watch them carefully instead of drop him right there. The girl smelled of patchouli while she
wandered by the new Harry Potter. The guy’s shorts looked like he used bong water as detergent.
He could reach the porn shelf.
The kid and the crippled woman bonded when he got the porn down for her and they
turned out to want the same magazine. They discussed back issues I think she had a tracheotomy
because she sounded like a robot. A dying robot.
They bought the porn together, him passing her money up to the counter for her.
I don't know if this is a story about the decline of the human race, some sort of
Sartre-esque Nausea, or if this is a happy tale about people caring for each other.
Whatever, I feel like I just pulled a hair out of my food just thinking about watching the
whole scene again.
quote: Originally posted by lupus
About the tail, Proto, read 'Geek Love.'
Cripes, that's one of my favorite books. Proto, I'm glad it's next on your list, because that's
precisely where it should be.
And just to be sure I contribute to the purpose of this thread, I'll scrounge up another
story. I'm not sure if I've told this elsewhere around here, but it's one of my favorite party stories,
so I'm gonna roll with it.
Our story begins at my buddy Steve's house. He and the rest of the house are throwing a
Martin Luther King Jr. Day party and a raucous one at that. There's a live band and plenty of
alcohol aflowin'. I'm in the kitchen socializing like a good boy should when Steve comes up to me,
a little drunk, maybe a little high, grabs my shoulder and says, "There is a Libyan poet... in my
room."
"A what?" I say, not exactly sure I'd heard him right the first time. I mean, it's not every
day you come across such a phrase.
"A Libyan poet. He's in my room. He's smoking my weed. This is so cool." I have to see
this for myself, so I meander down the hallway, through a few conversations, and finally come to
Steve's closed door. I knock and open the door a little, trying to squeeze my head through the
three-inch gap I've made. All I can really see in the purple haze of the room is a large circle of
people on the floor.
"I hear there's a Libyan poet in here. Let me in," I say. The gatekeeper opens the door and I
make my way to the far end of the circle, immediately picking out the cunning linguist from
Libya. After all, he's the only one with a decent tan, a black beret, a red scarf tied about his neck,
and black frizzy hair. Plus there was the fact that he was talking about Garcia Marquez's 100 Years
of Solitude in a thick accent.
A few minutes later, Steve came in and took a seat next to me. I had to ask, "Where the hell
did he come from?" Steve shrugged and said, "Libya? How the fuck should I know? He just
showed up. Nobody knows where he came from." We both sat back in awe at his mere presence.
The drug-induced philosophical crap pouring out of his mouth was bonus, as was his life history.
Although I missed a good portion of it, I found out he was a heroin addict and that his name was
something nobody in the room could really pronounce, so we all just called him Benny. Useful
information.
Anyway, we all left the room for the big countdown to MLK Jr. Day. That's right, we had a
countdown. Soon after, we were all just chillin' in the hall off of their large and now empty front
room. Flogging Molly is blaring, I've got a decent drink in my hand, and I'm deep in a good
conversation when I feel a tap on my shoulder. It's Steve. He simply points and, as I follow his
finger into the front room, says into my ear, "What the fuck?"
There's Benny, his forty of Wild Cat now drained and balanced delicately on his head.
He's doing some graceful and obviously foreign, quasi-ballet dance to the Irish punk drowning
out most other noises. It was a beautiful thing. The song ended and many were applauding. It was
at that moment I decided I couldn't leave without shaking the mans hand. So around 3 o'clock that
morning, I did and he even insisted on a hug. His hands were damn cold.
#35)
When I was nineteen I was into a lot of things.
Drugs, drugs, intoxicants, effervescent chemical fluids, hallucinogenic dips, new ways to
clear tongue marks and chemical residues off hand mirrors, you get the idea.
I was also zonked out enough to believe in astrology, aura type stuff, reincarnation,
energy fields, ley lines- these things just make sense if you're wasted all the time. They make
existence fun.
So when my dog Chewie died, I decided to mourn him in a very ceremonial and
new-agey type way. I purged possessions, smoked sage grass, took some mushrooms and walked
where he walked, peed on fire hydrants, rolled in his backyard. That sort of thing. A goodbye day.
I had him cremated. And when I got the cremains, I brought them to his favorite spots and
scattered them. I brought them to four spots in the city we grew up in, four cardinal points of the
compass spots, and scattered them at the most beautiful points I could find along a N/S, E/W
line.
Keep in mind than when I was growing up, this dog was my only friend for a good long
while.
Keep in mind that I loved him more than anything.
Keep in mind that at 22 years old, I can still confidently say that one of the top ten worst
moments of my life is seeing his body when he had died.
So I kept a little bit of the cremains and put it in a sample perfume tube. The kind I used to
use to hold pills. The kind that come in women's magazines.
Well, I got pretty goddamn blasted that night, the night of the scattering. And I was at
home, with my roommates watching some documentary on primitive man. We took turns doing
lines and maybe we ate some Valium. I don't really remember anymore.
The TV said "And man of those days was a superstitious creature. On a hunt, man
depended highly on omens. For courage, man might eat the heart of a bear. For knowledge, he
might eat it's brain."
When you're wasted all the time, these sort of things just make sense.
So with a triumphant gesture, I announce that the next line will be my dead dog's
cremains so that we all might become more loyal people. More honorable. One friend backed out.
But one friend stayed in with me.
So I cut two lines and sprinkle a little on top of a snow capped bowl of good weed and
fishscale coke. We smoke the bowl.
An interesting smell, but this is aboriginal worship here. Strong medicine isn't necessarily
aesthetically appealing.
And then we snort the lines.
We snort the lines of cremains.
We snort the lines of ash and chips and chunks of bone that up until recently, constituted
my precious childhood friend, Chewie.
We snorted my dead dog.
Has anyone else ever had good cause to think that bone chips might still be stuck in their
sinuses? Because I have.
When you're wasted all the time, these sort of things just make sense.
And thanks Knox, I had forgotten to tell this one. I think it merits reposting for anyone
who might not have seen it.
#36)
I once shit neon green. Like lime Tootsie Roll green. This was like five years ago and I was
on a lot of acid so I called my friends in to look at it and make sure it wasn't an hallucination.
Things I learned:
#1) Just because it's hard to walk with your pants around your ankles is no excuse to take them
off, it's an excuse to pull them up. Especially if you're about to go and talk to people.
#2) Your friends don't want to see your shit, no matter how intriguing.
#3) Don't eat whatever I ate that turned my shit neon green. Thanks to the angry verification of my
friends, I know that, yes, it really was green.
Posted by mirkah on 06-30-2003 01:41 PM:
Alright, I snagged this off another thread and am posting it here because its a great story
and gyppy is being coy about posting all his near death experiences in this thread. This dude has
stories to tell...
quote: Originally posted by gyppy
So I'm OT, shoot me, I'm a newbie.
Seatbelts. Never wear 'em. Lemme tellya why.
I used to know this guy. You could take any random object, anything at all, an activity, a
place, a person, and he could philosophically make it into a metaphor for life.
He's say, "This cigarette. Life is like this cigarette. You inhale, you exhale. A momentary
passing pleasure. But all the while, it's slowly killing you." Shit like that.
You'd have to be creative. Nothing obvious. For goodness sake, don't pick a shoe or a
lamppost or some building or other. Don't pick a celebrity or a book or a song.
I asked him, "What about this drinking straw?"
I asked him, "How about this paperclip?"
I asked him, "advance tickets? metal detectors? this mosquito?" Splat.
Too easy. Way too easy. He had a philosophical metaphor for your mom's vaginal discharge. He had a life equation for thumbtacks and bobby pins and yes, even paperclips. Anything
designed to hold something in place could be metaphysically dissected and examined for its
ultimate ramifications upon the human species.
His theory was that anything designed to hold things in place was regressive and devolutionary. Anything designed to measure time was merely a waste of it. Anything meant to create
order and structure was innately destructive.
Interesting theories.
He's dead now. Car wreck. Couldn't get his seatbelt undone and burned alive.
It's not irony. I think it may merely be the price of being right... and not heeding your own
words.
Posted by gyppy on 07-01-2003 09:49 AM:
Okay, so you wanna hear some story? You wanna hear some truth?
This is an excerpt from an online journal I keep, different than the one where I kept the
seatbelt story.
I'll give it to you in it's entirety, as the other, in my "patented" gyppy style. If the beginning
doesn't make any sense, well, I wrote it last Halloween, I think I mention that.
Make of it what you will, but it's as honest and truthful an introduction to this man and
writer and father as it gets.
Here:
...the things I've seen and done...
So, my buddy Weird, he's running this Halloween contest called Masks. And in his little
intro, he talks about how we all wear different masks at work and at home and at play, different
masks for different people. Yeah, I used to be that way once, adjusting my attitude and personality
on occasion due to who was present, used to watch what I said, try and project an image I thought
appropriate. LOL. Whatta numbnut. I quit that shit years ago. I'm not afraid anymore. Afraid to
reveal myself, my mistakes, my shames, my deepest darkest secrets. I've done my time and this is
all in the past. And then I think, but the past is never really past is it? It continually effects our
present and our futures. So maybe this isn't such a good idea. You know, with the statute of
limitations and all.
Aw fuck it. Let's just continue to peel away the mask of your misconceptions and show
you who gyppy really is. I've tried to be honest, brutally honest, since I made the change and
fought the tide of duplicity that runs through so-called "normal" society.
I figure I've been alotta places, seen alotta things, things that many people will not believe.
But someone who was there once, who was at my side for some of it, who I don't even know is
alive or dead, he said I would have great material to write about. He would say this with a smile
and I would nod and say yeah, if I live long enough to write about any of it. Haven't seen Eddie in
6, 7 years? Heard he'd OD'd in Cali speedballing. But he always said I should write stories about
all that shit.
Now, in the midst of my life (if it is a decently long one) I find myself thinking, yeah, I
could write stories that would fill volumes about all the shit I've seen and done. The places I've
been. The ugly underbelly of society. Maybe one day I will. But for now, I was thinking of just
making a gruesome list. For my own self-involved amusement. A kind of confessional if you will.
So be a priest. Don't call the cops.
Just look at this as a way to get to know ole gyppy intimately. After all, how you gonna
know gyppy? Less you know where gyppy's been? What gyppy's seen? And done?
This is by no means comprehensive, just the idle reminiscence of the darkness in my life.
The horror. The lessons in living. The brushes with death and what people call God and Satan.
These are some of the things I've seen and done. A sample of the places I've been, the
roads I've traveled and the shit I've witnessed. These are just a few of the experiences that have
shaped who I am and why. These are straight razors of knowledge that cut me to the bone and
changed me in some way. Hopefully, after all is said and done, for the better.
I've held a buddy's head in my lap, attempting to stifle the hot blood pumping from the
bullet wound in his neck, as he faded fast and his eyes glazed and he sighed his last breath into my
shock and fear and looked pleadingly into the fountains of my eyes. His name was Jerome and the
cops dragged me off of him and beat, cuffed, and threw me in jail for a couple of days for good
measure. I was never charged, after all, didn't do anything. Wasn't guilty of anything at that
particular moment except being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong person.
Jerome was a drug-dealer, and I was just a boy. Jerome was like a mentor of sorts, and believed in
all things criminal and anti-establishment and green. He carried a nine-millimeter automatic in his
waistband and was quite fond of that old boy scout credo of preparedness. He was ready all right.
When the cops came for him and the others, he was ready to die. And he did. In my arms. I was 14.
Same year I lost my virginity. To the 20-year old wife of another friend. All my friends
were older than me back then and this particular one had been my dungeon-master for years,
every Monday and Wednesday night. He married this girl from work, she joined us in the game,
as a thief no less, and then, over the course of a few months, they both joined the army and he
shipped out first and she progressed her previous flirtations to outright seduction and I succumbed. We had fooled around in my house and practically got caught one day by my Mom, me
with my hand down her pants. Then once I climbed in her window and she gave me head on their
bed. My friend's little brother, who happened to be a year younger than I, walked in on us. I had to
threaten him not to tell Junior. Finally, after Junior was gone, in her parents house, in every room,
on every surface, in every position, waterbed, kitchen table, shower, you name it, we fucked like
marathoners. She taught me everything she knew. But I never came - stayed erect for five or six
hours, but never came. I wondered if this meant I was gay, or negated the loss of my virginity in
any way, or what. After that, I stayed celibate for 10 years until I fell in love and met the girl of my
dreams. And then? Well, then I finally understood what the most essential element to life is. Love.
I once saw a man gutted from bellybutton to sternum, his entrails spilling out onto the
floor, stinking piles of slick red snakes. There are lessons to be learned in everything.
I've seen people doing every drug you can name, hell, I've done most myself at one time
or another. Although, I am proud that I never stuck a needle in my arm. But I've watched people
boot and milk blood, hell, I've fixed someone myself on occasion because they were too shaky to
handle it.
I've seen a guy mainline into his carotid artery in his neck and OD. The smack was too
pure and he overestimated, or underestimated, however you wanna look at it.
I walked in on a guy fixing a girl once - she had her pants down around her ankles, on the
john in the bathroom, knees spread wide as the guy knelt between them, leaning in with the
syringe - at first, I thought crazily that he was shooting her up in her pussy. Pardon my French. I
was so naïve. It wasn't until later, after talking to a friend, that I realized she was mainlining right
into the femoral artery in her thigh.
I've been shot at. And I was stabbed once. And I stabbed somebody else another time. The
incidents add up in my mind, painting a picture with brushstrokes of hate and pain and greed and
desperation and a young, ignorant form of bravado that was extinguished only by jail and love
and wonder.
The guy that shot at me? Never saw his face, we were roguing cars and this guy came out
of his apartment screaming and yelling and shooting at us as we sped off in his Porsche. Timmy
shot back at him and we were gone.
The time I was stabbed? By a friend. In my kitchen. With a turkey temp gauge. Right in
the gut. An argument over… hell, I don't even remember, but it wasn't over something so trite as a
girl or money or drugs. I think it might have been a playful brawl over some food or other that got
a little out of control and I hurt him and he flipped and grabbed the first thing and attacked. We
were both in shock after he did it. We couldn't believe he had actually stabbed me. I was 12. Years
later, we turned it all into a big joke, telling everyone that he stabbed me with a turkey temp gauge
to see if I was done yet. The way he liked to tell it, he beat me to a pulp. Yeah, right.
I was cutting through the woods, with a backpack with a pound of weed in it, headed to a
deal on foot at 16, when the black guy with gold teeth jumped out with that big ass survival knife
and ordered me to hand it over. Instead, I hit him with it and took his knife away and planted it in
his gut and left him bleeding in those woods as I walked away, shouldering my pack and shaking
my head and watching the bushes a bit more closely. I still don't know, to this day, if he is alive or
dead.
I've seen diabetic seizures and epileptic shock. I've seen DTs and heroin withdrawals. I've
seen the thorazine shuffle and once stood transfixed, rubbernecking like a bad accident , with my
nose scrunched up on my forehead, watching a "shit-slinger" in jail down in the Med-Block as he
did what he was named for, as well as eat some of it. I was delivering books, a librarian of sorts,
and this guy wasn't getting any of my books for sure.
I've seen firsthand, though not participated in, such extreme sexual acts that I almost feel
uncomfortable talking about them. I'm referring to things such as S&M and bloodletting, orgies,
bestiality, scat, and other disgusting displays of sick depravity.
I stopped a rape once. At a party, this girl was passed out from drinking and some football
players from some nearby high school had her locked in a bedroom and were running a fucking
twisted train. I overheard some asshole whispering about it and got a friend of mine and told him
what was going on. The two of us beat the guy up at the door, kicked it in, and cleaned house with
the four guys inside. He was my unofficial Tai Kwon Do teacher and we were like Jackie Chan and
the Peanut Heads. They didn't stand a chance. We put three of them in the hospital and sent two
of those to jail. She decided later not to press charges, guess their families decided to settle out of
court in some way. I vividly remember seeing her once after that, she gave me a dirty look and
walked the other way like she knew who I was and hated me. That was when I became a jaded
idealist I suppose. A cynical yet hopeful romantic.
I've robbed homes in broad daylight. Rogued cars in the middle of the night. Trafficked an
unknown quantity of drugs across the southeastern states. I've made millions and squandered it
all, no lie. Wasted every penny over the years on drinking and drugs and friends and bullshit.
And I've made a million mistakes in that time, and wasted not a one.
I watched a friend of mine, named Randy, impale his Kawasaki 1000 into the side of a
minivan while he was doing a hundred at least. The van didn't see, just pulled right on out in front
of him and he didn't even have a second to lay it down. He knocked the van across four lanes of
traffic and on its side in a ditch, his bike jutting straight up in the air, half buried in the side of the
van. We were right behind him when it all happened. I was in shock, it was like slow-motion.
Turned out, the lady driving escaped with only minor cuts and bruises, but she did have a baby in
a carrier in the seat behind her, right where Randy hit. He killed the baby and himself instantly. I
haven't straddled a motorcycle since that happened when I was 19.
When I was 22 I went to jail for a year, for pot. When I was 23 I watched a friend wither
away and die of AIDS. When I was 24 I fell in love. Life is a roller coaster.
Two years ago, I heard through the grapevine that my absolute bestest friend in the
world, remember Eddie? from way back when we were like 12 or 13, the one that ended up
fucking the only woman I ever loved not 2 months after we moved down to O-town and stayed
with him, effectively killing our friendship, my Eddie, and yes, I know that She fucked him too. I
heard he OD'd in California speedballing. Yeah, I repeat myself, speedballing. Same thing Belushi
died from. I really have no means of verifying this rumor. It's been so many years since I've seen
him that I suppose the only way I'll ever know if he's still alive is if he knocks on my door one day.
Or stops by my store by chance. I'd like to believe he's still out there somewhere. I'd really like to.
I could tell you stories all night, but I think I'll move on now. To something else.
Let's just say this. For the record. I've slid by and glimpsed a time or two the swift sizzle
and spark of Hell. I've tread the path of broken dreams and believed in her disguise.
I've been through faith and breakdown, and faithlessness and lies - and though she may have
never truly existed - there is still my boys, I live for them. I watched my children being born into
this world by a woman I truly loved. So yeah, I felt and seen the miracle.
I've been in jail, hitched homeless thousands of miles, ditched cars, lied cheated and stole,
fought for fun, plotted to murder someone, been a pool shark, a con artist, a cat-burglar, a
car-thief, a crack-head, a pot-head, a coke-head, a speed-freak, and acid-king, and through it all
I've been a musician and a writer.
After all is said and done, after all of my tears, after all we've been through, all the wasted
years, I find that the only path left for me that will keep me alive is love.
So now I'm a Father and a working man. I'm a Mr. Fixit, the forlorn and lonely man.
But I am still a musician and a writer. And I refuse to wash away love's stains.
the loving is easy, it's the losing and the living that are hard, change is the law and the
rule, learn to love it with undying affection, gyppy, knower of nothing, the open book
Okay lupus. I will.
I thought of this story the other day because Kitty said something like, "I bet you have a
bunch of crazy Christian people stories." Well I don't have a ton, but I do have this one, which still
makes me laugh when I think about it.
In November, I went to a three-day youth ministry seminar thing at a Bible College in
downtown Omaha, in the heart of the hispanic neighborhood. One of the activities that you could
sign out for was street evangelism, which is where you go around and try to talk to people about
Jesus. I was put in a group with two guys from my youth group, Nathan and Danny, and I think it
was a good thing, because Danny, although a very good kid and very loving, has two major
problems: he is one of the most overzealous people I know (having been raised in a very conservative church, I know how freakish and weird a person could look if they came up to you and
started saying things like "Satan is in possession of your life!", so I tried to get him to steer clear of
that), and he has the tendency to say the meanest thing you can think of at just the right time.
So anyway, we had mixed results. Most people were very polite; they either listened to us
a little or a lot, or they said something like, "No thank you, I don't want to talk about that," which I
thought was fair enough. But a couple of people would just blow you off, and rudely so. A couple
of ladies told us, "Umm...we don't have time to talk to you, we have dinner reservations," and
pointed at the restaurant on the corner. So we watched them and they walked away from us and
around the corner, and past the restaurant. Stuff like that.
So by the end of two hours or so, Danny was pretty frustrated, although it was going
pretty well overall. So he walks up to a woman with three small children behind her, says, "Can I
tell you about Jesus?" and she says, "Umm....I have a...hair...appointment. Sorry."
So of course Nathan and I are thinking, "Suuuuree, you have a hair appointment," to ourselves. But Danny goes one step further than that. As she's walking away, he turns around and
yells to her back,
"Okay, thanks for your time. That you didn't give me!"
I immediately was like, "What is the matter with you?!" and hit him. And to make matters
worse, she only goes about three more feet before she steps into a hair salon and gives him a dirty
look.
reminds me of a good jehova's witness story.
to set the scene. this guy is about 6'7", pale white, very thin, and bald. he suffers from the
disease where you cant grow hair or something, so he's always been bald. anyhow, at his house he
had glass doors for the porch. i’m there and we're about to go to school, when the doorbell rings. i
go for it and stop when i see them, the same two jehova's witnesses that visited me the other day.
A very attractive woman, along with an older woman. I assume the attractive one was just for bait,
but whatever. they are prepared, they have pie graphs, charts, figures... and they are ready to
argue with smartass nonbelievers like me, as they did before, before i just shut the door and went
back to sleep.
Anyway, i tell jacob that there are jehova's witnesses at his door and he gets this devilish
grin on his face, and immediately runs upstairs. "what are you doing?"
"just dont let them leave"
he come back down stairs in star shaped sunglasses and a purple bathrobe, which he
proceeds to open as he grabs a banana from the kitchen on his way to the door. He stood there for
at least a minute, as the witnesses endured his smooth pale naked flesh. and he just stared, didn’t
smile at all, just ate his banana, and they were shocked at first, then horrified, as was i, but i was
laughing way too hard to notice.
Posted by Brock Landers on 07-01-2003 11:25 AM:
A few months ago. I had some Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints dudes show up at my
house dressed in suit and tie and wearing their little backpacks and offering me the Book of
Mormon. I let them in and let them speak. I guess I was bored or wanted to plant some kind of
seed in their minds. Something they could focus on as it grew and grew until they realized how
ridiculous it all seemed. They were nice enough in a weird boyscout-clean-cut sort-of-way. They
weren't prepared when I actually had questions about their version of the bible and Jesus in
modern America. I questioned dates and compared to eastern religion and went into theological
ramblings about sexuality and the scriptures, etc...
About an hour later, keep in mind they were prepared to give me the book of mormon for
free, they finally said they needed to be getting back to their youth center and said something on
the way out about how I wouldn't be needing this, in reference to the book...
Anyways, I was just on the verge of becoming mormon too. If they hadn't have given up
all hope... at one point, I think they realized as sincere as I was being with them, that their
recruiting techniques were meant for people very much not me...
Christians are the same. Recruitment doesn't work unless the person being recruited is in
a vulnerable state of mind and being. They have to be seeking help. They have to actually think
they are bad or a sinner or in need of redemption. They have to be desperate enough for human
contact and friendship to do whatever it takes to be a part of something larger than themselves. It's
what organized religion is all about. It's like the Mickey Mouse Club. Except instead of a beanie
with mouse ears, they give you the ultimate gift... forgiveness... and with this newfound
forgiveness you can go forth to sin again and again and will always be accepted back as long as
you beg forgiveness...
Then again, religion is what you make of it. If you wake up believing that God made it
bright and sunny and beautiful outside, then chances are you will see it that way. I mean, it's just
like anything in this world. You want to believe it, you will, and with that belief will come the
illusion of reality. That's why brainwashing is so effective...
quote: Originally posted by Jane S.:
Short story: My brother, who is one of those people who studies the bible so he can
prove Christians wrong, once argued with a street evangelist so long the guy started to
cry.
jane, i want to meet your brother. ASAP.
so i went and got a stupidass temp job. it sucks but it's something, at least. here's today's
episode:
Though I am working at a law firm, I know absolutely less than nothing about the law.
This really helps when a caller wants me to just answer a quick question that the woman I'm filling
in for would probably normally be able to do, being that she's worked here since dinosaurs
roamed the earth and she has picked up some things along the way.
The woman I'm filling in for/working with is quite the odd duck. She talked my ear off on
Friday about, among other things, her father's death, her mother's move to assisted living, the fact
that she's never been married and has lived at home her whole life, and, as a special treat, the fatty
tumors she and her mother have both had removed from their bodies at various times, including
vivid descriptions of exactly how they were removed (I'll spare you). And the rest of the staff here
has been pulling me aside to dish with me about how much they hate her. Joy.
Anyway. The icing on the cake today was the fact that we had several people coming to
the office for a deposition with one of the attorneys, most of whom speak very little English. Their
other language? Korean. I know even less about Korean than I do about the law, as do most people
around here, which is why they had scheduled a Korean interpreter to come in for the client. Fine.
I'm expecting a little old lady who came fresh off the boat in the fifties, or something, and hasn't
been able to learn English, and a young woman translating. It was the other way around. An old
woman was the translator, and a girl who couldn't be a day over sixteen was the one needing
translation. Now, if she's not an American citizen, she probably can't be suing someone. And if she
is an American citizen, and that young, how does she not know English? Life's mysteries go
unanswered.
At any rate, I hope the translator is better at English than she is at driving, because we had
a truly surreal conversation this morning via her cell phone about how to get here. She was
essentially hovering around the street, and kept asking for a street name, but when I gave her the
street name, which is also on a large engraved concrete sign/tombstone-lookin dealy at the
beginning of the street, she kept insisting that the name I was giving her was on a sign, yes, but it
was not a street sign, and continued to ask for the name of the street. Finally I figured out where
she was, and with the help of a secretary, figured out the simplest way for her to get here, which
was: go out from where you are, and take a left.
"A what?"
"A left."
"A right."
"No, a left."
"Onto what?"
"[Name of street we'd already had a go-round about]."
"But that is not street. Is company name. What is name of street, please?"
"OK. Just go out from where you are and take the first left you come to."
"OK. I go out on [name of main road] and take a right."
"No, go out on [name of main road] and take your first left."
"OK, so I go right on [name of main road] and then take left."
"Sure."
She got here okay though. Meanwhile my struggles with the fax machine continue, while I
field calls, and the Korean client stands in front of my station saying softly, "Jeff? My lawyer? Jeff?
He here?"
"There's no Jeff here," I say. "Do you mean Joe? Jim?"
"No, my lawyer. Jeff. He say meet here nine-thirty. He here?"
"No, there's no one here by that name."
"But he say meet here nine-thirty."
"I'm sorry.. Maybe he's running late. You can wait for him right here if you want," I say,
gesturing to our waiting-room chairs and spread of magazines.
"Um..." she blushes bright red, and says something unintelligible, and then dashes out of
the room. I see her outside in the hall, pacing up and down, frantically trying to use her cell phone.
Unfortunately there's no cell phone reception in this building. I debate telling her this, but can
only anticipate a repeat of the earlier conversations with both her and her supposed translator.
Anyway, they all finally get here one way or another, and settle down in the conference
room, and all seems to be going well until the stenographer, with earrings so big, let's just say, that
she has to take them off to use my phone to call her company, finds her machine isn't working.
So all together: I have six faxes sending, five confused Koreans, four phone lines ringing,
three attorneys, two paralegals and a court reporter in a pear tree.
My only other recent story is how fucking high I got Saturday night. Although Rents or
grade 5 could tell you, b/c i talked at them over IM for what seems like hours that night.
This is the story of how my brother cut off part of his thumb.
A few years ago my brother John was cutting wood with a hatchet, because his first job
was selling firewood. The reason he was using the hatchet was because he saw Bogart doing it in
some movie, and thought it was cool. He was trying to cut a piece of twine with the hatchet to tie
the wood together, and was using his left hand to hold the twine. My father (who once cut his
thumb off in a piece of farm equipment and had it reattached) said, "Don't cut your thumb off,"
and John said, "yeah yeah," and promptly cut off the first 1/4" of his left thumb.
I remember him running up to the house, leaving a trail of blood on the sidewalk (and as
most of you know, I have a large aversion to blood of any kind) and calmly telling my mother and
I that he had cut off a good portion of his thumb. Dad wouldn't even let him come in the house,
although John was bleeding, quote "pretty profusely."
The grossest part of this story was that since it was too small a part of his thumb to have
reattached, my father threw the bit of thumb and fingernail in the garbage, and then fed it to my
chickens. His fingertip eventually grew back, mostly.
Posted by Brock Landers on 07-02-2003 09:56 AM:
Marisa isn't perfect after all. She hurt someone's feelings. That someone being Meghan. I
hate how she spells her name. They "don't respect each other anymore." Oh yeah, those aren't their
real names either, just so's you know. Whatever...
Chris spoke at a school yesterday. Career day. Chris has 7 pieces of bomb in her leg. Chris
spells her name like a man. She is my brother's secretary. She has nice tits and tans everyday...
I almost went to yoga with Meghan. Actually I didn't almost go. Still she is awesome in
the sack. I can't take much more. Fuck it. My foot started bleeding. Broken glass I think. Just shows
you shouldn't walk on broken glass. For no reason. Just happened. Go figure...
I had a headache last night. I think the cheese cause it. I never eat cheese. I had a piece last
night...
Imagine being depressed, having a headache, and being in a room after eating cheese.
Now you're me. Yeah. It was fun...
Someone told me again that I have good genes. I guess I have some good genes. I hate life,
but whatever. I wish I had booze right now. I like that word. Booze. I learned French from a girl I
in college. She taught me lots of french...
Such as "to fuck."... and, "to get laid."... and, "cocaine"... and, "booze"... anyway... I forgot it
all. I still would like a cold beer. Maybe a glass of booze. Maybe just this Mountain Dew...
#37)
It's got to be a commonplace fact around here now that I used to be quite the speed freak. I
was Skank from the Crow. At points in time, Kerouac's On the Road even made sense to me.
That's just how wasted I was.
I used to take whatever 90 x 25mg worth of ephedrine a day, and that was just for maintenance, not high purposes. At $6.99 a bottle for 75, it was quite an affordable habit.
That stuff, Fen-Phen, the junk that was giving 400 pound dieters heart attacks because it
got them going too hard? I used to munch on that like Skittles.
"Can you put some coke in my champagne, please?" You get the picture.
An unfortunate side-effect of the drug is that it tends to turn teeth into dusty cobwebs.
And fast.
So one day in my prime, I am eating blueberries as part of a "eat healthier" campaign I was
on. I had been feeling a bit anemic, maybe, and I of course attributed this to my eating habits.
Never mind I was 6'1" and 100lbs.
The Thin White Duke sang "It's not a side-effect of the drug..."
So eating blueberries, I got a stem caught in my teeth. The back teeth on the upper left. I
reach back to pry it loose with a fingernail. Something isn't right because there's a crunchy noise
and my finger goes in farther than it should. I remove it an it's covered with what looks like tiny
white non-pareils. Curious, I do that foolproof test to see if everything is okay. You know the one.
Say you find a lump on a testicle. Panicking you frantically check the other nut to make
sure and lo and behold there's a lump on the same spot there too. As long as there's symmetry in
the lumpiness, you're fine. It's not a tumor.
So I check the other side of my mouth, upper right top. There's crunchiness. And more
little cake toppers all over my fingertips. I go to the bathroom and get a Dixie cup of water. I go to
the kitchen and get a hand towel. I swish the water in my mouth and spit it onto the green towel
so that the water is absorbed, anything in the water remains on top.
I am doing this so calmly I don't understand why there isn't someone there to give me a
reward, a treat maybe. A pat on the back. Like when I was a kid and if I didn't bite the doctor
while I got a shot, I got a Star Wars figure.
Yes, on the towel there are my teeth. You can see the little toothy looking parts right there
in all the white crumblies. I call the dentist tell his receptionist "Yes, I rather think it is and emergency," and I go in later.
Apparently, I had turned the back two teeth, excepting what lies beneath the gum line to
powder. I was sure I didn't know how this happened when he asked me. There was more cavity
than tooth. It was a very costly reconstruction since I had no dental insurance.
To make a very extensive dental history very short, I discovered that day that I had sixteen more cavities. That was in 1999.
Last fall I just finished fixing my mouth so that I have a perfectly normal and healthy
smile. All fine and dandy, set for life. And I only spent, all in all, about $2000 more than your
average child who gets braces.
I find it funny that cocaine was once used as a dental anesthetic. It's a vicious cycle...
Speed: it's what's for dinner.
gorgeous stories, all.
You want human stupidity? I'll give you a Greek Tragedy.
It all began with the glasses. The glasses in question were six water tumblers, frosty glass
with the front and back of either a cow or a pig or a sheep on them. I have matching cutlery and
even managed to find matching socks (not that I'm obsessive or anything...). I loved those glasses
dearly. And when the time came to leave for Greece, I wanted to take them with me. Instead of
sending them with the rest of my staff (transport company), i chose to carry them in my hand
luggage. I put them in two groups of three, one inside the other, bubble wrapped them,
duct-taped them, wrapped them in a towel and put them in my bag.
The other thing you have to know is my brother came some days ago to pick me up. i was
dead against it, but my mom insisted that he needed the holiday. the fact that I did not have time
to play the tour guide or that the only thing in common i have with him is our surname (he's the
main reason I'm convinced I'm adopted), simply did not matter. So brother over here it was. My
dear brother also takes an interest in all things military, something that even his national service as
military Police did not help to grow out of. Anyway.
so we are in Glasgow airport. He has gone through security and now it's my turn. My bag
goes through the X-rays and the woman there says she has to take a look - there is something
showing up dark. i tell her it's the glasses and empty the contents of my bag.
Then she takes out a weird gadget and begins to swipe my bag. 'Looks cool!' i tell her,
'what is it?' It detects explosives. 'But it doesn't detect Semtex, does it?' says my brother.
Famous last words.
The woman got all serious and told us not to talk like that. Even worse, she called the
airport security. After spending what seemed hours on the phone (at least having reassured us
that they would hold the plane for us), the security guy got through the bigheads. they came and
took my brother away to ask some questions.
i will not say i was not having fun. I'm tired of my bro being a smartass all the time, and
that would teach him a lesson. I switched on my walkman and waited, smiling cheerfully at the
security guys.
eventually, Big Brother was released. Good, it's been fun, can we board the plane now?
'It's up to the captain to take you on board.' You must be kidding. But no, she wasn't. She said
something along the lines of 'given the current climate blah blah blah' and we know what happens
when people refer to the current climate. Still, i never seriously believed we wouldn't be let on
board (or, at least, I wouldn't be let on board. I was the innocent party here).
It came as a shock when we were informed that the captain did not want us on board.
WHY? We are really nice people. Can I grovel and apologize? Can I publicly denounce my
brother? No. And no.
They took us to an office and went through our suitcases. apart from the
not-quite-but-still humiliation of having my sexy underwear in common view, I had spent ages
packing those suitcases. Did they offer to put them back as they were? Don't make me laugh.
And now what? KLM wouldn't accept us in any other flight. Easyjet likewise declined. If
we had leprosy we wouldn't be more shunned.
Meanwhile, I'm becoming increasingly homicidal. I plan to become an only child. I am
really nasty to Big Brother and there are thunderclouds in the air. We return to Glasgow to find an
Internet cafe, with the slight suspicion that we won't have enough money for tickets anyway (we
were on a book shopping spree the last 3 days).
there is hope for a flight to Germany tomorrow and one for Thessaloniki the day after. So
we returned to Stirling. Being homeless, we are staying at the trusted computer lab. My brother is
a nervous wreck and I feel too sorry for him to snap at him a lot. We had to break the news to our
parents and, of course, we lied shamelessly.
and to think i was sad because I thought I'd never see Stirling again...
even though almost nobody cares about my woes, I will continue the saga of returning
home. this morning, after practically no sleep in the computer room, i phoned German Wings to
make a reservation. Without a credit card I could only get a ticket from the airport. so to the airport we went, leaving Stirling for what we hoped to be the last time. In the airport, we had good
news: yes, there were seats available for today's flight for Cologne, and 2 last seats for tomorrow's
flight to Thessaloniki. Good! We started booking and I went to the cash machine to get more
money. the machine told me that i had no cash available to withdraw, although there were more
than 150 pounds in my account. The helpful employee of the airline suggested trying the Bureau
deChange. When they told me there that the bank declined the request, I almost burst out crying.
the phone number of my bank was either busy, or not answering. I phoned a friend to try and
book the tickets with his credit card, bought the tickets for the first flight and kept my fingers
crossed, hoping I wouldn't be left stranded in Germany... In Cologne after many abortive tries to
get money from our (3) bankcards, we finally phoned our parents to wire us money. This time, we
were successful. we booked tickets for tomorrow. This time tomorrow I'll be home! Three days to
go from Scotland to Greece... Who would have believed it.
I care, Loop. See?
Quick tale for today:
Yesterday at a show, my friend's band Marathon came back and ended their touring at
home, I quite accidentally elbowed a 5'0" fifteen year old girl hard in the throat, knocking her six
feet into a crowd of very sweaty fat people.
This is a bad feeling.
Posted by dirty spaniard on 07-04-2003 02:50 PM:
shot
once, i was shot.
similar to tuffy's story, i had met a young woman, seventeen years of age, at a bowling
alley downtown. she was extremely attractive by my standards, a well-developed brunette, but a
little ditzy. i didn't mind for the time being. we talked, exchanged numbers. the following weekend we went out to dinner, an expensive place which i paid for, and we did a lot of making out.
she did something then that turns on every man, i should think. she leans into me and whispers,
"take me home."
so i drive her home, the two of us sizzling with sexual energy, and before we can even get
out of the car she is straddling me in the front seat, removing her shirt. i like aggressive women.
things proceed, we move to the backseat, and as i'm taking off her pants, i fall into every horny
boy's nightmare.
her father, his face extremely red, is trying to open the passenger door. i hadn't even the
time to yell an obscenity before i was tumbling out of the car on the opposite side and scrambling
to get away, yanking my pants back up around my waist. the girl isn't doing anything to stop her
father, she just kind of watches in mute horror, still half-naked. the father is obviously a drunk,
and his black wifebeater t-shirt barely restrains his massive beer belly. i cannot, to this day, erase
that rage-stricken face from my memory. i remember thinking his eyes looked like fried eggs, and
then wondering why i was thinking such a thing as i was about to be shot. because in his right
hand was a pistol, a police-issue beretta .40 (i was later told), which, despite his drunken state, he
seemed to aim very precisely.
he let off a single round into the back of my thigh, and i have never known a greater
agony since. the bullet didn't go through, it struck bone. i fell, in too much shock to scream, and
just kind of writhed around. the events following are a little muddy, but as it was told to me, the
father suddenly sobered up at seeing me fall (he had not meant to hit me, only scare me) and
rushed to me, then carried me into the house. by now the girl was dressed and standing stupidly
next to the car.
i was taken to the hospital, the father elaborating some story about thinking i was trying
to rape his daughter, and he later filed the police report HIMSELF. turns out he's a street cop. to
avoid complications the man gave me a check for three thousand dollars. i should have sued him,
maybe i could've gotten more, but i'm not greedy, three grand is plenty.
so, while i couldn't walk right for a month and my parents get paranoid every time i leave
the house (they never knew about it until i got home from the hospital, at which point i had my
check so i told them it had been some punks from downtown), i did in fact get a hefty check and
later, the girl's virginity.
Posted by MrHangman on 07-04-2003 03:04 PM:
I've read though the thread to page 30 or something, so I don't know if stories about
self-mutilation/humiliation is the topic anymore. But...
This is the story of how I threw burning alcohol on my face:
We were drinking at our usual place The Kantis in Helsinki a few years ago. I was already
quite smashed when my friend Seppo offered me a drink called Satan's Victory. It's 2cl Stroh and
2cl Jaloviina and you flame it. You're supposed to put out the flame by covering the glass with
your hand. I slapped on it. Didn't see any flames. Because they burned so small and blue. I threw
the shot in my mouth and felt some pain on my lips and nose. Then it gets kinda black.
Later I heard that the bouncers threw me out at some point, but it didn't matter cause all
of my friends were thrown out earlier or later. And we all ended up jumping on the hoods of
bypassing cars with no pants on.
The next thing I remember is waking up in my bed, feeling the tip of my nose. Mirror. The
tip of my nose and upper lip were a mush of yellow liquid and bits of dried pus. My friend Toikka
had crashed at my place that night. He broke his ankle earlier that year (another story) and had to
walk with sticks. So we were drinking some water in my kitchen, me with the burned nose and he
with the sticks, when my parents decide to come home (I still lived with my folks). Toikka limped
to some other room and I tried to cover my face with my hand. Luckily they leaved soon for their
holiday cottage.
The tip of my nose was black for several weeks and my friends aren't as nice as Chuck's
when it comes to facial damage. But it healed all the way in a month or so.
#38)
When I was thirteen I got arrested. My friend James, me and his friend Bill all decided to
sleep at James' one night. We were just getting to the "it's fun to be a bad-ass stage of life," so we'd
all taken up smoking. At midnight, we all had run out of cigarettes that we'd been smoking in the
woods while drinking home brewed alcohol that tasted something like an unkempt vagina stuffed
with spoiled salmon.
Things that make no sense now but you need to know for later:
A) James had shoulder length hair.
B) Bill's outfit consists of a "Newport Pleasure!" tee shirt and a Marlboro hat.
C) Bill has learned life lessons from MacGuyver like "always carry a pair of scissors."
D) Bill is a fucking idiot.
So we decide, being under the limit and all, that the only way to get smokes at this hour is
to go to the local 7-11 and steal them. Lucky us, it's about a mile and a half away, right down the
street.
We set off, bringing the home brew with us.
Bad ASS.
When we get to the store, having stashed the home brew behind the blade of a snowplow
I can only assume was decorative since it had been removed from a car and set where it lay
sometime in the sixties, we split up. Looking inconspicuous.
Yes, we were such little fuckers someone used the word "inconspicuous" when planning
our heist. Also the words "heist" and "incognito."
Bill was going to do the stealing since he had the trench coat. James and I browsed. We
browsed. We browsed some more. We browsed for ten minutes, an awfully long time in a 7-11.
We decided on a pack of Skittles. At the counter paying we took our time with change while Bill
stole some smokes.
The cashier said "Did you maybe take some cigarettes from the display out there?"
Bill says "What display?"
It's five feet tall and two wide and he's standing right next to it. It's also full of cartons.
Cartons. That was more than I wanted to get into.
The cashier points it out to him and he says "No, we don't smoke." The problems with this
being threefold and consisting of A & B: his hat and shirt and C: he had been conspicuously
searching the ashtray outside the GLASS WALLS of the store for a while before we reminded him
that cigarettes were why we came.
This is when he panics and goes to buy a Slurpee.
James and I, we buy the Skittles and tell him we'll see him outside. He follows a minute
later. Inconspicuously, we start to jog and we look back to see the woman on the phone.
"Shit," James yells, "Five-O."
Bill and I ask "What?" He says "Cops, guys!" and we start to run. Bill stops, sets down his
drink, holds up two cartons in each hand and says "Should I ditch these?"
The dumb motherfucker stole four cartons right in front of the register. Out of a full display.
We tell him no, and dive off into a side street. The thing about these side streets is that
there are 1800 of them and they all connect through backyards and swamps and such and they
will, eventually either get us to James' house or to the main road that leads there, whichever we
want. So we're running down one when we see the cop drive by down that main road. We run
into a backyard while James runs back to the road and gets the home brew.
In the backyard, we decide on disguises. Getaway disguises. I shit you not. We were
morons. Bill offers up his scissors and James cuts his hair to about two inches, horridly uneven. I
remove my trusty Nine Inch Nails hat and stuff it in my pants, which I then cut into shorts.
Bill turns his hat around.
We walk and walk. It's three in the morning when we decide we'll be okay to return to the
main road and go home. We're laughing by this time. We take one step out onto the avenue. A car
passes.
A police car. A police car turning around.
Bill stashes the smokes in some weeds while James and I are standing still doing that
praying out loud thing.
The officer pulls by ringing the siren once and gets out. We're alabaster. He asks us how
we're doing and James is already tearing up and I'm sweating. Bill? Bill's cool.
"7-11 had some kids in there tonight stole cigarettes. Know about that?"
"No," Bill says, "we didn't make it down that far on our evening constitutional." He sips
his Slurpee.
I actually slap my forehead.
The officer searches us and starts taking names and such. When he gets to me, I lie. I tell
him my name is the name of a boy who once beat me up. The lie fails when I stutter on "my" birth
date ("3-24... no, no... 8-24... sorry...") and I tell him it's because I get 3's and 8's confused since
they're both roundish. He asks my real name and I tell him. James vomits.
Bill? Bill, it turns out is already in the computer in the car since he's been arrested several
times for shoplifting. Think you know a guy and look what he doesn't tell you.
Like for instance he's a career criminal. And he's bad at it.
So the officer handcuffs us, one at a time to the grill, and takes us away to the station
where at the swollen, hemmheroidal dirtstar of dawn, my mother comes to pick me up.
She is angrier than I had imagined it possible for short people to get.
It was a long ride home. But in the end, I didn't even get grounded since my mom
believed (or pretended to) that I didn't smoke. I can only assume no charges were filed since the
next day the cigarettes were gone and presumably back at the store.
Dope story, proto. You get better and better at this.
Similar story to tell. Emin, Alex, and I leave our neighborhood via the woods, coming out
into the adjacent neighborhood. We are facing a house, a house that belongs to a drunkard, whom
the previous day had tried to lure Emin inside.
Imagine a squat, balding man of about forty with nicotine-stained fingers and eyes like
Gary Sinise. That's this guy.
I take a rock, a good-sized chunk of granite, and chuck it as hard as I can at the house. It
smacks with a resounding thump into the exterior shingled wall. For me, minor vengeance has
been served.
There's a disturbance within the house, apparently Gary Sinise is coming out, and I stand
my ground, ready to torment the man. Emin and Alex, they run. Keep this in mind. They're cowards. But I soon follow, seeing as the man never actually comes outside onto the deck.
Later, we're walking on the main road outside of the neighborhood, and you're conventional black and white squad car rolls by, lights off. Again, Emin and Alex run, suspecting that
Sinise has called the cops. Which is utter retardation. I laugh and tell them to chill, although I am
throwing a nervous glance behind me.
The cop has turned around, his lights bouncing away in the darkness. So, I follow suit and
begin the fifty-yard dash back into the neighborhood. Oddly, I was feeling a bit joyful, a bit giddy.
I immediately hide behind a car parked in a driveway. Emin and Alex keep running. Go figure.
The squad car stops. Two cops plop out, young guys, athletic, and begin to hunt the dumb
fucks down with amazing speed. Emin is almost shot with rubber bullets.
I lay under the car, rather calm despite the circumstances, and watch from a safe distance
while the cops interrogate Alex and Emin, demanding to know where the third one got away to.
Luckily they hadn't seen my hiding spot, because if they had, one of them would surely have sold
me out.
As it goes, they didn't hesitate to tell the cops everything, including my name, phone
number, and address. But I was never found. The only penalty was that the three of us were to
write essays fully explaining our actions and their consequences.
Emin got the due date wrong and a cop came by my house. I had already confessed to my
mother, because I suspected she would be contacted. Emin did not tell his father, who is an angry,
verbally-abusive Russian. Poor boy.
Alex... fuck that kid. He sold us out again, in a different incident. We plan to do him some
damage later this week.
Auri: how old are you again?
And the next story I can think of to tell, in trade for that one and hoping for another
maybe from you, maybe from Jane.
#39)
It's Christmas Eve 1998 and I am doing large amounts of cocaine for the third or fourth
day in a row. We're watching "It's A Wonderful Life," me my old friends Cooper, Phil, Alfie and
Ann. We are surreptitiously passing a $100 bill between the four guys because Ann doesn't know
about our or like, in any circumstance, cocaine use. Only when coked up "surreptitious" goes like
this.
PROTO: YOU KNOW, I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM.
This is all in caps because cocaine makes yelling fun, easy and the only thing to do.
PROTO: returning and sniffling one side of his nose while plugging the other by pushing it down with a
finger THAT WAS RELIEVING.
ALFIE: YOU KNOW, I ALSO HAVE TO USE THE RESTROOM. looking at Proto and making a diving
catch for the poorly lobbed and clearly rolled bill I'M GOING TO GO NOW.
And on and on. Imagine this getting progressively louder for an hour. Add to that the
progressively formal nature of it since as you get more and more zooted, it seems like a better and
better idea to hide a high by becoming faux eloquent. ("I WILL POWDER MY NOSE AGAIN. I
REALLY MUST DO SOMETHING ABOUT MY DIET, ALL THOSE DIURETICS. AWAY TO THE
LAVATORY, I GO," has never really tricked anyone into suspecting sobriety.)
So Ann of course finds us out and gets really angry at Phil, her boyfriend at the current
time. (She later becomes my ex-fiancée.) Alfie, Cooper and I plow through more while they're in
the bedroom arguing.
Eventually, Ann storms out crying and locks herself in the bathroom. This is unfortunate
since I've really got to use it by this time, cocaine works magic with your intestinal tract and if you
do three or four days of heavy coke, you will shit, proportionately, for three or four days straight.
Phil says "fuck her," and we kneel down for more lines. We turn on the Playstation and
this is when the power goes out. Pandemonium. "Find the coke!" "I think I stepped on it!"
"Dumbshit, I'll kill you if I have to suck your sock to get my line!" "Wait, here it is!"
About twenty minutes pass while no one can find candles to see with so we can find more
candles or cut more lines by. The three others move into the kitchen and I decide that it's now I
have to spring my trap.
I don't like going anywhere near fighting couples. In fact, I prefer to pretend they don't
exist. Hiding is always a good option. But I was 18, a ripe old age to explain why you're crouched
under a sink with diarrhea spilling out a pant leg so my pooping took precedence over hiding. But
not over knocking on the bathroom door.
So I open the window to the cold December air and removes the screen. There's talk of
candles in the kitchen so I move quickly dropping the glass accidentally into the street below.
I should mention here that we're in the city, on the third floor of an apartment building on
a bustling and chic street.
I lower my pants and then drag my ass to hanging off the cold metal sill, then I let it rip. A
blast of the Green Apple Quick Step, a blast of liquid shit right into the street. And it's loud too.
Comically loud.
It's then that three things happen.
1) Ann come out of the bathroom due to fear and Phil not having come to talk things out
further with her.
2) Everyone moves into the hallway to talk about this.
3) The apartment's power comes back on.
So lights on, I am pants less shitting a river out of the window while my three best friends and
my future sweetheart stare blankly at me.
What do you do here? Smile weakly? Crack a joke? Fall backwards casually?
Phil says "Dude, WHAT are you doing?"
I tell him I'm shitting all over his window that I just shattered, yes I'll buy him a new one and
could everyone maybe turn around for a minute since I can't stop.
Cooper throws a roll of toilet paper right over my shoulder into traffic, perhaps creating a nice
work, down there on the ground, of outsider abstract art.
My black liquid cocaine binge shit, the splintered window and the TP, all it needs is an
avant-garde name that has nothing to do with the art itself, and BANG, I too could be famous.
The last follow up on my coming home story. I strictly forbade my brother to speak at the
Cologne airport (I would hate to think what the Germans would do) and I would have gagged
him if that wouldn't arouse more suspicions.
As a petty act of revenge I ruined any chances he had when he tried to hit on an attractive
Hungarian girl who was spending the night at the airport with us. For a start I told the REAL story
of what happened - BB tried to hush things up with 'we missed our flight.' No, we bloody well did
not.
And in a rare crisis of pity and sisterly affection, I explained everything to my parents,
altering the story a bit in his favour -the poor cunt disappeared as soon as we arrived home and
dared show his face only a couple of hours later.
As you realize, we arrived home safely, albeit 3 days behind schedule.
And now I'm going to meet my friends and laugh about the whole thing...
PS. Proto, I laughed sooo hard I keep getting weird stares from all the people in the
Internet Cafe.
i suppose a story is in order before i go to work.
i went to this old baseball diamond that nobody used anymore with my friend and his
father (from the salsa story) when i was like 12. They had fashioned a go-kart out of a motor from
a lawnmower, and so they wanted me to test it out.
"now, if you want to stop, you've got to let off the gas and then push the brake."
"ok."
anyhow, i take off in this rickety contraption, and it goes surprisingly fast, but after a
while it gets pretty fun, so i push it as fast as it will go. so after a while i decide i want to stop. i
focus, let off the gas completely, and slam the brake...
nothing happens
so i slam right into the chain link fence at full speed, and the bar connecting the steering
wheel finds itself directly in the path of my genitals' inertia.
never have i been seized by such pain.
Posted by disx on 07-06-2003 01:08 PM:
Last night me and this chick went skinny-dipping in some neighborhood pool. Then we
sat in the lifeguard chair. Cos we're so mature and now a friend of ours that lives in that
neighborhood is gonna go up and be like "dude naked people sat in your chair". Haha.
I second the need for Jane's Arrest Story.
#40)
Last night, I got drunk at a bonfire. I got falling into the fire drunk. I had stopped drinking
a week ago since I tend to go overboard and make an ass out of myself and endanger my life. But
all of my friends were having a bonfire and camping out and I'd never been camping and we so
rarely all get together anymore I figured, what the hell, why not have one last blast.
I remember from 10PM to 10:45PM. Everything else is patchy and just comes in flashes,
like remembering a dream or a bad movie.
What I do know is I chased a snake into the woods because I wanted to keep it as a pet. I
know that I, at one point, jammed a caged cockatiel in my mouth just to see if I could.
I was sitting on a bench on a hill and I tipped the bench, rolled down the hill and into the
fire. Just my pants got a bit scorched, thankfully.
And at one point I went into the woods to pee, even though we had a designated toilet
area. I peed, then turned around into a tree and fell into a pile of thornbushes tearing my arm into
something that resembles the post-rape Charlize Theron in Devil's Advocate. When I got up, I
moved back away, lay down in my piss and went to sleep. My friends found me an hour or so
later, I guess.
They put me in a tent without stakes and by morning it had rolled, along with me, down
that same hill and into a ditch. I didn't wake up for any of that.
Apparently when putting me in there they had a hell of a time keeping me in there. I kept
coming out and trying to play party games that were no longer being played.
This morning, I was so hung over I threw up on myself twice. I then proceeded to make
my way home, strip naked and lie in the bathtub where it was cool. My body ached and felt like
paper, my lungs were tiny and crushed, they worked like trying to breathe out of a Skittles bag.
My head spun if I looked down and my vision blacked out if I looked up. If I closed my eyes, I got
vertigo. I was feeling and sweating and projectile vomiting.
As I lay there, I considered these three options because thing hangover was unlike anything I have ever felt before.
A)
The house we were near is allegedly haunted and I thought maybe ghosts are real and I
got possessed and was about to become something out of The Exorcist.
B)
Not knowing what my arm was mauled by until an hour ago, I thought maybe again the
supernatural really existed and I had been bitten by a werewolf and my body was experiencing
changes.
C)
See above, and insert vampire. This also accounts for my not remembering the night and
why my lungs were collapsing. Vampires don't breathe. My body was simply dying. It would all
be over soon.
These options speak for my wrecked state of mind as well. I normally do not believe in
any of the above and would laugh at someone who did. I was obliterated.
About ten minutes ago, I was able to keep down food. Hooray!
The arresting story, like I said, is more depressing than funny. The gist of it is, when I was
in junior high, I was a majorly fucked up little girl (as opposed to now). I stole things. A lot.
Basically every time I went shopping I stole things. It was just a matter of time before I got caught,
and eventually I did, and they put me in the diversion program. I think about a week later, I was
expelled from school because I'd pulled a knife on one of my fellow students who was threatening
to beat me up, and he, of course, immediately turned me in. I was sent home for the rest of the day,
got yelled at quite a bit (naturally) and was told that I could either take a 20 day suspension or a
permanent, end of the year expulsion. Neither would go on my record, and they would send all
my homework home with my brother for as long as I was gone. Not wanting to go back to school,
since the environment was bound to be so hostile I could've feasibly had the shit beaten out of me,
I chose the expulsion I went to a different school for my freshman year, then came back to my
school for the remaining three years, and I found that once I got out of JH and grew up a little,
high school wasn't half bad, and I graduated with a 3.3, after having nearly failed 8th and 9th
grade.
In retrospect, I realize how incredibly lucky I was to have gotten expelled when I did,
which was about a week and a half before Columbine. If they'd caught me with a knife in my
backpack in a post-Columbine world, my ass would have been grass, and they would have kicked
me out, no questions asked.
Thank you.
By the way: Have you listened to Coheed and Cambria before?
#41)
When I was 15 I had hair down to my shoulders, dyed black. I was so goth it was sickening. I had Johnny the Homicidal Maniac shirts. I had knee high boots and stockings.
I was soooo spooky.
Anyways, I was sneaking a cigarette in my room one night and I realized I had used the
last match to light a candle, one of those three wick 1400 hours guaranteed jobs. Big. Black. (Duh,
you cannot be spooky without black candles.)
I didn't want to go downstairs and risk being caught stealing more matches, my mom
didn't want me smoking in the house. So I leaned over and lit the cigarette off the candle.
The room smelled like fuck for a minute. No, it smelled like Hefty bags on the stove top. It
smelled an awful lot like burning hair.
In the back of a CD, I checked this. I had burnt off an eyebrow and the front quarter inch
of hair. Gone. Poof. Little frayed crunchlings were all that was left. Like baby hairs.
When I shaved off the other eyebrow to match- hey, if Marilyn Manson could do it and be
spooky, why not me?- and went downstairs, my mother had a small seizure.
Her head actually expanded and contracted with her pulse. She was unhappy, let's say,
about the eyebrows. But after I told her why I did it, she told me to just smoke in the room. As long
as I kept it there and there alone, she was fine with it.
Well, not fine, but finer than she was with having a son sans eyebrows. She told me I
looked like I was surprised about everything.
Yes, G5 is cool. Although in the process of listening to them, I managed to delete an email
that took a half-hour to write. But it's all love.
Okay, this is a story about a friend of mine named Tyler. Tyler is, how do you say it, an
insane pyromaniac. So one night he and his other friend Casey decided to go camping down by
the creek that runs behind Ty's house. They decided to go to bed, and Ty picked up a big bucket
that just happened to be laying around their campsite, assuming it was filled with water, and threw
it on the fire.
Casey said he could smell it before Ty threw it, so he ran and hit the ground. Because the
bucket was, of course, full of gasoline. Ty ended up burning off all the hair on his face, including
his eyebrows, and all the hair on his arms. By my last count, this kid has burnt off his eyebrows
fully or partially 3 times.
The thing is, at least part of this story is a lie. Why, you must ask yourself?
The place they were camping at was at least a mile from Ty's house, so it seems to be an
incredible coincidence that there would just happen to be a bucket full of something sitting
around, be it gasoline or water.
When I talked to Ty's sister about it, she indeed confirmed what I had already guessed: Ty
and Casey thought it would be funny to throw gasoline on a campfire. So they did.
Ty is also a man who has:
1) Lit his bed on fire with a joint and threw it out his window in the middle of the night so
his mom wouldn’t find out
2) Once almost died, because he was on a raft that lit on fire. How the hell do you light a raft
on fire?! While it's in the water?!
Posted by grade 5 dropout on 07-07-2003 01:11 AM:
This won't be as cool as I think it is...
In high school, eight months ago, I was with the crowd of kids with cool cars. I was with
the kids with the civics with dope rims and 4" exhaust pipes that woke up the neighborhood. A
box of 12" subs in the trunk that rattled your ribcage. Trucks lowered to the ground who could
drag frame and leave a trail of sparks.
Not that it mattered, cuz I drove a Volvo. I wasn't ONE of them, I was just FRIENDS with
them.
This story has very little to do with cars.
After school I had the good ol' Volvo ready to fly, and my friend Marv sits down on my
hood and asks me to drive him up to the front of the school, he had to get something out of his
locker. I say, just get in the car, something bad is gonna happen. He waves me off and tells me to
stop being a fag, and just go. I shrug, tap the gas, and we're on our way. Apparently 35 miles per
hour is too fast when you have a person riding on your hood. When the time comes, two seconds
later, to hit the brakes, my best friend flies off my hood and rolls under my car. His glasses fly ten
feet in front of him. Before I could completely register what I just saw, and after I shat my pants, I
think to myself, "what am I going to tell my parents?"
I put the car in park, open the door, and just as I'm setting foot on the ground to go inspect
the body, he stands up. And he's laughing. His leather shoes are scuffed to hell, his pants are all
torn up, revealing a wound on both knees which looks like bone has broken through his skin.
It wasn't bone, it was just really white skin under his outer layer.
Witnesses later told me that if I had let the car roll three inches further, I would've crushed
his arm beyond any repair.
And that is the closest I've come to killing my best friend.
Ahh, you overestimate me, grasshopper.
One time I was in confirmation class, which was probably the most boring thing I ever
suffered through. The only good thing that ever came out of it was that I managed to steal a copy
of 'Helter Skelter' from my pastor. But anyway.
I found out that if I leapt from the third to last step and down into the basement, I could
land gracefully on one knee and shout "Ta-dah!" or something equally moronic. Anyway, I practiced this move a few times, all with perfect success, so I yelled to my friend Ashley, "Hey Ash!
Check this out!"
So I leapt, and crashed my head into the top of the doorjamb. It was just about the worst
pain ever. I fell down onto the floor and started to laugh hysterically whilst tears leaked out of my
eyes (which is what I always do when I fall down).
At that moment, it was like the heavens opened up and God said to me, "QUIT FUCKING AROUND IN CHURCH."
A pastor with Helter Skelter on hand. There's a story right there.
#42)
I was playing basketball, badly, whitely, one summer day when I was twelve. I remember
we were listening to Beck's Mellow Gold. It made me feel irreverent. So I took my white and
ungraceful self to the edge of the driveway.
Let me set a scene. Basketball hoop at twelve o' clock. Garage at one to five o' clock. There
is a stone gutter with metal overlays on this garage. Under the garage, at two o' clock is a short
stairwell leading to the backyard.
So from the stairs, upon which I leapt from the drive with coordination I generally didn't
possess with a basketball in hand, I turned to my friend James (of 7-11 Heist fame) and said "I
GOT GAME, MOTHA FUCKAH!!!" And I jumped for the free throw.
Right into stone and metal.
I was blood blind before I hit the ground. The crown of my skull felt like someone had
crowbarred it open. James ushered me inside and in a frantic attempt to keep me from bleeding
everywhere, he handed me a pot to dribble in and told me to go to the bathroom and stand over
the sink. He was going to find his mom and get me help.
Head wounds bleed a lot and his mother was far away.
The sink was plugged when I got there, clogged for weeks, but I didn't know that.
When they found me, I had almost passed out from standing head down, losing blood.
The sink was half full. I'd say a pint, maybe more. When the ambulance came, I didn't even get
stitches, but I was told to stay off my feet and the basketball court for a while.
James' mom had to empty the sink of my blood with a measuring cup. Into a bucket and
then into the toilet. Flush.
Later, we found my meat stuck to the ledge above the garage.
That last one actually conjures another I'd forgotten.
#43)
I was three years old, I think when my mom was cooking in the kitchen and burnt herself
on popping oil from under a Steak-Umm.
"OW!" she said.
I waddled in there on my tiny legs and asked "Mommy, what does 'ow' mean?" I was
curious or concerned or maybe curiously concerned.
She wasn't paying me much mind, she was packing ice in a bag with her left hand,
holding her right arm under running water. Casually, she said "Uh it's for when you hurt yourself,
that's what you say."
"What's hurt?"
"Hurt? Uh, it's like dropping a brick on your finger or something."
I was curious, or concerned. Maybe curiously concerned. Maybe feeling a drive toward
empathy. Misery loving company? I don't know.
I proceeded as fast as I could to the back porch, opening the screen door quietly and carefully and found a brick by the fence. I dropped it on my thumb.
"AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUAGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!"
The meat was sliding out of the end of my finger. My mother took me immediately to the
doctor where he tucked it back in, and as I recall, smeared it with Sweet and Low. This last part is
probably not true, but I remember it as clearly as the rest of the story. We both felt a bit stale, as I
recall.
To this day, my left thumb is uneven at the end.
He doesn't have Helter Skelter anymore! Cause I stole it! I used to be a klepto.
Also, just picturing your story makes me want to vomit. Especially the way you referred
to your flesh as meat.
One time I was at a speech meet at a nearby school. I didn't have to perform for a few
hours, so I decided to go watch my friend Mary perform her poetry piece.
Well, her section had already started by the time I got there, and you're not allowed to go
in when someone is performing, so I decided to use the bathroom in the meantime.
With the door still open, I bent down to put my vanilla coke and my schedule on the floor,
and when I came back up, I smashed my head against the plastic school-issue towel dispenser and
knocked myself out.
When I woke up I was half in and half out of the bathroom, my head and torso on the tile
floor, my legs in the hallway. All I could think about was, "I didn't just knock myself out.... on a towel
dispenser...did I? No one must know of this"
So I got up and peed and left the bathroom. I had a headache like no other. I don't really
know how long I was out, but it wasn't for that long, because when I went back to Mary's room,
the same girl was performing still, so it couldn't have been more than about 2 or 3 minutes.
When I could finally go into the room, I went over to Mary and whispered extremely
loudly (so I could hear myself over the loud ringing in my head), "Is my head bleeding? I just hit
my head and I passed out a little, but it's okay, I just want to know if it's bleeding." Which it was,
very little, but bleeding nonetheless.
To my credit, I only told 2 people about it, one being Mary, the other one being my speech
coach, because I wanted her to give me Tylenol. She didn't have any, so she had to ask EVERY
SINGLE OTHER ADULT THERE AND TELL THEM WHY I NEEDED IT before she found
someone who had some. So of course my entire team found out. And some of the other school's
teams who happened to overhear it.
That was my second concussion.
And your first concussion?
Jane, this is a classic. Why has it taken 63 pages for THIS to come out? There are some
goodies tonight.
"I didn't just knock myself out.... on a towel dispenser...did I? No one must know of this." should
become my sig.
And I've got a good one about my first concussion, short though.
#44)
I was on the uneven bars in gym class. I was taking gymnastics outside of school, but this
is very uncool for an eight year old boy to do, and I already got the shit kicked out of me a lot
anyways so I tried to look like I didn't know what I was doing.
God forbid I should be confident and graceful. Like a little unitarded gazelle. What a
fucker I was.
I did well. I teetered and wavered and looked confused and the bully behind me got tired
of waiting for me to figure out what I was doing, so he just pushed me. And I fell head first into
the heavily lacquered gymnasium floor.
I remember someone asking me if I wanted a wheelchair and I remember saying "Ooooh.
I've never had one before. Cool."
As it turns out, I am the reason Fairport, New York Schools have to mandatorily have
mats on the floor during gymnastics. Go me!
Sig me, dammit.
My First Concussion.
I was staying with my cousin Cece in St. Paul, and she's a really big biking fanatic. So
when you stay with her you automatically become a biking fanatic. So one day I was biking to the
videostore to rent me up something, and I didn't look when I was crossing the street, and a car
came around the corner and hit me.
Yes. I was hit by a car. I flew up over the car, and landed on my head and hands (luckily I
was wearing a helmet) on the other side. This old woman came scrambling out (I don't remember
what kind of car it was, only that it was champagne-colored and very late model) and starts to fuss
and fuss over me. A girl who had been standing across the street and had seen the whole thing
happen came running over. I told the old lady that I was fine, which, right after something like
that happens, I always feel fine (I remember after I broke my nose, one of the first things I told
Florence, as I'm bleeding into the trash can, was "Dude, seriously, it doesn't hurt. Unless I
breathe.") So the old woman drove away, and the girl and I walked to her house so I could wash
the blood off and call Cece.
Once we got there and the girl's mother saw what kind of shape I was in, she called the
police. It was in this way that I found out that it is illegal to leave the scene of an accident, even if
the other person says they're ok. But there wasn't anything I could do about it, I couldn't even
remember what kind of car the woman had been driving, so the cop was like, "I'll just take you
home."
Which is how I found out that I had no idea where Cece lived, in relevance to anything
else. Because I went everywhere on bike trails, I had no idea how to get anywhere using the actual
streets. I told the cop what I thought was the name of the street that Cece lived on, and he radioed
it in to the police station, who informed him that that was a non-existent street. So we had to drive
around until I began to recognize things, which, as I recall, took a really long time.
So later that night I called my mother, who was worried, obviously, and asked me if my
pupils were dilated, which I thought meant that they were different sizes.
I went and looked at my eyes in the bathroom. My pupils were the size of dimes. And I
told her they were not dilated.
I had headaches for the rest of the summer, and a good part of the fall.
Well, all right. Whatever makes you happy, m'dear.
How I broke my tailbone.
This happened last March. It was the first bone of three I was to break in the next 12
months (in October, I broke my rib when I fell off a cinderblock and hit my side on the rabbit
hutch. Then in February, my nose).
One fine spring day my speech coach decided to be nice to us and pull us out of school so
we could go perform our speeches in front of a bunch of bankers having a lunch or something.
Afterwards, she, Terry, was so proud of us she bought us all juice and asked us what we'd like to
do while we were in town.
What would you decide to do if you were a bunch of high schoolers out of class and
pumped full of juice? Go to the park and go swinging!
So, a bunch of us, including my best friend Kelsey, decided to climb on this tire swing
thing. It was shaped like a big X if you were looking at it from the air, with a tire swing at each
point of the X, and it spun around in a circle. So us girls each got on a swing, standing up, and my
cousin Dan and Kelsey's brother Josh started to pull us around in a circle, much too fast for my
liking.
I said, in a thick voice, "Hey, um.... Joshus [yelling his whole name so as to look formative]! Slow this down, I'm going to fall off." Which I did, and it wasn't that bad, really, because I
fell right onto the wet sand below the swing.
But when I tried to stand up, I got hit in the ass-lower back region with someone else's tire
swing. I fell down, attempted to stand back up again, and was hit in the same region with another
tire swing. Finally I managed to roll out of the way, and couldn't do anything but lie there on the
ground, and, of course, laugh hysterically. And by this time Josh and Dan were lying on the
ground too, laughing, and the girls were staggering off the tire swings and laughing.
The next day my whole back had seized up and I could barely walk. Around July, I
started seeing a chiropractor because the pain had become unbearable. She referred me back to my
family doctor, who took X-rays that showed several things:
I had broken my tailbone at least once, possibly twice.
Due to the weirdness of the muscles, the normal S-curve of my back was now almost
straight
When looking at the x-rays from front to back, my spine otherwise looked straight |,
except for one place about 3/4 of the way down it does something like this: ( and then goes back to
|. You can feel this with your hands if you run them over my back. There's a shallow hole where
my spine is supposed to reside, and then the spine itself sits on top of the back muscles for a good,
oh, 4 inches (and I'm sitting here feeling my back, trying to describe this to you).
After a summer of physical therapy and pain, it's now reduced to manageable. And I'm
kind of afraid of getting older.
Posted by grade 5 dropout on 07-07-2003 10:32 AM:
The ultimate story. Visualize this with me.
My mom would kill me if she finds this out.
My Mother Set Herself on Fire.
It's a quiet evening, my sister is in the living room with my and my father. My mom is
cooking dinner in the kitchen. Dad and I are playing chess. We're both deep in thought. At this
point in my life, he had beaten me every single time we've played. From where I'm sitting, out of
my peripheral vision I can see my mother in the kitchen.
The way our stove works, you have four burners. Two in the front, and two in the back.
There is a fan above it with the switch on the wall.
My mother, in an attempt to optimize her time and cook in the most efficient way possible, turned on the stove and the fan at the exact same time. However, by doing so, she completed a
circuit, and fire shot down her sleeve.
I see this out of the corner of my arm. She begins to flail a little bit.
I look up, completely confused. I say, "Dad... um... I think Mom's on fire."
Very coolly, as if I just told him I kept dead alien bodies in my closet, he says, "...what?"
Meanwhile, my mom has exited my peripheral vision, has torn her shirt off, and beat the
fire out. We later deduced that it was because of the perfume she was wearing that contained
alcohol, the spark created by both electrical units caught on and engulfed my mother in flames.
What's funny is she did this again, two weeks later.
Posted by Alex on 07-07-2003 06:10 PM:
Well for all those stories about being all ghetto I've got something of a story (not about me
obviously). My brother's high school class went on a trip to New York for spring break this year
and the students had planned activities during the day but were allowed to do anything they
wanted from 5pm to 10pm so long as they respected the curfew. One girl didn't show up until 10
am the next day and was promptly forced to buy a bus ticket back to Montreal and was suspended
from all future school trips.
As it turns out, the reason she was so late is because she rented a limo and spent the whole
night partying with the Wu-Tang Clan.
When I was about 15, I went to my friend’s house for a sleep over again. And I guess his
father (the salsa guy) was having some problems. We're playing some playstation in the living
room, and we hear his dad crying in the kitchen, so he goes to check it out. I ask him if everything
is okay and he just stares at the floor. He said his parents got into a fight and his dad took some
acid.
naturally, it didn't take long for the trip to go bad. His father storms into the living room
five minutes later and rips down the blinds. It's dark outside, as it usually is at 2:00 AM, and he
keeps screaming at us to be quiet. He scans the front yard, searching for something...
"Rex, come over here and look."
so my friend goes to his father's side, and I'm just too freaked out to move.
"You see him, you see those ninja's? I think they want to assassinate me..."
woah. so his father hands me a golf club and hands my friend a rifle as he calls the police.
about five minutes later the cops show up, see there’s nothing really wrong here and leave. BUT
THEN...
at about 5:30 AM we awake to yelling and screaming. my friend’s father had wanted sex
from his mother, and she wasn't having it, so they started to fight, and we hear him scream "STOP
FUCKING BITING ME! AHHHH!"
I wake up my friend, who somehow slept through this, and as soon as he realizes what’s
happening he sighs and calls the police. and away his father goes, not his first time in jail, and
certainly not his last.
I don't know. I think Jane's Hunted By Vampires, G5's Drive Over My Friend and Gucci's
Help a Dad Beat Up His Son stories beat this.
#45)
My first job was as a dishwasher at a Perkins. This is disgusting work, digging through
people's unwanted waste food. It mixes all together in the pans so you don't have just extra coleslaw and some pancakes, you've got a bisque, milk and coffee base with slaw and cakes simmering for flavor.
I don't know if anyone's ever successfully washed dishes for more than a year without
serious side effects. If someone told me Hitler was a dishwasher at his local JCC and hence the
Holocaust, I would understand. It's that gross. Broken glass, snotty napkins. When you clean the
bathrooms menstrual blood and "Oops, I had diarrhea and missed" splatter.
Sometimes there are dirty needles.
So I fought tooth and nail to move into the kitchen. And after a while, I got my "promotion." I put that word in quotations in case anyone out there has ever been a short order cook. You
get the joke.
And it was in this kitchen I found out what the smell of sauerkraut will do to me. Every
time I had to put together a Reuben sandwich (rye bread, swiss cheese, corned beef and sauerkraut) I would go into dry heaves. I sometimes tasted vomit. This isn't actually too conducive to
work. So I tell everyone and they indulge me by taking care of this one item whenever it comes in
on an order.
One morning I have to work early. It's just me and the overnight guy at 6AM. He's tired
and smoking a cigarette, about to be off the clock after a harrowing swing shift. Some degenerate
orders a Reuben and a full stack of potato cakes. As nice as can be, I ask Dan, the other guy, to help
out.
"Come on, man, these things make me sick."
"Do it yourself you fucking pussy," he says, "I've been here since eight o' clock. Faggot."
That, I guessed, means no and no debate about it. Time was ticking away and the order
had to be cooked so I bit the bullet and put down the bread. I put cheese on it and set the corned
beef on the grill next to it. It sizzled. And closing my eyes while I grabbed the portion bag of kraut,
I bobbled and fumbled it until its contents fell, not on the bread where it goes, but on the grill
sending a blast of hot rank effluvium right into my face.
Maybe I was a little hungover that day, I usually was but I don't know, regardless this was
too much. I booted. Ralphed. Did the Techinicolor Yawn.
I projectile vomited all over the grill, and into the deep fryer next to it, and on the eggs
between the two. Thick vomit that resembled a milkshake in consistency. Maybe grits.
Has anyone ever smelled vomit cooking? Or for that matter, vomit cooking over a
delightful sauerkraut and corned beef medley? I promptly threw up again.
There was a hell of a lot of vomit popping and sizzling on the grill. "Did I eat carrots?" I
think, "why are there always carrots in vomit no matter how long it's been since you ate them?" All
of this has been a less than two minute process.
But I have to hide the evidence before I get written up or fired for this. The other cook is
coming soon to do his cleaning. He will rat me out, I know it. So I start dumping eggs. Once that's
more or less taken care of, I scrape the sandwich and it's funky new glaze into the garbage trap
under the grill. I'm working fast, but not fast enough. I throw a pile of rye bread, corned beef and
swiss cheese on the cutting board ready to go and then I turn to grab the scouring block to clean
the grill off and Dan is right there.
"Fuck, dude. Can't you do anything? Get out of here and I'll finish it."
I'm wide eyed with paranoia. "I'm so busted," I think. There's still puddles of puke frying
away. Chunky and green with some sort of legume.
It's the legumes he mistakes for scallions, I think, scallions in latkes or to the Perkin's clientele, potato cakes.
"Your potato cakes look like shit, dude," he says as he ladles batter into the vomit. "That's
better." He says.
This is when I run. About five minutes later, he plates and serves the food. My vomit
became a full stack of Perkin's Potato Pancakes, $4.79, served with applesauce, sour cream and
three crispy strips of lean bacon. Parsley as a garnish.
Posted by leonardshelby on 07-08-2003 11:27 PM:
Back to stories.
Here’s my first:
When I was in middle school, my friends and I realized, that if you throw a soaked cotton
ball at a car, it sounds like a rock hit it, without doing any real damage.
Now, there's this park that has a broken fence all the way in the back of it that overlooks
the turnpike; you can literally walk on the highway from inside the park.
So we sat in the bushes, and commencing the throwing, armed with bottled water and a
bag of cotton balls. Little did we know what dumbasses we were. After about a half hour later, my
friend Matt calls out, "Theirs a van with a trailer coming!" How exciting to us 11 year olds. We all
get ready, with like ten cotton balls soaked in each hand, and basically hail the van with these wet,
hard cotton balls, each flying at the car hard (harder than you'd think cotton balls can go), some
bouncing off and some sticking.
Now, you'd think we'd be careful and hide while being such douchebags. Nope, we just
stood there in the wide open, oblivious to our stupidity. Then, about a few minutes later, as we sat
down, calmed down our naive and care-free laughs, we heard a guy screaming from the end of
the park, about 40 feet away from us. Something like "You motherfuckers," or something of the
other. We hopped that fence, and we ran, ran without even looking back, without thinking twice.
Now, we were stuck on the highway, running along the road that led to the intersection
that led from the street that led to the park that we were throwing wet cotton balls from. (It makes
perfect sense to meeee.) And at the corner of this intersection, there is a bank. So we sprint to the
bank, and hide behind a dumpster we see there. We wait, my mind running like crazy, me and
these two of my friends, thinking how much of a dumb shit I was and how funny and crazy this
was. We calm down, everything is fine, and leave the dumpster, content with thinking those
bastards left. But we were fucking wrong. Just as we leave the bank parking lot, we see the car
leaving the neighborhood, and we spring back the other way, towards the dumpster again. The
car turns in, and get this, the guy jumps out of the car before it even stops rolling. So the car is
rolling on it's own, this built, big, fucking twitchy body builder of a guy, jumps out of his car, no
shirt on, motocross pants on, and screams, "You littttttle FUCK!" and chases the previously
mentioned Matt down the street for some unknown reason. The other guy gets out of the van
(with what happened to be two motocross bikes trailered on the back), and says, "Dude, you guys
messed with the wrong fucking guy, he's the strongest guy in the world, man." Me and my other
friend, Zach, we are frozen solid. Scared out of our minds.
So we just run. We run down the street, past the "Dude" guy, past the built fucker (who
had already given up on Matt, who was faster than him, surprisingly, and who promptly
screamed "You little bastards what the fuck did you do to my CAR??"), and down the street,
sprinting as fast as our short legs could carry us.
Needless to say we never threw cotton balls again.
I wish I could have given you a better story but my life isn't as interesting as yours.
This happened when I was 19. What you have to know is that the place we are staying
actually belongs to my father's sister, a very interfering person, whom my father unfortunately
dotes on and agrees with everything she does (much to the chagrin of my mother). The aunt takes
the rent from a house we actually own, and everyone is happy. The thing is that sometimes she
decides innovations to the house and rarely asks for our opinion, let alone permission.
This time she had decided to install a security door in our flat and make it a nice surprise
for my father. She had mentioned something to me, but I tend to ignore her, so I pushed it at the
back of my mind. The day the technician and his 20-something apprentice came, she was busy and
couldn't come over. So I had to deal with them myself.
I made them coffees, put on Beatles and tried to avoid the advances of the apprentice.
They got to work and had just taken out the old door, when the technician wanted to have a word
with the master of the house. Assuming the person in charge was my father, he asked me to get
him on the phone. Without giving it much thought, I called him at his office. Their conversation
was roughly as follows:
Technician: 'Good evening, guv, it's the door technician. Everything is going well, we have just
taken out the entrance door...'
Father: 'You WHAT?!'
At this point they both realize things they don't like at all. My father learns that some
people are in his house with his precious only daughter, and they have just demolished his precious only entrance door. The technician realizes that the 'master of the house' has no idea of what
is going on and has the nasty suspicion that this was the wrong house and the wrong door
(apparently this had happened before). Meanwhile, I have to chase my hamster Arthouros around
which had chosen the very moment to escape, and the apprentice is offering to write me a tape
with cheesy music. Father and technician are both on the verge for a stroke. It takes a few minutes
of extreme anguish for both before I can settle this talking alternately on the phone and to the
technician.
At this moment my aunt arrived, finished off the explanations and arranged for the
apprentice to be severely reprimanded... Needless to say, she got away with everything.
Posted by morphiend on 07-09-2003 02:51 PM:
Since this is my first post i might as well start with making an ass of myself...
Sorry it's long, feel free not read.
It was the first week of second semester in my freshman year of college, and my friends
and i went to a bar where if you pay an extra cover charge you get into another room where drinks
are free (V.I.P. but not so much) I decided to start out on Jack and Coke and every time i went to
the bar i decided to ask the tender to make it a little stronger. i continued this practice until it was
only jack being put into my cup, this is where my story ends and the rest is just various rumors
that my friends tell me the following days.... While drinking just straight jack i became noticeably
intoxicated and the bartender refused to serve me anymore, this news to a very drunk individual
is never good so i argued and argued until he served me another drink. Grabbing my drink i said
something to the effect of, "Hey buddy, you don't think i can't handle this?" and promptly
chugged the drink. (Now, if you will, picture a slot machine) As soon as I slammed the empty cup
on the bar, the just finished drink and i suppose many of the drinks before that came spewing out
of my mouth on to the bar. Needless to say i was carried out by the bouncer who had one hand on
the neck of my shirt and one the back part of my jeans. When he reached the exit he generously
tossed me out(picture dj jazzy jeff getting tossed out of will's house) Being exiled from the bar, it
was a wise idea to go back to my dorm room and go to bed, which i did, er... almost did. I got took
my clothes off and got into bed(it would be to nice if the story ended here) While lying in bed the
angels must have been singing and the sea probably parted for i had an epiphany. I just
remembered that my ex-girlfriend had just moved into the floor below me (ahh... so the dorms do
have perks...) i decided to pay her a visit. However, in my drunken state of mind i forgot what
room was hers and i also forgot to put any more clothes on. So in my boxers i proceeded to knock
on every door and ask if Blair was there. I continued this until i finally got to RA's(resident
assistant) room, when she opened the door she was lucky enough to see me in my boxers, three of
my friends at the end of the hall laughing hysterically, and numerous girls in the middle of the
hall wondering what the hell was going on. Luckily i was too drunk to be embarrassed(or even
remember) but every so often a girl would come up to me and say, "Hey do you remember me?"
"No."
"Oh, i didn't think so but this one time you came to my room at like 3 in the morning and
you were in your boxers and...."
God bless College...
Posted by sidefly on 07-09-2003 11:30 PM:
*cough* jumping on the bandwagon...
I didn't mean to make this so long, sorry.
How my mom almost killed my sister and I.
My mother never eats. She's terrified of gaining weight and developing diabetes and
dying, like her mother, so she stays skinny. She also really loves wine. Wine after work, wine with
dinner, wine after dinner, wine right before bed, wine on special occasions, wine not on special
occasions, wine for no reason at all except Let's have a drink because this bottle isn't going to drink
itself. On holidays, she's usually drunk before the guests even arrive. This past Thanksgiving, we
had an old ex-navy guy -turned romantic, homely gourmet chef over for dinner. When he sat
down to eat, his chair broke in half. He cut his leg, landed on his ass, and screamed at the top of his
lungs "YOU GODDAMNED SON OF A BITCH!" There was dead silence in the room, except for
my mother, laughing hysterically - drunk, of course - and then his wife, who joined in a little too
loudly, with that crazed "Oh god this isn't happening" look in her eyes.
Years before this, she took my sister and I to her friends' house for dinner and alcohol one
night. Lacking her car and my father for some reason, we were driving his old two-seater Dodge
Ram pickup, which meant I sat in the passenger seat and my sister curled up under the dashboard
with the old mail, trash, and dehydrated fast food (I have never seen a moldy McDonald's french
fry. When our civilization is excavated in a couple thousand years, I guarantee you those same
french fries and half-eaten hamburgers will still be around). We were about seven and five years
old, respectively, so fitting into small spaces wasn't much of a problem - except we fought like cats
and dogs back in those days. Anything for attention.
We were alright on the ride over. Six or seven hours later, in the wee hours of the morning, my mom finally decided to go home. Drunk, of course. So the three of us piled into the truck
and my sister and I promptly began to annoy the hell out of each other. Ten minutes later we were
almost home, my sister and I were crying, and my mother was drunkenly pissed out of her mind.
Now let me paint a picture of where I live: my house overlooks the Columbia River basin
in central WA. Compared to the rest of the city, we're pretty high up. On a clear day we can see the
Blue Mountains a few hundred miles off in the distance. The road from the river up the hill is
straight and steep for about half the height of the hill, and then sort of zig-zags to the top. There
isn't any traffic.
My mother drove to the top of the steep, straight part of the hill and decided she'd had
enough of us. She stopped the truck. She got out of the truck, with my sister and I still strapped in
and bleary-eyed and sort of curiously trying to decide whether we should continue bickering or
give in and be good. That's when the truck began to roll down the hill.
Never, ever forget the parking brake.
She was too drunk to realize immediately that her truck and children were rolling down
the hill toward houses and trees and things. While the truck was picking up speed, I unbuckled
myself and opened the door and looked at the pavement going by with increasing speed. I was
barefoot. I remember worrying about landing in prickerbushes or scraping my knees. And then
she started yelling at us, and I jumped out and pulled my sister with me. We watched it go.
You'd be amazed how fast a ton and a half of metal can careen backward down a hill in
five or six seconds.
It sort of veered to the right and off the road toward a blue house, headlights scraping the
sky, and for a moment I hoped it would hit the house and explode. The house was lower than the
road, with a retaining wall between the road and the house, and at the top of the wall were a
couple concrete embankment pieces like they use to separate highways. I don't know if this sort of
thing happened to them regularly, but those people were prepared. The back end of our truck
smashed into the embankment. We woke up the neighborhood. The whole end crumpled like a
flat pop can. The frame buckled. We'd never shut the doors exactly ever again.
Someone in the house had a light on. My mom told my sister and I to stay put while she
got her purse, and for the first time that night - maybe ever - we listened to her. I walked home
barefoot.
And that's why I have the ridiculous phobia of putting my car in reverse!
p.s. proto, I hope you live to write a memoir. You'll blow Hillary Clinton out of the water.
The only one that springs to mind is the one where I was on the bike. I do remember
though, that at the exact moment I was walking with someone and telling them the story (about
how I was hit by a car while on a bike), a car came around the corner and came incredibly close to
hitting me, like nearly nudged my knees. And honked its horn. Fucking bastards.
Also, when I was in Japan, the cars in Tokyo would sometimes get so close to you at a
stoplight that they would nudge your legs as you crossed the street, in an effort to make you walk
faster. This is because in Japan, pedestrians don't have the right-of-way, cars do.
That's weak but it's all I got.
#46)
The week after I bought my first new car, it was almost totaled. In fact, a hundred and
ninety dollars away from totaled. To figure if a car is totaled or not, in the legal sense, take the
price paid and half it. If the damages come to more than that number, it's a total loss.
My damages came to $8,535. The car was a 99 Oldsmobile Alero, loaded except for the
moonroof. I bought it off the lot, which is why all the opulence and options. Leather seats. Power
locks. Chrome rims. And I hate cars. This was all an accident. It was white and pretty though, and
I bought it for my new job.
At nineteen with an enormous coke habit, I was put in charge of 21 restaurants and their
management staffs. My job was to cover a three hundred mile area, and tell managers in stores
what their problems were and why they couldn't keep a crew.
Why their waiters and waitresses quit, this was my problem.
My old car- if anyone's ever seen Tommy Boy, that was what happened to it. The scene at
the gas station. Where Farley takes the door off. I actually did that, running backwards door ajar
into a gad pump. So for a year I crawled out the passenger side door, looking like an ass, in a
rusted out 1988 Camry that was any minute about to bite it.
For the new job, I needed a car that commanded the respect that I, as a bleached blond
with tattoos and the body hair of an eight-year-old boy, could not. I got the Alero.
It was $19,000 all said and done, interest included. Cheap because I got it after it had been
seized in a drug raid.
Driving to the Indian Reservation one morning for cigarettes was when the accident
happened. I stopped at a stop sign on a 55mph road. I looked left, I looked right. The friend in the
passenger seat said "Uh..."
The funny thing is, I remember the Stone Temple Pilots' song "Big Bang Baby" was actually on the radio.
The guy hit me from behind going what was estimated at sixty-five in a Ford F-350. He
didn't brake or anything.
A Ford F-350. Short of a hummer, could the truck have been any bigger?
He refused to say a single word to me or my friend. And when I said my back hurt, my
friend made me lie down. He called the police and an ambulance.
The trunk of my brand new car was touching the back of those leather seats in the front.
The windshield was scattered over a fifty-foot radius. My car had gone across the intersection and
taken out a STOP sign because of sheer momentum. I had held fast to the brakes the whole time
too, so there was a burnt smell of maybe rubber, maybe brakes.
They told me I was in shock when I was being strapped to the backboard, neck collar and
all and I laughed hysterically. I was still wearing my sunglasses. And I said "a census taker once
tried to test me. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti..." then the sucking sounds.
They said I was not well.
It turned out to be whiplash, and try as I might, no matter how much I begged, the
wouldn't let me keep my X-Rays. I mean, how often can you show someone pictures of your
insides?
The aftermath will be continued in a second post...
The Alero took a month to fix during which time my insurance company advised me to
rent a car. I did, and being nineteen, I paid a hefty surcharge every day. I paid something like $75 a
day for driving a tiny Civic, with no A/C, no cassette and only AM radio on the hour or so long
drives I made every day in 100-degree weather.
When the bill came for the Alero, it was $8,535, just short of being able to write the car off
and get a new one. By this point in time, I hated the new job and wanted out of the $378.81 a
month in car payments and $138.89 in insurance it enabled me to pay. My car buying was rash and
stupid and I had had my fingers crossed for a Total Loss, which meant refund in cash, and a "Do
Over."
I missed by that $200. I asked if I could take a bat to a window to make it even and the
shop said I had to leave.
But the damages got paid by the other driver in the end. Leaving me with a new car that
didn't drive quite right anymore and a 000.00 resale value. I was less than happy. Until I took the
rental back.
My rental bill was $3,000, which I had to charge to a credit card. A brand new card I got
specifically to pay this bill until I was reimbursed by the other guy.
The other guy's insurance company now said "We're not paying the age surcharge, it's not
our fault you're nineteen" And me, having no cash for a lawyer, I said nothing. I called my
insurance company. Who told me for 139 bucks a month, there was nothing they could do about
this. It was "my problem."
I told them that they advised me to rent the car in the first place, that they told me that the
other insurance company would foot the bill in the end. The response?
"No we didn't."
There was some shouting, and then I remembered that the conversation was
tape-recorded. I told them to get the tape. Without missing a beat the agent said "we lost it."
I wasn't buying, but there wasn't a damn thing I could do. So I called the other guy's
insurance company and told them they had six months to pay me before court date, a blatant lie,
but all I could do.
During those six months I learned an intriguing bit of trivia.
If you max out a credit card and make no payments for six months, it is considered felony
larceny.
During this time, I had quit cocaine and broken it off with crazy ex-girlfriend #2 (the
phone call girl) and both her and my ex-dealer called me every day I got in the habit of never
answering my phone. So I missed all the warning calls.
And then one day, I accidentally picked up my phone. The credit agency was letting me
know that if I didn't make a payment in a month, I would be arrested. For larceny. Jail. Gasp.
(I am 6'1" and 135 lbs. My only hope in a jail would be to find the biggest, blackest man
around and ask to be his bitch.)
I told him that I had no money at all, which was true. I was broke and eating vegetarian
cat food. Yum. He said, and I quote, "Sir, because you have no money is no reason not to pay us."
I paused to reflect and then said "What the hell do you mean? That's the best reason not to
pay you." I told him something to the effect of it's tough to get blood from a stone and then, when
my roommate walked in, I told him to "fuck the hell off and send your goons and leg-breakers
after me, dick!" and then hung up.
The roommate said: "Dude, that was the coolest thing ever."
And an hour later I went and got a loan and paid off the card. In the very end, three years
later, the other guy's insurance company agreed to pay me $300 because "This is a standard rental
car fee for a month's worth of repair time."
Motherfuckers, all of them.
I'm heading over to my buddy Steve's house, cause that's where all the parties are. This
one is part one of two in the Beer Before Liquor Series, and yet, the first thing Steve says, rather
excitedly I might add, to me a few other guys as we walk through the door is "Wanna try some
Chinese liquor?" Not one to turn down free alcohol, especially exotic alcohol that I may never have
the opportunity to consume again, I accept his invitation. "Ok, now, you said you'd do it! That
means you have to!" Suddenly suspicious, I slowly reply, "O...kay," and follow him into the
kitchen.
In the kitchen, there is a group of people conversing about school or whatever. Steve
smiles to them and says, "They want to try the Chinese vodka!" There are groans all around and
one of the guys even pleads, "Don't give 'em a full shot, man, only half." With this new development, I'm looking around in panic for some kind of help, but all I see is Steve whip out this 2-liter
plastic jug of clear liquid covered in Chinese writing. The only thing in English is '52% alcohol.'
Dancing around in the bottle are what looks like frolicking rabbit turds, but Steve says they won't
kill you. "Just pick 'em out and throw 'em away." He pours the shots, hands them out, and says,
"Alright, now whatever you do, don't smell it!" So what do we do? Of course, we smell it.
Now, I've never tried this, but I assume that if I picked up the football team's dirty socks
after a practice in the middle of August, rung them out into a glass, and smelled it, it would have a
stench nearly as potent as this. Probably taste pretty similar too. Anyway, I took a small whiff of it
and nearly gagged on the toad that seemed to be trying to leap up my throat. I went to the beer
fridge and picked out an exceptionally cold Keystone, hoping it would numb my taste buds
enough to keep me from puking the instant the vodka hit my tongue. I prepped, taking a few sips
of my chaser, being sure I was absolutely ready to slurp and chug. On the count of three, me and
two buddies grimaced and threw back our heads.
I didn't taste too much of it, as the beer was in my mouth almost before the liquor was.
However, I did get enough of the flavor to know that it tasted twice as bad as it smelled. I sucked
on that can to be sure the filthy poison washed down completely, but was haunted for the rest of
the evening by dirty gym sock juice burps. Luckily there was no official encore. The rumors of one
were quite enough for me.
Soon after we recovered from the shock, Steve poured some of it out onto a plate to show
just what we'd downed. He lit the plate and a nice blue flame appeared. He then picked up the
plate and we watched as a bit of the flame drizzled onto the countertop, but a majority clung to the
plate like napalm.
"That," Steve said, "is probably still clinging to your esophagus. And do you know how
much the whole bottle cost?"
We all shook our heads, thinking that it probably took however much alcohol is needed
for a chinaman to piss 2 liters.
"A buck seventy-five."
Posted by knoxville on 07-12-2003 03:50 AM:
The Knoxavillian Complemations
k here are some of my gross stories, of which rents told me to post (so no i’m not looking
for attention!!!) plus a few new ones.
being the moron i am was mouthing off to one of my buddy’s dad. now this guy is a big
brute of a man, maybe 6"3 or 4, 300+ pounds. so anyways i don’t know why i decided to do it, but i
told a joke that made him sound like a wuss or something and then i did a fight club quote "oh
look his eyes are shrink wrapped" anyways my best bud' mom was gutting and skinning a fish
while we were standing here talking. now i’m maybe 5"6 9 at most, so outta nowhere this guy
grabs me by my collar and swings me around, grabs the plate of skinned fish rubs it in my face,
my hair, and my mouth. nasty, dry and boney fish. i sat around for 10 minutes, just soaking up the
smell into me before showering
so we're at the cottage all my good friends and i (same place where fish thing happened)
and we just leave the cottage at night to walk around and kill some time. now i have the oddest
tendency to have shit at the weirdest times (see: Second Cup story) and at these times its never an
easy hard shit that slips right out or a liquid one that’s done and over with. its mushy stuff that
takes concentration to get out. so we're walking along and all of a sudden i gotta fart, so i’m
walking and i cant fart, its sorta just sitting in me so i push hard and all of a sudden the tip of the
shit nugget pops out, doesn’t fall out just sticks its head out to say hello lol, so i carefully walk into
some bushes (without anyone noticing except my best friend. so i push out as much as i can right,
and unnoticing that i may have just shat my pants (it may have fallen into the pile of pants on the
ground) so i quickly grab a leaf to wipe, and as i put the leaf between my but cracks, it breaks my
hand goes through and into the shit. so now i got shit on my hands, and my pants are down i end
up getting shit on pants while trying to pull em up. so awkwardly walk back to the cottage to
clean up, takes me a while to get the shit out and than i realize there’s no washing machines except
in town. so i waste a whole roll trying to scrub the small but noticeable shit out, resulting in me
clogging the toilet and everyone in the area (its like 10 cottages all together in this area) finds out
that i took this huge shit and clogged the toilet, never finding out that it was cause i was trying to
clean my pants, who told em? lol my best bud, so i just grinned and puffed my chest up and said
"yeah baby, i dominated that shitter"
alrighty my friend. k so here it is. me and my best bud, we'll call him party-boy for reference. so anyways i go to party-boys place for the weekend. and he hasta work till 11 and we're
planning to see a flick at 11:30, so he picks me up at 11:20pm and we race over to the theatre, so we
push a couple red lights and yell at a couple people etc and we get there, now its ritual for me to
take a long, huge piss before a movie, since we were runnin outta time i had to pass that
opportunity, sow e get in, i’m able to hold it in the whole time while drinking a bottle of water.
after its done i head over to the bathroom, so i start pissin and than i stop, walk outta the stall
zipper down and bottle in hand and walk up to shawn and say "DUDE! i should piss in this bottle
and throw it at someone" everyone in the bathroom and freezes to look at me, he agrees and i go
piss in the bottle, it was totally silent too everyone was listening to hear the echoed sound of the
pee goin in the bottle. so the bottles filled up, and we go driving around lookin for shit to do, so we
go over to pick up this other guy. and than party-boy fills the bottle up even more. by now the
stuff is getting pretty warm and is full. so we go driving some more for at least an hour, since it
was cold we had the heater goin too (and since i refused to roll up the window it was cranked) and
the bottle of piss happened to be sittin right above the spot where the heat comes out. i took the lid
off to get a smell of it and it is fucking rancid. so we drive around for 30 more minutes lookin for
the right person to chuck this bottle at. and finally we come to a road and see two tall arabic guys
dressed in suede gino gear, not even rushing to get out of our way off the road, so as we pass i
undo the cap to the battle and chuck and yell in the morst surfiest of surfer voices "EWWWWWW
ITS PISS!!!!!" the shit went all over them, and form the direction they were walking, their house
was far away
so party-boy comes over for the weekend. and i invite my cousin too. and we're all
hanging out and decide we need to do something dumb. so we walk over to the convenience store
and we each buy a gallon (4 litres) of milk. we than head back to the park across the street from my
house. so the contest is we havta finish the whole gallon of milk, in an hour or under time, which
is quite hard. now being the idiot party-boy is, he chose chocolate milk, now party-boy is like me,
his shits come at the worst possible times and they’re never comfortable. so he downs as much
milk as possible in 35 minutes, and he got about 3 quarters of the stuff in him, my cousin drops out
at 1.5 - 2 litres in him, now me i’m still going, and i’m at 2.5 and i don’t fell sick or anything, my
cuz and party-boy, they’re growing from stomach complaints. so i finish about 3.5 quarters of the
milk, when i havta shit, milk does that too you. so i go over and shit in some bushes by a fence,
than party-boy decides to too, except is stuff was fucking liquid rancidness and th dog on the
other side of the fence was whimpering it smelt so bad, anyways i go back to trying to drink more
milk but cant, i’m just too full. but i don’t feel really sick or anything and am a bit disappointed. so
i get my cuz to start punching me in the gut, trying to get me to puke but i cant. party-boy decides
he hasta shit again (this time he hasta shit out the chocolate milk, before it was something he ate
earlier) so he sits up on a banister, 4 feet in the air and sticks his ass off the ledge and starts
shitting, now i shit you not i saw not only 2 full sized Oh Henry sized shits come outta him, but
than it musta been all the milk he had to (in shit form) spraying out like a damn hose at full water
pressure. since i still hadn’t puked or anything i stuck my nose at least a foot away from this shit
water park comin outta his ass and started taking big whiffs than i ran 4 feet away form him and
started making myself hurl (fingers in throat plus smell did it) so here’s parrrty-boy shitting like a
fire hose, me beside him puking chunks that are coming out of my nose, and the puke is so liquidy
that its like pouring water out of a jug coming outta me, than the liquid stuff was pouring outta
my nose too and my cousin beside me staring in horror, outta nowhere my cuz falls to the ground
and starts puking in disgust. now remember this is at a school (at night time) and the banister we
were lined up with had gravel in front of it. we finished up everything and the whole area, was
covered with puke, milk, shit and shitty toilet paper. we came back the next day, party-boys shit
had stained the ground and made a permanent smell there, and our puke had soaked up into the
ground (surprisingly the grass [we puked on grass in front of gravel, party-boy shat on gravel]
was pretty green and looked healthier) after the weekend was over someone had cleaned up the
disaster site.
now i have another story that happened at the school with me and party-boy, buts its
nothing gross just funny if ya wanna hear it
me party-boy and my cuz are wandering around at like 2 am, now in this town at 2 am the
old people rule, they gathering at local coffee shops, fucking huge numbers of em. so we go to the
coffee shop and there’s this gang of 7 or 8 old people sitting there, so we sit behind them right and
we start talking. now party-boy is telling me how he hasta get his molars removed and how he’s
gonna get tylenol 3's and codeine and all this fun stuff, and my cuz was backing him up saying
how fun it is and good the stuff works. they wouldn’t fuckin shut up about it, so out of nowhere i
yelled in a mentally challenged voice "AHHH LEAVE ME ALONE! I ODNT WANT NO
DRUGS!!!" now my back was facing the old people, but party-boy and chris's eyes turned as big as
dinner plates right after i said that, the whole table of old people looked over and were about to
call the cops, than i broke out in laughter, of course i got my ass beated with clothes hangers for it
and many other things (flashing the light on and off till 5 in the morning in my room while they
were trying to sleep, throwing cat food treats at them and singing, and also doing shadow
puppets)
earlier on that night they were both gambling and playing dice, and got really into it,
leaving me bored as fuck, so i quietly download this song called Angel of Death by Slayer, and as
soon as it started i did the one mosh pit and jumped all around and over them fuckin up their
game and throwing the dice everywhere, than while it was happenin they flipped me over the
couch and i fell onto the ground, now this wouldn’t be that bad but it was in my basement and the
floor down there is pure concrete. fun nights, later that night party-boy stole a plate form Tim
Hortons (coffee shop) and was so proud of himself that he was sneaky as soon as we got outside
he was lookin at it in marvel and i yelled in a mentally challenged voice again "NO! Stealing's
bad!!!" and i smacked the plate out of his hand onto the ground and it broke
k this didn’t happen to me, it happened to my old buddy pedro. this is back when he was
in high school, anyways he was in detention with 3 of his buddies. the teacher told them to sit still,
be quiet and don’t cause any trouble while she went to go talk to another teacher just down the
hall (not too far) so as soon as she left they waited for a bit and started goofing off. they ended up
throwing a table across the room lol with a big CRASH the teacher comes running in the room
flipping out. she gives them shit and says she’s going back to the other teachers room as she turns
around there’s a trail of toilet paper stuck to her dress, with a big clump of shit on it
…
I have some shaving stories, but ill post em up with the “evening with rents” thread, for
some reason we always have interesting conversations about shit that he probably doesn’t wanna
hear about. But as of now, here are more stories from my bud pedro and john and hutch.
One night john and hutch and pedro, decide they wanna go to a party, being too drunk to
drive (although that never stopped em before) they decide not to drive. John comes up with a
good solution tho, (scary thing is, me being the complete jackass that he is [long lost brothers
perhaps?] I totally understood the reasoning behind this) he decides to steal a tractor, and drive it
to the part. So hutch (who’s got a bubba in his backpack [a mini keg]) and pedro and john (who’s
been huffin pleny a gasoline) jump in on this tractor and head off to the party.
“dude, you can only go 7 miles per hour, we’re not gonna crash” so they’re driving down
the road and get to close to the edge, which turns into a hill and john falls off the tractor rolling
down the hill. All you could hear was “ahhh *clang* ahhh *clang* ahhhh *clang*” the mini keg in
his backpack was the clanging as he rolled down the hill. Pedro ended up just bailing and flailing
off the road. And john road off into the night laughing and yellin.
Another night, with pure drunkness pedro decides he wants to drive this mini moped. So
he goes scootering around the street and goes to cross this intersection which hutch pulls in front
of him. All you could see was pedros surprised face and hutch’s screaming face as pedro drove the
moped right into the side of the car, and than managed to go up the side of the car and down. he
popped out existing dents and made new ones, and there were tire marks that ran from the driver
door, up to the roof and down to the bottom far corner of the back seat door. Lol pure fucking
hilarious
i just want to say that if chuck ever comes on this site, he should be immediately presented
with this thread, and told to read it, in its entirety, and no others. this is the best thread ever, and i
mean that. it's the only one where, i think, we live up to chuck worthy-ness with telling our stories.
it's a bunch of postcards from the past, like in fugitives and refugees. it's a glimpse at how each of
us has a spark, a flicker, a different creative or destructive or observant or whatever you want to
call it strain inside us that separates us from outside and connects us to each other in here. this
thread explains it all.
i have a story, now, too.
Nakedness and Other Art Forms
We're in the exhibit on the American Family when one by one, we see it.
"We" are Andy Hicks, Kim, Cory and two of Kim n Cory's friends from UMass, Erica and
Alexis. "It" is a sculpture bolted to the floor in the middle of the gallery, which is upstairs at the
Peabody-Essex Museum. But it is much, much more.
It is, as one would expect given the title of the exhibit, a family. Father, mother, son,
daughter in that order. The parents are in their mid-thirties, maybe. The children look to be about
five and two by my estimation. They are facing the rest of the gallery in a straight line, holding
hands, looking like three-dimensional paper dolls. They are Caucasian, with slightly differing
shades of hair, and utterly unremarkable but for two things: the children and parents are, though
of different proportions, the same height, and they are all vastly, vividly dramatically, inexplicably naked.
They aren't artistically naked. They aren't really pornographically naked either, though
Dad is remarkably well-endowed and both adults have a shock of strange, mismatched,
Brillo-looking pubic hair over their detailed genitals. The word for it is clinical. They look like
models for a medical text. Kim points out they have different navels, and seems to think this
means something. She also points out that the shades of their hair lighten from left to right, away
from Dad, whose hair is chestnut.
One by one, we mill back and forth around the gallery to pause in front of one work or
another, but we keep returning to the naked family. We take turns reading the plaque embedded
in the floor next to their smooth, bare feet. It devotes quite a bit of its time to talking about the
same-height concept. "But why are they naked???" I hiss in frustration. This plaque should explain.
Any idiot looking at this statue knows that this is the first and foremost question of anyone who
looks at it. The plaque refuses to answer. I realize I am angry at inanimate objects.
Why are they naked? It begins to seem like an eternal question. Why am I staring at Dad's
porcelain dick, caught in fleshy mid-swing? Why am I looking at the smooth round bellies of
naked children? Couldn't we get arrested for this? What is the point? The artistic or political
significance? The photograph of the girl in grass-stained underwear caught like an insect in the
headlights of her mother's station wagon, her younger sister frozen agape in the passenger's seat
and her mother looking at her stonily while one bag of the groceries lies dropped on the driveway,
that I can understand. Even the paint-on-cloth poster type thing blaring in huge black stenciled
letters SELL THE HOUSE SELL THE CAR SELL THE KIDS. The plastic polyurethane casting of a
pink pregnant woman, complete with see-through belly exposing a pink plastic fetus and dressed
in a pink Jackie O. suit, the silver casting of a mother's hand putting a spoon into a casting of the
mouth of the artist; these I can wrap my mind around. I stand in awe at the framed portraits of the
same four sisters, each one taken at the same time once a year since 1975 - you can watch them
grow old, frame-by-frame. I laugh at the over-the-top photos from the "Scarred for Life Portfolio."
But the naked family keeps gnawing at me, gnawing at all of us. We talk about them over dinner
at the Beer Works. I want to stop thinking about them, but I can't. It's beginning to piss me off.
Andy points out, rightly, that no matter what our opinion of the statues, they were still
what all of us are talking about, this long after the fact. We bandy about theories of the possible
meaning for their nakedness. I point out that while the father's and the little boy's penises were
dramatically different, beneath her strange pubes the mother's genitals looked as smooth and
simple as her baby daughter's. We wonder at this, wonder what we're missing. Kim brings up the
belly-button and hair-color thing again. We never do come up with an answer. Pretty soon we
manage to talk about other things.
Erica tells a story about neighbors of hers who had an obsession with a large plaster statue
of a rhinoceros. She says they dressed it up for holidays. "Did it have a big hairy dick?" I ask
flippantly, still sour on the subject of sculpture.
Erica shakes her head sheepishly, and Kim turns toward me, excited. "No, but I have a
related story," she exclaims. Cory, Andy and I look at her in combination shock, disgust, and
excruciating curiosity. She waits until Erica has finished talking about the G-rated rhinoceros
before she'll tell us any more.
The story is disappointing - Kim merely saw a horse peeing and was surprised at its
nether dimensions. Given her lack of experience with dicks of any kind (she's a lesbian), this is
understandable. But she took it a bit too far - "I want one," she says, giggling. Andy and I are
completely stunned.
"What?" she says. "It'd be great at a party."
A few more minutes tick by. "Oh, never mind," Kim says, waving a hand at us.
"Actually," I say, clearing my throat, "I have a related story."
Now it's everyone else's turn to look at me in dismay. "And it involves my sister," I add.
By now people's eyes are boring holes into me. I think they would literally pummel me if I didn't
go forward with the story now.
So here's the story: My sister gets home from her internship in Connecticut, where she
works at a veterinary clinic. She's studying to be an equine veterinarian. She asks if I want to see
her latest pictures, taken on her new digital camera, which are to be fed into the PowerPoint
presentation she has to give her academic advisors to get credit for the summer. I say sure. There's
a picture of a goat with a neurological disorder staring helplessly at the ceiling. There's a picture of
a caged goose who looks like he'd be flicking off the camera if he could. Then there's a picture of a
lab, with a microscope and a paint-by-numbers picture of a horse on the wall. On one green
formica counter is a large Tupperware-type container.
"What's this?" I ask.
"That's the lab," my sister answers, and then explains, "They have a stallion there, and they
collect him."
" 'Collect him'?" I ask gingerly.
"Yep," my sister answers. She presses the silver button on the back of the camera that flips
the pictures on the little screen. In the next several shots a magnificently muscled horse is being
led from a barn by a trainer. He has strange white pads on the side of his halter. "To keep it from
chafing him," my sister explains. This horse is apparently the Hugh Hefner of the horse world.
Another picture could be a postcard - the magnificent horse from the earlier pictures is
rubbing noses with a brown mare over a fence. "Aww," I say.
My sister explains. "They're teasing him with the mare there so he'll get erect."
Suddenly it's not so cute anymore.
She flips the picture. The horse's erection is of astounding dimensions. He's lunging, in
this photo, at what looks like a heavily mutated sawhorse. The mare is backed up with her ass
facing the stallion. It's obvious where he's trying to get to, and where he's going. You can imagine
the next picture, I'd imagine, as well. "Now he's mounting the dummy mare," my sister says
cheerfully.
But the next shot is by far the most horrifying - a woman is standing, looking back toward
the camera, with her hand stuffed in between the stallion and the 'dummy mare'. "What's she
doing?" I ask with a wince, knowing I don't want the answer before she gives it.
"Holding the AV."
"...what's... the... uh, what's AV stand for?"
"Artificial vagina." My sister beams. The next picture shows the spent stallion flopped and
snorting over the dummy mare. The woman and several other trainers are struggling to get her
arm loose without spilling any of what my sister terms "the sample."
Back at the Beer Works Andy's burger is too raw. Cory is actually eating fried pickles.
Everyone has paid rapt attention to my story, and laughs and wrinkles their nose appropriately,
but they drift off as I finish. "Anyone want one of my nachos?" Kim asks.
"Andy, I let them put olives on it for you," she scolds.
"Well, anyway," I trail off, and it's just like the statues. Just another thing, grotesque and
strange, not to understand, to pick at for a moment, to move on from.
This story is inspired by Kitty and in response to the Nine Inch Nails appreciation thread.
#47)
When I was thirteen all I knew about music I learned from Bobby Brown, Jodeci, Michael
Jackson and anything else played on the local pop radio's High Five at Nine. One morning, in the
car on my way to middle school with my hip 24-year-old half-sister all that changed.
Me at thirteen: 6'0", 100lbs, choppy longish hair, John Lennon glasses, perpetual bruising
from ritual beatings. Scared, angry, looking for answers or failing that, sympathy and someone to
rage with.
This one morning, my sister puts in a tape. It starts in the middle of a really messy drum
solo, happy accident messy. Odd.
I sit thinking about another day at school and how I should start failing tests on purpose
so people will like me. The music is all techno-march now, like some sort of neo-futuristic army's
rallying cry. "How is that fair I should have to suck to be cool?" I wonder. "What sort of system
allows that?"
And in a rare moment of clarity, an answer, or failing that, someone to rage alongside me I
hear "GOD IS DEAD AND NO ONE CARES. IF THERE IS A HELL, I'LL SEE YOU THERE."
I ask "Did that man just say 'God is dead'?" My half sister says "Yeah."
I say "That's heresy!" I was bookish for a teenager.
She says "That's what the song's called."
I say "Oh. Who is this band?"
She tells me it's a brand new album from Nine Inch Nails and it just came out a week ago.
It's called The Downward Spiral.
We're in the parking lot by this time. I hit eject on the tape player, steal the tape, slam the
door and run like hell.
I hid from her and avoided her for a month after that so I could keep it.
By the end of the month, I owned everything Nine Inch Nails had released.
Rents: just because I say you can lie does not give you permission to lie. Especially when I
tell you a good story like the getting knocked out on the towel dispenser story. So there.
Okay, I was thinking about this story this afternoon while I was at work. This is the story
of How I Got the Detention for my A- Sociology Project.
This happened earlier in the year, when I was going through a particularly difficult period
in my life. I was put into a project group with 4 other people: Courtney, Tim, Dave, and Michael
(who was sick the entire time). The group went badly, because, like I said, Michael was sick the
whole time, Courtney and Tim had just broken up, and some kind of bug had crawled really,
really far up Dave's ass and died in there.
The project was simply thus: in some way, whether it be through a skit, or a Powerpoint
presentation, or something, we were supposed to show an example of socialized behavior, and
one of unsocialized. Right after we got split into groups, Dave started to get ugly. He starting
saying stuff like I worshipped myself because of my intelligence, and that I expected everyone else
to put me on this pedestal, and that I thought my ideas were more valid than anyone else's, so we
should just do everything I said because I was so fucking SMART.
This went on for about two days, under the nose of the sosh teacher (who had a major
hearing problem). Obviously we got nothing done, and the day of the presentation was upon us.
And we had no idea what to do. We didn't know what we were going to do when we got up in
front of the class.
Meanwhile, the other groups are going, doing this stupid but slightly humorous skits, the
kind you would expect from a bunch of 18 year olds who hadn't practiced. All the while Dave is
sitting at the back of the classroom, muttering shit under his breath nonstop, about how retarded
the other groups were, what a bunch of pansies they were, how stupid their presentations were,
etc. Which I thought was rich from someone who had just spent the last couple of days trash
talking his group so violently they were never able to get anything done.
So. Our group was called up. And my brain went, "WOO! Jane! Here's an incredibly stupid idea that you must implement!" And so while the four of us are standing there in front of the
entire class looking awkward (because we still had no idea what to do) I said, "This is an example
of unsocialized behavior."
I turn to Dave and began talking to him in this incredibly rational voice. I don't remember
exactly what I said, because my brain was kind of on off, but it went something like this.
"Hey, Dave. What the hell is your problem? For real. The last couple of days all you've
done is give me shit, over and over again. You're just sitting there, bitching at me and all the other
groups, calling them pansies - "
Right here he tried to break in, but I wasn't having any of that, and said, "No, shut the hell
up. You know, I've known you for a few years now, and the entire time, it's been like fuck this and
fuck that, you don't do any real work..." blah blah blah, on like that for quite a while. When I got
all of my feelings out, I said to the rest of my group, "Do we have anything else?" No one did. So
we sat down.
I ended up receiving an hour's detention for the stunt, but only served 35 minutes of it,
because I explained the whole situation to the principal while I was in study hall, and he was on
my side. And since the projects were graded by the class instead of by the instructor, we ended up
getting an A- overall.
proto, you warm my cold little heart with your NIN story. mine is similar.
when i was 14, i lived in this little suburban existence, i was playing violin and singing
and into classical music at the time, so the hardest thing i listened to up until then was like, the
beatles. and we're talking, Hard Day's Night beatles, not even Sgt. Pepper beatles. one night, for
shits and giggles, i was watching mtv. it was reeeeeally late at night - i guess i've always been kind
of a vampire.
so this video came on. fucked up drum track, interesting cinematography, and then the
most insanely beautiful angelic looking man came on the screen. and he started singing with his
sensual mouth. and then he was tied up and blindfolded. and then he was spinning in the air. and
then he was licking the microphone. and then he was floating in midair playing a piano. the song,
and the video, and his face, reached out of the television and grabbed me by the head and it felt
like they'd smashed my brains out. by the end of the video, i was flabbergasted. they cut to
commercial and i sat there just staring at the tv and thinking for at least half an hour, then finally
went to bed.
the next day i was at my best friend kathleen's house, and she owned TDS. i looked
through the lyrics booklet, felt a weird rebellious jump to my pulse reading the lyrics, and she let
me borrow it. this was somewhere around february or march 1995.
july of 1995 she and another friend of mine chipped in (we were broke, ok? none of us
worked then) to buy me my own copy so kathleen could get hers back. they hid the "parental
advisory" sticker from my parents, who were strict about these things.
cut to 2000. i'm wandering around oxford, utterly, clinically, certifiably insane. seriously.
i'm wandering around with my discman stuck right next to my eardrums, and though i brought
other CDs, "the fragile" is all i listen to for the entire two months i'm there. i spend most of my time
in the school's computer lab on the nin.com message board.
cut to may 5, 2001. "fragility" tour. hartford. i'm jumping up and down, screaming. when
that concert started, with a behind-the-curtain-shadowbox rendition of "somewhat damaged" i
jumped off the ground. it felt like i didn't come back down until the next day. it was, almost literally, a religious experience. i felt like my head had cracked open. i couldn't talk for a week.
cut to now. i'm currently on my second copy of TDS because constantly playing it and
bringing it everywhere has worn out my original copy. i'll probably need a new fragile soon. i own
every halo, including the closure videos and the "and all that could have been" live DVD, VHS,
regular edition CD and special double edition CD set with the "still" disc included. every video
NIN has ever made is in my possession, either on my computer, on tape, or on disc. my room
(including my college dorm rooms throughout my years of college and not to mention my lockers
throughout high school) is practically wallpapered with pictures of trent, the band, and NIN
concert posters and promotional flats. i even have an official poster, with trent's face on it, which is
exceedingly rare. i have a bootleg of the "broken" movie on VHS. i have the bootleg and a
videotape off MTV at the time of their appearance at woodstock '94.
i am, to put it simply, obsessed. someday i'm going to be that aging hippie grousing about
how no music is as good as the grateful dead or the stones or whatever. only i'll be talking about
NIN.
another confession i have to make: i obsess in cycles. every once in a while I slide into NIN
obsession again, usually when everything else has turned to complete bullshit, as is generally the
case lately. usually after a week or so of listening to CDs without interruption, watching videos,
surfing websites, and hunting down and/or purchasing more memorabilia, I get the urge to write
Trent a letter. i have to have written dozens of drafts of this fucking thing in my years of NIN
fandom. some in my head, some on paper, now buried in notebooks and folders and inside books
somewhere, and once in a while, they even get to the level of being sealed in an envelope. one has
been addressed, sealed, and stamped. none has been sent. i just can't do it. for several reasons,
including: he damn well knows anything i'd have to gush at him concerning his music already;
plus my precious missive would probably end up in the hands of a cruel, insensitive and most
likely sexually frustrated female publicist who, with a smirk I can vividly picture, would simply
drop it in the trash; plus my letter may actually end up being so stupid as to inspire, on reflection,
the wish that it would end in the wastebasket of aforementioned publicist, but it would instead
find its way to the hands of Trent, who would read my unworthy driveling with bemusedly raised
eyebrows and then direct said publicist to, after throwing it away, send me one of those terrible
form letters and fake-autographed pictures; and finally the thought that ultimately my anxieties
over publicists and wastebaskets are extremely unhealthy and ultimately stalker-esque.
so yeah. i'm still fucking insane.
Posted by succotash moon on 07-13-2003 09:04 PM:
Okay, I’m going to try my hand at this storytelling business although I’m curious as to
how honest is too honest. I’ll try my best not to make anyone too uncomfortable, but a little discomfort will be fine I’m sure.
A couple years back I was enduring my weekly dose of facial electrolysis, which I will
always remember as the most awful form of torture ever conceived. At the time I was pretty
broke, living in Seattle and working fulltime. Now, my wages were just enough to get me by, the
cost of living is insane, so I was having to fund my torture sessions with my credit cards, which to
this day are still max’d out and probably will be until I win the lottery.
Once a week I would head up the hill and get my face zapped for an hour, which in
comparison is very light; I’ve heard of some people doing four hours at a time. Anyways, the
classic thing everyone says is that it feels just like getting stung by a bee, except on your face, and
repeated…a lot. Although I’ve never been stung by a bee, I’d have to say it sounds like an accurate
assessment. It really, really fucking hurts. It feels like someone is sticking a red-hot needle into
your skin and holding it there for a couple seconds. What it is exactly is just a small needle that
sends current(not to be confused with currant, which would be messy) into the hair follicle,
burning the root and cauterizes the follicle so hopefully no hair returns in its place. Sometimes you
could actually hear the follicle sizzling on your face, it was totally fucked up. The whole process
takes, depending on how hairy your face is, between two and five hundred hours to complete, at
between forty and eighty dollars an hour. Anyways, I only endured roughly twenty hours, mainly
because I a) am a wimp, and b) was broke.
Anyways, my administrator of electrical horror allowed her clients to bring whatever
music helped them relax, so I brought Radiohead’s OK Computer. She found my choice to be a bit
odd, although in comparison with the new agey music she put on when I forgot my CD, well let’s
just say I’ve never been so close to throwing myself out of a window. Anyways, after about a
dozen hours of having Radiohead as the soundtrack to my pain, I realized it was starting to have a
strange Clockwork Orange effect on me. I couldn’t listen to the opening lines of the album without
my stomach dropping about three feet. The prospect of one of my fave albums causing me great
distress was enough for me to change up albums, so I switched to The Smiths’ Meat is Murder.
This didn’t help me to really relax at all, but it didn’t matter, shortly I would stop going.
During my last session, the pain got to be too much and for the first time, I broke down
during the session and started crying. The tech asked me if I wanted to stop, but I kept telling her
no, tears rolling down my cheeks. Finally she just stopped and said “That’s it, you’re done for
today.” Later that week I called her, telling her I was broke and had to cancel temporarily, and
never went back again.
Since then I've had some laser, which helped with most of my hair, and now I simply
pluck the stragglers. When friends happen to catch me plucking my upper lip and go, “Oh my
god, how do you do that, doesn’t that hurt?” I just laugh; they don’t know the half of it.
To this day, I still get a slight sinking feeling in my chest when I hear OK Computer.
*The Usual Suspects and Planet of the Apes Spoilers (not big ones though)*
k, so I was visiting my friend in SoCal my frosh year. She went to school at Loyola
Marymount in LA. She got a some friends to take us to a few famous beaches, ones that have been
in movies. For example, I've seen where they buried Benicio Del Toro's character in The Usual
Suspects. I've seen where Charleton Heston damned the dirty apes in front of the statue of liberty
in Planet of the Apes. That long, flat, pretty beach in City of Angels? Been there too.
Anyway, we were done on the beaches and were heading back to the school. We're
zooming along the highway in this actor kids PT Cruiser and we whip past this nice Rolls Royce.
Nobody really says much of anything and then this girl in the back says, "uh, guys? I think we just
passed Kelsey Grammar."
So the kid slams on the brakes until we come parallel with the Rolls and, sure enough,
there he is. Kelsey chugging along in his pretty, really expensive car with his hot wife in the passenger seat, whom I was informed suffers from irritable bowel syndrome. God makes pretty girls
suffer in other ways. We smile and wave, he smiles and waves back. He pulls ahead and I whip
out my camera and say, "I wanna goddam picture," and hand my camera to the kid in the front
seat.
Ok, so I was a little more polite than that. I actually asked him if he wouldn't mind taking
a picture. The driver guns it and we pull up next to Kelsey again, camera at the ready Kelsey busts
out laughing, smiles and waves some more, then tries to lose us by pulling ahead again. That's
when we get the bright idea to pursue, this time with signs. A few of the kids are actors, lamenting
over the fact they don't have their resumes. We find a piece of paper and think of what to write.
We finally come to a conclusion. "Fraiser, your wife is hot."
It was beautiful.
We get through the "Fraiser, your wife" before we reach our exit and have to pull off. A
little disappointing, but such is life.
time for a story, bad and insignificant as it is, because this thread is not only hijacked but
also heading towards tall buildings (hmm. Very bad taste here. sorry in advance).
When I was still in scotland *nostalgic sigh* we were having a sort of spontaneous greek
night at the flat with ouzo and nibbles. We were already a bit intoxicated when a Scottish guy
came through our window, holding a bottle of wine and asking to join us. we found it rather
funny. then he called his friend in as well. Said friend had a mobile like mine. Soon we realized
that it was not such a good idea to let strangers in, particularly as we've had several incidents of
burglary etc in the residence and we tried to find a way to ask them to leave. Their girlfriends
standing out of the window and yelling at us were a pretty good excuse. they went out, a huge
row with the girlfriends ensued, during which, strangely, they hurled abuse at innocent us. We
responded with "It's not OUR fault you can't keep a boyfriend!" and than we sort of went into
hiding because the bitches were drunk and looking dangerous. Later that evening I tried to locate
my phone. Not in my room. Not in the kitchen. Searched the room again, thinking it was somewhere in the mess. Nothing. I called from my other phone and it was switched off. Probably the
guy took it for his own and when he realized the mistake decided to keep it. I cancelled the connection, notified the police (up until the airport incident, I adored the police and it was mutual.
With our mediterranean stupidity, and trusting hospitality, we were their best customers...) and
got a new phone from vodafone as I had it insured - planning to "lose" it and get a new one, I guess
what happened served me right.
The next few days we found out that most likely those two were responsible for stealing a
couple more mobiles and a wallet from an apartment next door.
Two weeks later, we spotted them walking out of our house again. We called the police
but it was the girl next door who pursued them with her car. They got arrested. of course I didn't
get my phone back, but the thief did not get the lighter he forgot at our place either. Not exactly
even, but still. At least I was not put in jail.
Not really a story, just a collection of human types. It was a flat for seven people: seven
ensuite bedrooms and one kitchen/living area. Mark, Jamie, Jen and Liz were Scottish. Alex was
Welsh. Suzie was invisible. Yep, that's right I never saw her once during the semester I stayed
there. We had been wondering about her for weeks, starting to discredit the words of those who
claimed to have seen her, in an 'Elvis spotted in grocery store in Alabama' way, and finally we
gave up. maybe she had moved out, but her stuff was still inside. Alex claims she came in the end
of the semester to get the things she had left behind and that they were just a bag. Whatever.
Jamie was from some obscure place west of Glasgow and his accent was incomprehensible at best. It so happened that he was the one to show me around the house and I totally panicked. This was how Scottish people spoke? Later a friend from Edinburgh confided in me that she
couldn't understand him either. Felt much better. despite the fact that it took me months to
understand rather than guess what he was talking about, we got on really well and he has been a
veritable angel to me.
Mark was a Highlander, the strong silent type, and i could understand him when he
spoke. He, Jamie, and Jen's boyfriend since the dawn of time, Graig, would fill up the fridge with
beer each morning and drink it while smoking weed at night. I had room in the fridge only to keep
a bottle of milk and i developed an alcohol abuse problem with those guys (I'd drink at least a
bottle of wine each night with them, then stumble off to my room) and a slight addiction to passive joint smoking (only tried actually smoking pot on my birthday there - smoking a whole night
and nothing happened.)
I had a non-relationship with Alex and when that ended I shagged Mark when he was not
shagging Liz, who had a psycho boyfriend. She was very attractive and into horseback riding. Her
laughter was like a horse neighing. That boyfriend was manic-depressive and persona-non-grata
in all unis and residences because he was dangerous. I recall lying on my bed with 40C fever
during the first days, listening to angry voices, screams and bottles smashing against the wall,
wishing my mom was there... He would not take his medicine, or mix it with alcohol and get
violent. the porters would make random checks to see if he was in the flat and Liz used to smuggle
him through the kitchen window.
He gave Mark a black eye once, and not because he knew about him and Liz. It took me
four days to realize Alex was my flat mate. I would see him around, but since most of the people
around proved to be visitors, I supposed he didn't live with us. For some reason he never
introduced himself to me.
see? No story at all.
#47)
once had a woman, while I was gainfully and shamefully employed at the returns desk of
a TJ Maxx, try and return flesh colored underwear, elastic all blown out and so skidmarked it
looked like Amtrak had run through them.
In the end, the manager who I had to call and have deal with her incredibly irate behavior caved in
and let her get store credit for them. This made me look like a fool, which is to say nothing of the
fact I had to take the soiled things with my own hands and lob them into the garbage.
Posted by Michael on 08-04-2003 01:47 AM:
Oh, I think I'll add another "What Michael has eaten" story.
These guys are fucking around during my senior year one morning. They got all these
gummy bears and they're throwing them in the air and trying to catch them in their mouths.
Needless to say, many gummy bears were wasted on the ground. I have little shame and I don't
get sick easily, so I proceeded to take these gummy bears on the ground, cause I love them so
much. And eat them. Well, the noticed, of course and started making fun of me, as if I cared. I kept
eating then after I had finished and was walking away, they threw one at the back of my head I
turned and picked it up to eat and while I was facing them, the threw another and lo and behold,
caught the thing in my mouth. Hot diggity damn, they threw more and more at me for me to catch
in my mouth. I caught a lot and was proud cause I never was able to do this before. Guess it's just
cause I like them so much. Then one of my friends barged in and I beat him with a stick till he left,
but barely turned in time to see a gummy bear. I picked it up off the ground and saw a pebble
stuck inside of it. I still wonder what they had done to the other bears.
Just when I thought my days of dealing with horrible people on the phone were over...
So I have a new job. I passed my drug test, in other words. Now I have a hankering for
some weed to celebrate. Ironic, yes, but beside the point.
Anyway.
It is an unwritten rule in any workplace that the lowest person on the proverbial salary
totem pole answers the phone. In my entry-level job as a sales assistant, this would be me (for my
department, at least).
We have a fake salesman who has a voice mail and an extension and everything. I check
his voicemail and handle incoming calls for him. He is always "out of the office for the week".
After a while another salesman will handle the person if it's an inquiry, and theoretically the
customer forgets about the fake guy. If they call to be removed from "Jack's" fax/email list, I handle that too.
But sometimes they get pissed. And get real creative. And call the sales dept. instead of
"Jack’s” extension (are you with me so far?). Then I answer the phone.
Now, there is a code at the bottom of every fax or email that the person has to give me so I
can enter it in the database for it to be taken off the list. I don't know why it has to be so complicated - probably to make it tougher for people not to get our messages, and therefore wear them
down. or something. i know nothing about sales; after all, i'm nothing but an out-of-work journalist, so whatever. anyway, if the person doesn't have the code, they can also give me their fax
number. but they prefer to have the code. for some reason.
well, two days ago (my job is, surprisingly, extremely demanding so far, and between that
and various other commitments i don't have the time for this board as much as i used to - probably
a good thing, but that's why i didn't tell this story right away, but rest assured i thought of the
"emperor" thread immediately), i get a call from one of those few people not satisfied to leave a
message for "Jack." But she wasn't just overly concerned with being on the list. She was hell bent
on punishing us for sending her a fax.
Which, to review, is: just one sheet of paper. Highly portable and easily deposited in a
"vertical file" And, as I have already explained, not all that difficult to stop from arriving, if you're
really that serious about it. But I digress.
"HOW did you get our fax number?" she demands.
Is her whole company in the witness protection program? I wonder. Who cares how we
got the fax number.
"I'm really not sure, ma'am, I only handle removals from the list," I tell her soothingly.
"Now I can take you off the list right away if you just give me the code at the bottom of the page."
"Well, this code is illegible," she says with disgust.
"I see," I say, my voice dripping with sympathy (my phone technique was perfected at the
globe - it may suck to have to speak to idiots with respect, but i've learned it saves you time and
energy in the long run). "Do you think you could at least try to guess at what it says?"
he explodes. "WHY did you send me this in the first place?"
"Well, Jack probably thought you might be interested in our product. I'm sorry if you're
not. But I need the code if I'm to take you off the list."
"I just don't understand where the hell you get off sending me this shit," she rants. "And
WHERE did you get my fax number from? I want to know and I want to know now!!"
"Well, do you advertise your business?"
"Yes." She huffs.
"Well, we probably got it from the telephone directory."
"Well, you do NOT have permission to send us this crap. And if you continue to do so, I
will not hesitate to sue you."
Sue us??!?!?!? I'd hate to see what this woman does to telemarketers. Or, for that matter,
wrong numbers.
"Okay. I would like nothing more," I say truthfully, "than for you to stop receiving
unwanted faxes. But to accomplish that, I need the code at the bottom of the fax page."
"I already told you it didn't come out."
So we are at an impasse. This woman wants off the list RIGHT FRIGGIN NOW but she
doesn't want to give me any information.
Then I make a fatal error. I say, "Okay then, well if I can just get your fax number, I can - "
But I don't get the chance to say "delete it that way also," (which, if you think about it,
makes sense - her information is already in the database anyway; i need to know something that
will direct me to her listing in the database before i can remove her) because the woman literally
screams "NO!!!!" and hangs up on me.
Oh, to be a fly on the wall when she keeps receiving faxes.
Posted by succotash moon on 08-10-2003 02:30 AM:
Please don’t ask me what this is supposed to be, I just got bored and this is what came out.
Thought I’d post it here with the rest of the insanity.
Gender Transition, or how to save twenty dollars a month on your car insurance.
In the world of auto insurance, nobody gets screwed over more than young men under 25,
but there are options available. Perhaps a little unorthodox, gender transition is by far the most
unique way to, not only save money on car insurance, but alienate friends, get disowned, get
evicted, fuck lots of strangers in hotel rooms, explore substance abuse, get your ass kicked, grow
tits, and maybe, if your lucky, come out the other side happier. Here’s a primer on getting started
down the path of self-discovery and lower premiums.
First off, you’ll need a therapist. It really doesn’t matter if they’re any good or not, because
you probably already know what you want by now. Unfortunately everything in gender
transition requires a letter from a therapist, including changing the sex designation on your
license. Now, I’d personally ask around and find out who the “rubber stamp” therapist is. This is a
therapist who asks few questions and will write you a letter for anything.
Now, if you’re going to change you’re sex designation, you’ll have to actually start living
as the opposite sex and probably need to be on hormones. Now of course, most GP’s will require,
you guessed it, a letter from a therapist. Once you get your rubber stamp to give you a hormone
letter, you’re set. Your doc will probably set you up with some oral ‘mones to begin with. You can
start with injectable estrogen, but if you don’t react well to it, you’re kind of fucked, so start with
orals. Premarin is the brand with name recognition, and is the easiest to absorb. Now, the whole
deal about the horses(remember Invisible Monsters) is all true, so if you have strong animal rights
feelings, then try estradiol. It’s synthetic and although not exactly as effective as Premarin, it’s
cheaper and usually a fine substitute. Of course there are creams and patches and everything
else(some girls crush their pills and snort them for better absorption), but I personally suggest
orals, it’s just easier.
Now, you’ll also need to take an anti-androgen. Spironolactone is the most common and
readably available. Now boys, the Premarin may be the stuff that makes you cry at the movies, but
it’s the Spiro that dries up your manhood. You become impotent very quickly and after six months
the effects are irreversible. You’ll notice it’s much harder to achieve an erection and although you
can still orgasm, you no longer cum, which makes yanking it so much more cleaner. Your testicles
will shrink, as will your sex drive, and if you don’t get your dick hard often, it will as well. The
skin around it will shrink, which can make getting an erection awfully painful, and if you’re
pursuing sexual reassignment surgery you’ll need as much skin as possible down there, so it’s
advisable to masturbate frequently to keep the skin loose.
Other effects of hormones include softer skin with a more even tone, less body hair
growth, tits (if you’re fairly young, expect one cup size smaller than your mother or smaller), hips,
loss of muscle, and increases in fat. Also, the more you begin to see yourself as a female, the more
your sexual attitudes will change and possibly your orientation as well. Lots of girls, who as men
dug girls, found afterwards that they were very attracted to men. Also, you’ll probably have to
sign a release form from your doctor, just in case something bad happens as a result of the
hormones. Bad things that can happen include embolisms, breast cancer, stroke, and liver failure.
Okay, now you’ve got a therapist, you’ve started hormones, and you’re ready to tell the
world about how you feel. Now, if you’re living in a city that doesn’t have gender expression
included in its anti-discrimination laws, then you risk losing your job and your apartment. If you
do live in a more progressive city with laws protecting gender expression then rejoice, for you’ll
only have to deal with your family disowning you and your friends deserting you. Actually, most
families come around to the idea within a year or two, with friends usually disappearing forever.
Also, unless you want to look like a girl and sound like a guy, you had better start some
kind of voice training. More than anything, changing your voice just takes time. Work on it long
enough and hard enough, and eventually you’ll only sound partially like a guy.
Now you’re out to the whole world and you need some friends. Of course the only real
options open to a social outcast like yourself are support groups and gay clubs. Support groups
are great for seeing just how fucked up everyone else is (just a side note: you’re just as fucked up
as they are, you just don’t see it yet), and clubs are great for discovering the only two friends you
really have, alcohol and sex.
You’ll also be introduced to the wonderful world of Tranny Chasers, which are men who
dig, you guessed it, trannies. Chasers are pretty varied in personality, yet common in their love for
chicks with dicks(other phrases you soon find puke inducing: best of both worlds, slut with nuts,
she-male, tranny, doll with balls, “I’m not gay, I swear!”). It’s important that, if you’re going to
sleep with a chaser, you a) make sure he is “cool”, meaning he isn’t going to have a homophobic
episode and beat the living shit out of you, and b) know what he likes. For instance, if you don’t
really want to fuck some 40yo guy up the ass who swears, you guessed it, he’s not gay, then you
really shouldn’t be hooking up with a bottom or sub. Also, beware of guys who seem to be really
into power, as they are going to be more interested in hurting you, which unless that’s your kink,
you’re going to have a very, very bad time. And remember, no matter what a Chaser says, he is
going to eventually wanna suck your dick, and if you ever do get rid of it, he’ll probably leave for
good, so don’t fall in love.
If it turns out you’re fairly hot and you’re good in the sack, then you might get the
opportunity to make some cash sleeping with a lot of seriously gross dudes and nice married men
looking for something “different”. The money’s great, however the mental anguish isn’t. It’s
usually at this point you make some quality time with your other best friend, booze, who you now
know intimately. Whatever money you don’t blow on booze and drugs you can spend on the
torture we call electrolysis and laser hair removal to remove your five o’clock shadow.
Eventually, if you’re lucky, you wake up one morning and resolve to give all that shit up.
Of course you’ll revert back once in a while, but for the most part you fly straight. You find an
average boring job where some people know you’ve got a dick, and some don’t. You turn into just
another nobody walking down the street, and it feels so good. You try to hook up with straight
guys, but once they find out your situation their reaction varies from bad to worse. You’re not
very optimistic, but you’re hopeful and dare I say, happy.
Now, you’re officially living fulltime as a female and, if you’re living in one of the more
progressive states, you get the opportunity to change that little M on your license to an F, even
though you haven’t had SRS yet. Now you call your insurance agent, let them know the good
news and they’ll change your sex on their records. Shortly thereafter, you’ll have a little bounce in
your step, not at all weighted down by the extra cash in your pocket, as you’re saving up to
twenty dollars a month on your premium.
I’ll bet you never knew it could be so simple.
Damn Succotash, what's it like writing all that out and having someone just say I like your
avatar? It definitely reminds me of the scene in IM where Shannon's parents are going on and on
about sex and Shannon is like "pass the peas please" or whatever.
My friend's father did gender transition when he was 60ish and had already raised 6 kids.
He basically transitioned into a Golden Girl with lavender leisure suits and comfy pumps and
scarves. The kids themselves were a little divided about how they felt. Its been four years and its
all worked out except for one kid that still won't talk to him. And his ex wife. She took it really
hard. She felt like their entire life together had been a sham.
Its interesting that with that kind of hormone therapy your sexual orientation might
change. That I did not know. Very interesting in all. Its a well told story, humorously told, but
kind of a public service announcement too. Lots of information about Gender Transition. Masturbating to keep the skin on your dick from shrinking was a new one for me too. Thanks for
writing all that up.
#54)
Ah, white boys.
A long time ago, when I was a cook in a restaurant, I worked in a kitchen full of black
men. I was the token caucasian. We all got along great. It was one big happy family. And of
course, one day when we were all comfortable enough with each other someone made some sort
of race joke. This caused hysterical laughter. And from then on, it just got more and more offensive thus more and more funny.
Apparently, the way what's funny works is this. Your body hears something, the premise
or set up of a joke, say. This premise has to do with something dangerous like religion, sex or race
or something like an intelligence test like "why did the chicken cross the road?" When your brain
realizes it's being prodded like this, flight or fight chemicals coarse into your bloodstream. This is
the same reaction you'll have at a scary movie. When the punchline comes, your body now knows
that it doesn't require those chemicals- having not had to fight or flee and not figured out the
"intelligence test." It still has all those chemicals though, and has to do something with them, so it
uses them to compress the lungs quickly forcing short bursts of air and stupid facial expressions
out of you. This is why we laugh, why things are funny.
Thus, the more dangerous something is, the more potential it has to be funny.
So in this kitchen, this galley, we got pretty personal. When I was in the head cook position, "G" one of the other cooks would call the galley "the Amistad" and lead everyone, including
me, in signing slave songs. And we would laugh and laugh.
Lomack, a chubby and papa bearlike black man would ask me something and I would say
"I can't understand you. Could you maybe de-ebonify that?" And he'd laugh and laugh and laugh.
And one day, they all discovered the fryer filters. To filter the oil in a deep fryer, you pour
it through a white cone like a coffee filter. This collects all debris while allowing the oil to drip
back into the vat. These white cones, discovered Lomack and "G", also work well as Ku Klux Klan
hats when they have eyeholes cut into them.
The more danger, the funnier the joke. So they would make them, and I would have to
wear them, and we would all laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh.
One day when, I bought my white 99 Alero, which they called "a black man's car" they
told me that I would never again have to wear the fryer filters- I was an honorary black man. They
gave me a Muslim name- Jarbaros Jarbaros Binkaron after a Boondocks comic strip.
And we all laughed ourselves silly since I'm about as far from militant black Muslim as
they come. I loved those guys and they loved me and our Jerry Springer race hating antics were
the high point of every day.
To the point: I haven't seen them in a year or so. Last week, I was at a wedding and I saw
one of them, Eszabia. And Zay and I chatted and he gave me Lomack's phone number and told me
that "G" was still working at a restaurant in the area. So I went to visit "G" the following day.
As I pulled into the parking lot, there was "G", walking towards a car, smoking the same
cigarillo he always was. And I pulled up in my Alero, and rolled down the window and screamed
"G, what the FUCK is up man??"
He stared blankly.
"What the fuck, dude, I haven't see you in years."
He continued to stare blankly.
"G. Don't you remember me?"
Staring, but with a look like he's maybe solved a problem
"Oh, G..." he starts in.
"...or do I need to be wearing a fucking Klan hat?"
This provoked more of a response that staring. Head bucking and eye popping sound
about right. He did not look pleased. In fact, he looked I would imagine someone receiving a
high-colonic would look.
"Oh, fuck," he says, "You must be looking for "G"- Gerry. I'm Danny, his twin brother."
I have just told an unfamiliar black man, for all intents and purposes, that I am in the
KKK.
"J-j-j-j-j-just t-tell him Ch-Chester stopped by" I say.
Because what else can I say?
Was reminded of that story today. Three years ago, we got a puppy. "We" being a friend
of mine from uni at whose house I had all but moved in, and me. Her aunt's bitch had given birth
to a litter of puppies, and she 'lent' us one until it was old enough to give away. It was breathtakingly cute, a pure bred Greek Shepherd dog, a rare breed of intelligent, loyal and beautiful
dogs. It also happened that from a litter of adorable puppies, we picked the most wicked and
bad-mannered, well, BITCH, ever. Carmen - that was her name - had the nasty habit of biting to
hurt, showed affection to nobody, and was a pain in the ass. She also, like any puppy, had the
tendency to shit everywhere, eat everything that she should not, and escaping any kind of confinement. Additionally, she was a fucking little voyeur (or would that be voyeuse?), sneaking into
my friend's bedroom to watch her having sex with her boyfriend. One afternoon, everybody was
in the living room, including my friend's kid cousin who had come to see the progress of the dog.
Carmen, thrilled that she had more audience, started to shit on the living room floor. Several pairs
of eyes watched in fascinated horror, as she shat one used black condom. Someone found an
excuse to remove the cousin before she got a chance to see that. Then Carmen shat one more
condom. And one more. And then she wagged her tail happily, with an expression akin to a
snigger, obviously basking in our disapproval...
Posted by moe.ron on 08-12-2003 02:03 PM:
i've been thinking about stupid strangers lately, and was reminded of this story about
driving in boston. for those of you who've never done this, i wouldn't recommend it, ever. take the
t, take the bus, or walk.
anyway. i'm driving down this three-lane road, and this guy in a pickup truck is driving
in the middle lane, to the right of me. he's way over in his lane, and not only am i disgusted to find
him gawking at me, he's dangerously close to hitting my car. we come to a stoplight, and i hear
"hey! hey!!" to which i ignore, and turn up my radio. the light turns green, and i'm off. i pull into
the same lane as mr. pickup, in order to avoid further comments from him, and because
eventually, i'm going to want to make a right. he's a few cars back, so i promptly forget about him.
a few seconds later i hear "you cut me off, you bitch" which startles me into looking directly at the
dirtbag, who is again, to the right of me. don't know how he did it, but he managed to jockey his
POS truck right up my ass again. so, i promptly flip him off. he starts screaming "you're gonna flip
ME off?? you stupid bitch, nobody flips me off!!" to which i flip him off again and mouth FUCK
YOU. this sends him into a new level of rage; seriously, his face turned purple. he's trying to pull
all these "cool aggressive driver" moves, which are just stupid as we're in some pretty hefty, yet
moving traffic. just then, my cell phone rings, and as i answer it, he's yelling "you CUNT!! you
calling the COPS????" and i'm just laughing at him now, because his rage is funny to me. guess the
thought of the cops finding him, and my laughing was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's
back, because he races ahead of me, and throws a cup of soda out the window. just as the soda's
flying back, someone cuts me off, and gets the soda all over their windshield. there was ice, too.
just as i'm making my turn, i see mr. pickup yelling out the window to the other guy, and his
wife/girlfriend/whatever shaking her fist, brandishing her cell phone.
Posted by Rents on 08-15-2003 11:07 PM:
What the FUCK is this doing on the second page? Huh? Somebody want to explain it?
There should be no shortage of stories from this crowd. I refuse to accept it. Ahem.
Now, this is going to sound like something out of a sitcom, but I assure you it actually
happened. When I'm not up at school, I live in southwest Washington. We get excited about snow.
If we plan a trip to a nearby mountain for a fun filled day of snowing, people get irritable easily if
there are delays. And, of course, there are always delays. Some pals of mine and I had been
planning this trip for a week. We had a caravan of 3 cars going up to Mt. Hood for a ton of fun. We
had Brian driving one car, Jenny driving another, and Rachel driving the third. Now, how the hell
we ever got Rachel to GO, let alone drive is a good question. She hates the snow and hates driving
in the snow even more. She just wanted to get it over and done with. But first, Brian had to get his
tires changed, a process long overdue according to his folks. What was supposed to take an hour,
barely cutting into our trip, ended up taking 3 hours, severely setting back our departure. People
were getting angry, especially Rachel...(menacing music)
We finally get up there just as it's starting to get dark. Rachel's even more pissed 'cause her
car is slip-sliding all over the damn place. We finally park and she's in such a fog of fury that, once
everyone is out of her car, locks the doors and slams hers shut...with the keys still inside. There's a
sudden flurry of swear words and tears mixed with the snow. I can't help but laugh my ass off,
and make the mistake of trying to comfort Rachel as I do this. Struggling like a salmon against the
current of the mighty Columbia, I dodge her flailing arms, a few of her slaps finding their target,
and manage to pin down her arms until she stops crying. A bunch of the kids are like, "Screw you
guys, we're going sledding." Doors are locked and shut after people double and triple check for
their keys. Brian, Rachel, and I stick around the cars, stuttering over ideas as to what to do first,
call the parents or call the locksmith. But first, Brian had a "brilliant" idea.
"My brother said that one time his car keys worked for one of his friends cars. It was a
completely different make and model too." Brian runs over to Rachel's car and attempts to open it
with his own keys. It's a little stubborn, but he continues to twist, for some reason believing that it
will actually work if he just turns harder. Snap. Brian holds up his busted key, the other half still in
the door. Rachel's tears begin anew and I begin laughing even harder than I did before, attempting
again to calm the storm brewing in Rachel's fists.
Brian immediately gets on the phone to call the 'rents. We're all standing around his now
inaccessible car dumbly as one of the girls who'd taken off for the hills earlier approached. She
reaches for the car door and, very much to our surprise, it opens. Too shocked to say anything, we
continue to stare, now with our mouths hanging agape. Brian, still on the phone, is oblivious to
what's happening. The girl grabs a tissue, locks the door, and slams it shut before any of us can
utter a word. Once more, Rachel is in tears, though now laughing at the same time, and I'm on the
ground, tears nearly streaming down my own face from laughing so damn hard. Brian turns to see
what's going on but only gives us a confused look. Rachel and I agree not to tell him a thing.
Finally, parental phone conversations are ended, locksmiths are called, and doors are
opened. We even had a race to see who's locksmith would open Rachel's car faster, the man with
the lockpick set (Brian's locksmith) or the man with the slimjim (Rachel's locksmith). But we
couldn't go without playing in the snow just a little bit. I mean, we'd been up there for half the day
and had accomplished little to no fun. So we grab some ice balls (snow balls weren't really
possible in the parking lot) and begin hurling them at each other. Brian makes an impossible shot
into the backseat of one of our cars and pegs one of the kids taking his boots off. The kid gets out
of the car and concocts his own ice ball with extra ice and chucks it at Brian. It seems to be going
directly for his face, but Brian ducks at the last second, exposing unhappy Rachel. Her head snaps
back as the crystal ball gives her a mean hook to the left eye. She goes limp like a cooked noodle
and down hard. Again with the tears, again with me laughing, though now I realize that actual
pain involved with this incident requires me to significantly hold back until it's public knowledge
that she's alright. And so we head on down the road, Rachel hold ice to her eye as she speeds away
from our day of "fun."
P.S. The lockpick guy won. Rachel still owes me some cookies, but I let it slide.
Posted by Rents on 08-20-2003 09:36 PM:
A short 'un.
Last time I worked at the local amphitheater, I was out putting up various 50 lb. signs
necessary for traffic to move "smoothly" (my ass) with my coworker, John the ex-military, ex-con,
redneck with no front teeth. We were cruising along in a flatbed truck, heading for a road we
blocked off to through traffic where a police car is now between us and our duties. John leans out
the window.
*Texas drawl* "Excuse me, sir, but we need to get through and finish up with our work..."
*draws his head back in the window* "... you cocksuckin', motherfuckin' pig."
I was a little taken aback, but it was no big deal. It just seemed to come out of the blue.
(Later he explained that he didn't really care for cops much after they dragged him out of his car at
gunpoint). Moments after his little outburst, he belched rather quietly and quickly covered his
mouth, giving me an embarrassed look. "Oh, excuse me!" I couldn't help but chuckle to myself.
Posted by Michael on 08-20-2003 09:43 PM:
The first time I got drunk and the first time I got stoned were the same time, and I was
pretty gone. I spent most of the waking hours that night with my friends while I kept pondering
the effect of the media and entertainment on people reactions to alcohol and drugs, wondering
how much of what I was doing was natural or simply done because it was what I felt was the
normal reaction. I often branched of into how we are influenced by the world around us and I
really embarrassed myself because it's in my nature (I think) to think too much, and I just talked
the whole night like that.... except for when i just stared at stuff.
So, I found this on the third page and decided to post.
I went to ozzfest and it was fun. There was moshing and crowd surfing and nudity and
weed and most importantly, music. But there were sunburns and sore muscles and scrapes and
bruises afterwards.
But it is the enjoyable kind of pain. Like a memento. (Speaking of mementos, I got one.
Band on the second stage - which kicked ass - threw their picks and drumsticks out after there
sets. I got a guitar pick from a band called, of all things, Memento)
Anyway, while at the second stage, me and a few friends got up kind of close. We were
enjoying the music when I saw a glass of liquor in this guys shorts. I turn to my buddy Thomas
and say, "This guy has a glass of liquor in his back pocket." I pointed this out just in case he ended
up too drunk to notice I could get away with it. My friend looks in my direction, but behind me
and upwards. I notice all my friends are looking at the same place, so i slowly turn to see the same
man, only he seems much larger now, staring down at me. i will call him Gigantor (like in Speed).
He looked like the kind of guy that would still be in the marines except he had killed too many
people. And enjoyed it. Too break the ice, I yell over the band and crowd, "Good band." He
responds with, "If you go near my pocket I will fucking kill you." This frightened me very much.
As if I wasn't already. I then begin saying, "I would never, ever, go anywhere near your pocket,
sir," very innocently Since I was the only person who could hear him, I had to reflect his comments
to all my friends, who were also very frightened. Except for one of our guys, who was huge (I call
him a giant) but still short compared to this fella. Gigantor had to be 6' 8" of pure muscle. And
tattoos Worse part was, everyone wants to get to the front of the crowd, so I constantly ended up
near this guy. He was constantly watching me. I'm sure he missed a lot of the music.
I don't think I have posted this before, so there goes. Not a great story, but this thread in
page 4 is just too sad for me... In the old days that I roamed the Highlands and the Lowlands of
Scotland, I used to go to a nice Spanish restaurant in Glasgow with my mate Brian. The food was
excellent, the sanghria divine, the decor lovely and the atmosphere friendly. Every time we were
in Glasgow, we went there for lunch or dinner. And we knew that no matter what we ate, we
would drink sanghria. Pitchers and pitchers of the stuff.
So, one afternoon, after our shopping is done, we go to the restaurant and a waitress
we've never seen before, comes to take our order. I ask her to bring us a pitcher of sanghria for a
start. She brings the wine and the menus, turns to Brian, and tells him: "Are you going to let her
order your food for you as well?"
We are puzzled and think that she's a stupid bitch, but say nothing. We order food, eat,
drink, get bloody merry ;) , and it is time for the dessert. We both lust after the Spanish cheesecake.
but I tell Brian to order the chocolate truffle. The waitress comes and I order cheesecake. Brian says
"I'd like the chocolate truffle please." I look at him, all tight-lipped and strict, and say "No, dear." I
smile condescendingly and tell the waitress: "He'll have the cheesecake." The waitress looks at
Brian, waiting for some kind of reaction. With a sigh, and in a small voice he says: "I'll have the
cheesecake..." The waitress stares a bit, then leaves.
Yes. We Mediterranean women are bossy.
Posted by alene on 09-08-2003 05:23 PM:
When I was younger, maybe 12, my mom was never home, so she sent me to stay with my
6 cousins, all boys, between ages 4 and 15, who lived in the suburbs on a horse farm in the next
town over. The house was miles from any stores with only a few neighbors, all of whom we had
pissed off in one way or another - one by tying up the dog to the electric fence, another by stealing
oats to feed the horse neglected in the field behind the house. We were surrounded by golden
wheat fields and yellowing horse pastures, a few houses scattered between. My mom didn't know
it, but my aunt was never home either - she was out at the bars drinking at night and at her friends
sleeping it off during the day. I was raised in a religious family and cautioned to the dangers of
drinking, so I never dreamed of touching alcohol and my aunt’s behavior only confirmed the
dangers. There wasn't much to eat or drink at my aunt's house, mostly ramen noodles, chewy
from sitting in the humid cupboard for months, and my aunt's 'special spiced iced tea' that we
were cautioned to never drink. And why would we want to? It had a bitter, biting smell, kind of
like the way floor cleaner smelled. Still, we were young and unsupervised, so of course...
One day the three oldest boys and me all sat around the decaying particle wood table in
the kitchen and passed around the special 'iced tea'. The sun was warm through the drapes, sagging and sun-bleached, hanging off of the bar like a lazy drunk, signaling the end of summer. I
wrapped my legs around the wobbling chair and eyed the murky brown liquid. Being the only
girl in the group, I couldn't refuse, I had to keep up with the boys, so I fisted the small plastic glass
and threw the iced tea down my throat. It burned, like I knew it would from the smell, and I
passed the glass along to be refilled and fed to the next kid. After a few passes I was feeling really
warm and my legs felt weak, like my bones were made of straw, but instead of stopping, I just
gripped the edges of my chair, white knuckles stretching the skin, and waited for my next turn.
Finally we finished the iced tea, and had the idea to go outside into the backyard where the 3
youngest boys were playing on the trampoline.
We had purchased new knives at the seedy swap-meet down the road a few days earlier
with money our grandparents had given us for mowing their lawn. We decided that the best way
to break in the knives was to rip apart the trampoline. We kicked the younger kids off of the
trampoline and began shredding until we fell through the pad, laughing on the brittle yellow
grass. After the tramp was ripped, we had nothing left to do, but we were giggling and happy and
there was still plenty of warm daylight left. So we unhooked the springs from the trampoline and
chained them together, end-to-end and strung them across the yard, hooked to the fence that
bordered the pasture and the house. For a while we took turns running and jumping over the
springs, which were about waist height to me at the time, but eventually we had a new idea. We
grabbed the tetherball pole, the kind that is a 6 foot tall solid metal pole stuck into a tire that is
filled with cement, and used it to pull back the springs and fling things across the yard, like a giant
sling-shot. We started small and moved up. First, little things like beach balls and shoes, then
bigger things like rusty red metal wagons and bicycles. We pull the springs back as far as we can
and lay the bike across them and release. It breaks into a dozen pieces from the impact and scatters
across the yard 10 feet in every direction. The younger kids have been watching this and decide
that they would like to join in, so the 10-year-old offers to be slinged. He stands a few feet away as
we pull back the springs, hard and taut. He eyes the pieces of the bike strewn across the yard and
braces himself as the springs hit him smack in the belly and throws him across the yard into the
rose bushes, nearly 15 feet away. Gasping for air, we are laughing so hard, we stumble over to
where he is laying. Not breathing at first, then gasping for air, tears running down his face, we
watch as he struggles to rise, gives up and curls into a ball. His belly is covered in these thick welt
lines, bright red, in the perfect shape and shade of partially stretched trampoline springs, and he
can't catch his breath fully for about 20 minutes. A neighbor watching this calls the police, who
arrived just as he was beginning to breathe, and we scattered to the fields...
Of course his stomach was scarred, and we never saw the special iced tea sitting in the
fridge after that...
Okay, this isn’t A-list material, but I was talking with Moe.ron about John Steinbeck and it
brought back this little snapshot.
Of Mice and Men is the proud bearer of a title only two books hold for me- it's actually
made me cry.
Observe: A Snapshot
I am in tenth grade and I was assigned Of Mice and Men, to which I did not look forward,
and then was pleasantly enthralled, enraptured and obsessed. I eat my meals in bread- cheese
crusts and untoasted bread to keep with the rugged mood of the novel. I stay inside all afternoon,
all night Saturday thereby sacrificing 6 of 48 precious off hours. At eleven o' clock, I finish the
book and am bawling- not tearing, not crying, not sobbing. I am dripping thick webs of snot onto
the page and coughing as I try to breathe through the wild flappings of my uvula. And I sit up to
try and recuperate. To my left is the window, outside is rain and a black night sky, the color I
would guess that blind people see all the time. But what I see isn't out in the black, it's in the
window itself, the sheet of glass catching my reflection and throwing it back at me, lobbing it like a
softball to uppercut me in the gullet.
Have you ever seen yourself cry? I mean really watched it? It quickly becomes absolutely
unsustainable.
I degenerate into a hysterical fit of raucous laughter, the frantic adrenaline filled, emotionally charged laughter that is clearly a result of too many flight or fight decisions going awry in
my bloodstreams. And laughing hard enough to have to rock away stomach pains, I dip forward
too far and crack my head on the windowsill.
Have you ever seen yourself bleed from the head? It dribbles in rivulets and, faster than
you can react, stains everything hot tomato color, then later on, a thick rust.
So for years, my copy of Steinbeck's masterpiece was unreadable from page 105 on. For
hygienic reasons mostly, when I wanted to reread it earlier this year, I bought a new one.
Posted by Masochism on 09-13-2003 09:56 PM:
This thread = Classic
Someone please sticky it!
Anyway, I cant think of any good stories right now but on a sad/sick note, Once when I
was in pre-school during nap time I had the hots for this chick that napped next to me, So one day
I rolled over and we started talking and I don’t remember how the whole thing happened but I
ended up finger banging the girl while the teacher was out of the room and after she came back we
stopped, though to this day I remember after nap time was over my finger smelt like poop....
Up until I was about 13, I wore my hair down to my hips, and I never did a thing with it.
Never blow-dried it, never pulled it back.
So one day I was at day care when I was 7 or 8 years old. My brother and a couple of other
day care children were climbing up on the back of this big armchair, leaping off, and running back
down and doing it again (as I recall, we were in some sort of "Peter Pan" phase). I wasn't too big on
it, but everyone convinced me to do it, so I got up on the back of the chair, braced myself - since I
was 7 or so, it seemed about a million feet off the floor - and jumped.
I didn't hurt myself or anything, but I did get one of those hanging sticky flytraps,
bedecked with dead flies, caught in my long blond hair. I ripped it out of the ceiling on the way
down. I don't recall it hurting much, but I do remember I had to sit with my head in the tub for
about two hours and soak my hair to get it out, dead flies falling in my face and coming off in my
hands all the while.
That would be up there in one of the grosser memories I have.
Posted by Dazed on 09-15-2003 05:42 PM:
Not sure if this belongs here, but it's the first one that springs to mind.... We'll entitle it
'Brotherly Love'.
I was always very tomboy-ish when I was a kid. So long as I had my BMX and my music
all was well in the world. At age 12 when all the other girls were out trying to impress the boys
they all hated me. I was already impressing the boys without trying, with my ability to perform
BMX stunts and jump off a ramp farther than any other of the local lads. I was practically a local
legend.
This all came to an end during the summer holidays, at the peak of my fame. There I was,
one summer day, having got bored with the usual people, I rode off on my own. Personal stereo
blaring in my ears. To this day I know of few things that feel better that reaching the fastest speed I
can on my bike, and things were no different then.
I rode up to the top of the hill upon which we lived, and pedaled like crazy to reach
maximum velocity. Once at a comfortable speed, I let gravity take over and continued to pick up
speed as I coasted down the hill. Being the cocky show off that I was, even though there was
nobody around to witness it, I took my hands from the handlebars, and held them behind my
head. On down the hill I raced, feeling incredibly pleased with myself and my ability to control
the bike at such high speeds without the use of my hands.
I didn't, however, take into account the fallibility of bicycles.
For reasons which remain unknown, the front brakes on my BMX jammed suddenly on. I
flew. Literally. Probably the first time in my life I experienced that strange slow motion sensation,
managing to think a million thoughts while in the air. 'I am gonna be in so much trouble. Where
will I land. Is anyone watching. This better not break my bike!'
I must have completed a full somersault as I landed on both feet, the speed and momentum carrying me forward onto my face. I skidded farther forward than the bike did. I laid in the
road for what seemed an eternity, cars dodging me on either side. Three elderly women, just
leaving the local community centre, walked across the road in front of me, commenting on how it
was terrible that that was the second accident they had seen that day. And then continued on their
way, discussing how shocking the youth of today were... leaving me in my bloody heap on the
ground, as cars swerved to avoid me.
This all happened right at the end of the road where we lived. My brother, Andy, was just
leaving the house on his motorbike and had spotted me and the bike strewn across the road. He
picked up my bike, and yelled at me to stop wailing. "You'll heal yourself, the fuckin bike can't!"
My feet were killing me and my face and arms were dripping with blood as I half staggered, half crawled back home. All the while worrying about how much trouble I was going to be
in.
My Mum cleaned my face up and slowed the bleeding down before inspecting my feet,
and straight to the local hospital I was taken. Both feet were broken by the impact of my landing
upon them. My forehead, mouth and nose needed stitching. I was strapped up and sent home
again.
Word soon traveled throughout the neighbourhood of my crash. By the time I was well
enough to go out again it had turned into something spectacular and I was lucky to get out alive.
Even a few weeks ago a taxi driver, who comes from the same area, picked me up and
started talking about my family (it happens a lot). 'You're the one that had that crash on the hill,
ain't ya?' he commented. And then went on to enquire as to how my feet were now. I had to tell
him that 20 years is generally long enough for breaks to heal pretty well, as I desperately tried to
force the carseat to swallow me up.
During the time I was laid up, my brother, who I think may have felt a little guilty at
leaving me lying in the road, fixed my bike. At the earliest opportunity I was back out on it. But,
alas, my amazing death defying leaps from ramps were no more. My budding career as a stunt
rider was over! I asked somebody a few days ago what happens to the fearlessness and blind
confidence we have as children. I'm pretty sure I left mine on that stretch of tarmac.
Just the first in a lifetime of dumbass accidents that seem to find me.
Ok, I don't think this story really has a climax, so it's just gonna end. Sorry if that bugs the
hell out of you. Just thought I'd get some memories down while I was being nostalgic.
So, senior year of high school I was on the annual band trip (yes, I was a band nerd), this
year to Florida. We were set loose on Universal Studios: The Islands of Adventure theme park.
We're tearing through it when these huge, dark, looming clouds move in and start dumping rain
on the park, and when I say dumping, I mean DUMPING. Buckets of rain are falling and everyone
is running wherever they can for shelter. Everyone, that is, except all the kids from Washington.
They are having an absolute hay day. First of all, the rain is warm, something we're not exactly
accustomed to. Next, nobody is on any of the rides. We're able to just stay on for a second time
around, or just jump right to the front of the next line. It was fabulous for all the water rides, as we
were already drenched, but we found out quickly why nobody was riding the roller coasters.
When you're traveling at a velocity around 60 mph, the raindrops feel like needles being hurled at
your face. I rode both of the Dueling Dragon roller coasters with my eyes closed and had a blast
doing it.
Posted by PIZman on 09-18-2003 04:06 AM:
I was back from college for a summer and was at my dad's apartment and took a dump in
my old toilet and forgot to flush, sheerly because something or another got me out of my routine.
Two weeks later, someone went in that bathroom and discovered it. One of my dad's
friends. Excellent.
Why the fuck did I just tell that story?
I know, I know, disx, because I'm an ass.
quote: Originally posted by Cigs'n'Coffee
when i'm done i find some paper to take my shit and of course i let a stain on the
carpet, i try to find somewhere out of the apartment to throw the shit to avoid the house
from smelling shit. i find a garbage can in the street but then i lose whole control and
completely shits my pants (actually i remember i was wearing shorts). this time it's the
end, i smell shit badly, i can't go back to work full of shit
LOL!
goddamn this thread, keeps getting me in trouble @ work.
so i just started this new job, and about two / three weeks into it i get pulled into a little
meeting thingamajig to talk about my performance thus far, and i get told that i'm not as friendly
as they would like. i know i'm not the master of the first impression, and it takes me time to get
comfortable with people in a new environment, but i was a little pissed about this since everyone
in my department would repeatedly walk by me to go to lunch without saying a word. and then
*i'm* the unfriendly one. well fuck that.
but anyway. i politely pointed out that if they wanted to get to know me better, they
should, ahem, perhaps include me in their social activities. which was met with, "well, we don't
know you yet." at which point my head imploded.
that, and nervousness when they finally DID ask me to go to lunch (in that horrible,
awkward, you-made-us-do-this kind of way) combined to make it a painfully embarrassing
experience.
we get in jim's car, tom in front of me, doug to my left, and tom rolls up his window. jim
looks at him with curiosity. tom says to jim, "i didn't want [kitty]'s hair to get messed up back
there."
i say, a bit too loudly, "oh, please, i am NOT the kind of girl who worries about her hair."
in the deafening silence that follows, i think to myself, maybe it was a joke.
i pick this opportunity to venture, "i don’t have any cash. can we go to the ATM?"
if i were someone else, i would have personally bludgeoned myself just then. the other
guys looked like they wanted to, but stayed silent. finally tom says, a bit grudgingly, "i can pay for
you," which, i realize with horror, is what he probably thought i had meant to happen all along.
so we keep driving, and, in a pathetic attempt to jump-start the conversation again, i say
to tom, "how's your baby?"
"she's fine." he forces out, tight-lipped. this, of course, is when i remember my previous
observation that it seemed as though this his third child was not what he considered the most
fantastic thing ever to hit his personal universe, or he doesn't like to talk about it at work, or
something, but either way, i had decided not to ask about her anymore. whoops.
but there is still a way to set things right. i think. "so does she have a nickname yet, or do
you just call her victoria still?" i ask brightly.
still tighter-lipped, tom says, "her name is vanessa."
i pray to die. right then. just take me now, o ruler of the universe.
but no. because there IS no god, as i have said repeatedly, and this proves it, we have to go
to this nice little italian restaurant and eat. the meal for which tom is now paying my bill, and
because of which he probably thinks i'm a money grubbing whore. lovely.
as we sit down a football show (not a game, one of those NFL films things) is playing on
the television over the bar, and just then, glancing at the TV, tom says to doug, "did you hear
about the lions?"
the lions... i'm thinking. as in, the Detroit Lions? Kind of a non sequitur, but tom had mentioned my
interest in sports, particularly football, during my little evaluation as a sign that we may someday converse
normally. so you know what they say, carpe diem and all that, righty-o, old sport...
"They suck," I blurt.
They stare.
Um.
"Um," I say.
They look at one another. I begin to melt slowly down in my seat. I widen my eyes in an
attempt to appeal to their primitive instincts for compassion toward the opposite sex.
"What?" i finally say, figuring the best defense is a good offense. "the detroit lions. they
suck."
They laugh.
They continue to laugh.
They stop for a second, look at me, and then continue to continue to laugh.
What...the...fucking...hell...
"No," tom finally says, e-nun-ci-a-ting ev-er-y syl-la-ble, "we're talking about Alliance. it's
a company we're working with."
I nearly vomit with embarrassment.
"They do suck," jim says kindly.
"yeah, i thought you knew something we didn't!" tom chuckles.
they appear to be amused, but they fall silent suddenly. tom takes a long pull on his
merlot. i look around as i swear i can hear crickets begin chirping...
shockingly, i haven't been invited back to lunch again. sigh.
and now laughing at the frenchman's shit story up there is further solidifying my image in
this office as the resident weirdo.
Alright, I realized I never finished posing stories about all the things I have eaten.
For those of you who don't know what an MRE is, it's a Meal Ready to Eat used in the
military. They're dehydrated and basically blocks of powder. Flavored powder, but still powder.
Those of you who know what MREs are may already know they aren't exactly Lean Cuisine. You add water and get your nourishment, but I was told that if you just drink enough water,
you could eat it raw. THIS IS NOT TRUE AND A BAD IDEA IF YOU ARE ON A CAMPING
TRIP!
http://www.survivalgearusa.com/mre.gif
Michael's MREs reminded me on something.
In 1995, I was one of the 7 greek girl guides to go to an international (if Norwegian, Danish
and Greek guides and scouts can be considered international) summer camp. The way things
worked was each group had to visit the food storage facility every morning and get the chow for
that day. Sometimes the food was... unfamiliar. Like the day that we were handed a block the size
of a brick of something white, resembling feta cheese, but rather slimy. We were told it was fish
pudding, shrugged and took it to our "camp." We spent 4 minutes looking at it. Another 2 saying
"Right... Who wants to try first?" Another 5 being very polite to each other "No, no, you go ahead."
"After you, please." Finally, we each found ourselves with a slice of that sleek white fishy thing.
Each of us cut a small piece and began to chew. "Hm. Well, it's not that bad," somebody said. "It is
edible," another agreed. "Maybe with a little tomato it'll be better," a third one said. 2 long minutes
of looking at each other. "Right," said our leader. "I'm not having my girls eat this crap. We have
eggs, we'll make an omelets.
Two of us went to the neighboring camp to borrow their camping gas cooker. The
Norwegians said fine, we could have it in a moment, they were almost done frying. "Frying?"
Frying what?! "The fish pudding of course. Who would want to eat it raw?"
Posted by Becks77 on 09-22-2003 07:59 PM:
You should have beaten up your brother and the drunk chick. That would have been
awesome.
So this weekend i go to the wedding of that douche bag that asked me to be in it. For the
full story see thread "This Blows". The night before i decide i needed a haircut. I had pretty long
hair before and it wasn’t neatly combed or anything so i pull out my shaver and i give myself a
nice big mohawk. I show up to the wedding in my tux and huge mohawk. It was really funny. I
cant wait to see their wedding pictures. Every time the couple has someone come over and they
look at their wedding pictures they are going to see some asshole groomsman (sp?) standing up at
the alter with them with a giant mohawk. Go me.
ok, this story isn't mine, but it is goddamn funny anyway.
my friend's brother is a chemical engineer. before he went to college to become a chemical
engineer he gained some chemistry work experience working at a plant where they make
GoLytely. For those of you not familiar, GoLytely is the super-industrial-strength uber laxative
they give you when you are going in for invasive abdominal surgery or a colonoscopy so the dr.
doesn't have to pack your fudge.
one day my friend's brother decides that he wants to know what the shit tastes like. perhaps this will improve the product, or perhaps he's just a freakin idiot.
there are three delicious flavors to choose from when drinking GoLytely: grape, fruit
punch and lemonade. from the family members of mine who have had to drink it, they all taste
equally horrible, mostly like stale water, although i'm told that the lemonade has a special tinge of
vomit. generally when GoLytely is prescribed it is taken over a 12-hour period heavily diluted
with water, so as to cleanse the system more gently and thoroughly.
it leaves the plant, undiluted, however. which means that my friend's brother decided to
taste the undiluted, industrial strength version. he drank a cupful of each flavor.
which is three times the recommended 12-hour dose.
then he got in his car. he drove out into boston, away from work. he then ran into traffic
on the upper deck of 93, the central artery through boston. it's difficult to describe how perfectly
awful traffic is on the central artery, although suffice to say the fact that we've poured money and
resources down the drain for almost a decade to rip it out via the Big Dig should tell you something. at any rate, on a bad day, you can be stuck for hours on a one-to-two-mile stretch of road.
that day was a bad day.
especially bad for my friend's brother, who felt the industrial strength laxative kick in
while smack dab in the middle of three lanes of human vehicular misery.
by the time he got out of there, rushed to an exit, found a gas station, and got into the
bathroom, my friend says, he was in tears from the pain.
so let that be a lesson to you: don't drink industrial strength laxative and then go drive
around boston.
quote: Originally posted by insomnomaniac
jane needs to post about her friend's false eyelashes.
Not much to tell, really...last night I was talking to my friend Kelsey on msn. I mentioned
that I'd called her on Sunday but she'd never picked up the phone, and she said that she wasn't
answering the phone on Sunday. When I asked why, she said, "Come on...didn't I tell you?"
Apparently she and her sort-of boyfriend went to the Halloween section of Target and
bought false glittery drag queen eyelashes, because she loves false eyelashes. She put them on at
home and took them off almost immediately, I assume because they looked so dumb. Almost
instantly after that, her eyelids began to swell up, then her face, then her neck, and she got some
kind of weird rash on half of her face. She found out the hard way that she was allergic to this
certain kind of eyelash glue stuff. I was only sorry that I wasn't there to see it.
here's a small one.
i have to call companies for follow-ups on sales quotes at my new job. today i called a
company. This was the exact conversation:
person who sounds like I've woken them out of a sound sleep: “Hello?"
Me, weirded out by lack of company name in telephone greeting: "Hi...I'm sorry, who am I
speaking with?"
person: "This is Marie."
me: "I'm sorry, is this a residence?"
person: "No."
me: "Is this... {name of company} ?"
person: "Yeah."
me, tempted to ask, "Is your Mommy home?": "Oh... kay... um, can I speak with {name of
contact} please?"
person: "Uh, nope."
me: "I'm sorry?"
person: "He's not in right now."
me: "Okay, can I leave a message?"
person - chewing loudly on something like tyler in the beginning of FC when jack calls him from the
pay phone "What's this about?"
me: "This is in regard to a project we quoted him on back in...January. We're just trying to
follow up with him on the status of his project."
person: "Oh, that project's on hold right now."
me: "Okay, um, can I just leave a number for {contact} to call me back?"
person: "I guess."
WTF?
Tonight the Glasgow Rangers play against Panathinaikos in the Champions' League,
which reminded me of something silly that happened two years ago. I was studying in Scotland,
and a friend had come from Greece to visit. We went to Glasgow for some serious shopping, and
in the late afternoon we killed some time at a cafe. As we were about to leave and go to the train
station, the waitress came and talked to us. I hadn't been in Scotland long, and she had a West of
Glasgow very broad accent -we couldn't understand a single thing. We only caught a few words:
"football", "blue", "be careful." The fact that she looked concerned was not very consoling. Were we
in danger? What was going on?
We left and headed for the station. And then we understood. It was derby night: the
Celtics against the Rangers. It was a coincidence, but both Maria and I were dressed head to toe in
blue, the Rangers' colour. Blue jeans, blue jackets, even our bags were blue. And the streets were
full of Celtics supporters, sporting scarves, holding pints and yelling. We were very worried. We
ended up passing through the white-and-green clad crowds, all the while talking to each other
loudly in greek, saying whatever random thing we could think of, and repeating at intervals "We
are just tourists here, we're not interested in football. Tourists." We made it to the station having
received only dirty looks.
Posted by daisyhead1027 on 10-07-2003 03:08 AM:
Last summer after high school graduation, my best friend and I decide to celebrate our
freedom by blowing all our money on a vacation to the Bahamas. We are both kind of nervous
because we have never really gone on a long trip by ourselves before, let alone to a different
country; albeit the Bahamas is really not too foreign. Nonetheless, we are two young girls traveling by ourselves to a strange place, on a pretty small budget.
Our stay was for three days, and we got a deal staying in a pretty posh hotel—I mean your
general huge chandelier, snooty doormen, nice oriental carpets, etc. However, the hotel is not by
the beach; we have to take a bus to the attractions by the ocean.
Day two we decide sign up for a “Bahama Mamma Booze Cruise” (actual name), the lures
of which were hors d'oeuvres and all the Bahama Mammas and wine you could drink, all while on
a sunset cruise around the bay. We were excited about it, of course, seeing as how our
eighteen-year old selves would be able to drink free of the threat of adult admonishment. So the
evening arrives, and it ends up the only other passengers are middle-aged couples visiting on
their time-share, and young working women escaping their husbands for a week with their gal
pals. We were a little disappointed not to sight any “man meat” for ourselves, but nonetheless
resolve to have a good time.
On the bus ride to the cruise boat, everybody is very friendly and jovial, and the bus
driver warns us passengers that we can do anything we want on the way back to the hotel: sing,
dance, whatever, but “don’t do no “hanky panky” or throw up” were the rules he laid down. If
someone threw up, he sang, they would either have to clean it up themselves or give him $20 to
clean it up. Everybody laughed good-naturedly, as we were all adults and could handle our liquor…
So everybody got on the boat, and sang, and drank, and danced, and ate. To say the least,
everybody got pretty toasty. Especially my friend, who got very very drunk. Like fall-over stumble I-love-everybody-happy drunk. We dance.
The cruise ends pretty late, and everyone is loud and being a generally typical annoying
tourist, getting on the bus and we all greet our bus driver who is looking very condescending all of
the sudden. So we finally leave towards the hotel, and all of the sudden, my friend whispers, “I
think I am going to be sick…”
I panic, and all of the sudden all I could think was that we didn’t have $20 dollars, and I
sure as hell wasn’t going to clean up vomit on some bus at 12 AM on my vacation.
I quietly whisper if she can hold it a few more minutes (yes, dumb question), and she
groans and shakes her head no.
I think very quickly, grab her purse, which is lined with that windbreakery-type material,
empty its contents into my lap, and shove the now empty handbag at her. She promptly upchucks
a nights’ worth of Bahama Mammas and hors d'oeuvres into it.
I am trying to keep her quiet, lest the bus driver notice, and it seems like it takes forever
for us to get back to the hotel. We pull up to the front entrance, and we both calmly exit the bus,
my friend leaning against me. I am clutching her bag at arms length, glad I was such a quick
thinker.
We begin to walk through the lobby, under the globular chandelier, across the plush carpets, I still holding the purse like I have an elbow problem. After I nod a snooty door guy, it is then
I notice the purse is dripping. There is a steady stream of vomit is dripping on the expensive
carpets and hardwood floors in the posh lobby, out of my friends purse. There is a trail of vomit
from the entrance to the middle of the huge lobby, a puddle forming approximately two feet away
from my body.
I pause in the middle of the lobby, the bellboys and woman at the counter gawking at me.
Never one to make a scene, I straightened up, and continued my way out of the lobby,
straight to our hotel room, a line of vomit marking our passage.
And boy did I get some dirty looks.
But, I did not have to clean the vomit. At least not on the bus.
Later that night in our hotel room was a different story, unfortunately….
Posted by Lazlosdead on 10-07-2003 01:46 PM:
I wish to throw in my 2 cents worth of story...
Every year Austin has it's cool little version of Mardi Gras. Mardi Gras is supposed to be
one day, but give Texas a reason to drink, and by God, Texas will drink. So Fat Tuesday lasts a
week.
So, anyway, my friend (I'll call him "Oz") asks me if I wanna go to Mardi Gras that night
with him.... and his girlfriend. Seeing as everyone else was broke, it was either go with him or not
at all.
Now, my sleep cycle involves bingeing and purging. I go for days without sleep, then I
sleep for ten hours straight. I needed a nap before we left.
I woke up around 9:30 p.m. feeling like a bag of ass. Being the stupid bastard I was, I
grabbed a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt and met up with my friend anyway.
So we departed.
Now for you people familiar with Texas, I'll go into some geography. We lived at Ft.
Hood, Texas, but we had to go to Waco (40 min. away) to pick up his girlfriend (we'll call her
"Ho"). Then we had to go to Austin (which was normally 40 min. away also). Why do I tell you all
this?
Anyway, we got to his girlfriend's house, who then decided that she didn't want to go to
Mardi Gras. Oz decided that he agreed. I informed them I felt like ass and the only reason I left the
barracks was to go Mardi Gras. When I threatened to stay there, with her family, while they went
out, they decided Mardi Gras sounded fun. People have never trusted me around parents.
ON TO AUSTIN!
So on the car ride to Austin (which was WAY longer than it should have been, due to this
girl I was beginning to loathe), my stomach took a turn for the worse. We stopped at a gas station,
for gas, during which time I bought cigarettes. Then I noticed something else. A product I had
seen before, but never purchased before. Yellowjackets (aka Super-Mega-Stayawake Pills)!!!! I
figured I was sick because I was tired ( had 3 hours sleep in three days) so I bought the Yellowjackets.
In the car ride to Austin (still not there yet) I asked how many of these Yellowjackets I
should take. She said she takes them all. Well, by God, if a girl can do it, I can do it. I took all of
those bastards.
Before we got there she pulled all this crap out of her purse. She pulled out earrings which
were a gauge too large for her holes (no jokes). So, I offered to shove them through anyway (no
jokes, please). And I did. And it hurt her. And that was fun.
WE'RE IN AUSTIN!
Finally we arrive. We parked in a parking garage on 9th street (we're going to 6th). I think.
I don't remember. Ho pulls out a can of spray that turns your hair green. And tries to spray my
hair. And sprays green colored isopropyl alcohol into my eyes. Fun.
So finally we get to 6th street. And there's people EVERYWHERE. Trying to pass through
the street is like blood cells trying to squeeze through cholesterol-laden arteries.
A word about beads. The shitty beads cost like $15 a dozen. No one wants the cheap ones.
Girls hate affordable things. I spent $45 dollars on beads.
As soon as we get to 6th Street, this dirty looking bastard asks to see Ho's boobs. For
beads. After faking three seconds of inner turmoil, up goes the shirt. They weren't bad. This was
also Oz's first time seeing them. I gave him shit for that for a long time.
So I'm feeling royally sick at this time. The only was I can describe how I felt was being
drunk and high at the same time minus the good parts. Just the stumbley, sick, malaise parts. I
was swaying with every step.
Then we meet Ho's friends. Yay. And we traveled in a pack.
Now, at the time, I was still somewhat gentlemanly. With a girl around, I couldn't ask to
see another girl’s boobs without feeling dirty. So I looked at Ho's boobs. All night.
The night before, there were riots in Austin. Not your big L.A. riots, mind you. Just unruly
people and cops arresting them. So this night, the cops were all in riot gear. Waiting.
After while, there were too many fights for the police. So they tried to clear the streets.
Something happened (I don't know what) and there was a rush of people all going the same way
down the street. Oz and Ho ran. I couldn't run. I could hardly walk. So, I lost them. And I had NO
IDEA where the car was.
When I was a kid I learned that if you get separated, go to the place you lost the people
you were with. This was on an intersection. With the three sides being people and one side being
cops. The middle was no-man's land. People decided to throw things at cops. Trash, bottles, etc.
Then someone threw a trashcan.
Then back-up came.
I remember thinking, "Why is that cop spraying Silly-String at that guy?" Then the guy fell
down crying.... not silly string. The cop started walking towards me. I'm walking away. With my
hands up. Slowly. The cop, then PUSHES me, and says, "Get the fuck outta here." So I did.
I couldn't remember where we parked, so I wandered around 5th street for a while. No
Oz. No Ho. I began offering people beads for a ride home. No luck.
One guy, with his girlfriend(?) stopped me. "A man, you onna see some titties and pussy?"
"No," I said. I got a look that suggested that he thought he'd kill me for insulting his
woman's honor. So "no" became "sure" and we all lost some dignity. And I lost beads.
Anyway, I was like 4 a.m. at this point and I was finally tired. Tired of being sick. Tired of
being awake. Tired of Austin. Tired of seeing bleeding girls, maced guys, and lawyers passing out
cards.
I finally sat down on a bench. There was another dude there. Also lost. He bummed a
smoke. All I wanted was for him to leave so I could sleep on the bench.
Then I heard "Lazlo, HEY LAZLO!". I looked around. I saw two friends of mine that I
didn't know was even down in Austin.
"What're you doin'?" one asked.
I explained that I was lost and had, in fact, found a very nice bench and I was going to
sleep.
So I hopped in with these guys. Three people in a small truck. My friend drove for 15
minutes and pulled over to sleep. On the side of the highway. We woke up around 5 a.m.
Then we went home.
It turns out they saw me because of my ugly ass bright Hawaiian shirt.
so today, i got in trouble at work. They said that not only did i make racially insensitive
comments, but i also indoctrinated retarded co-workers. I get a touch bored at work, and one of
my only sources of joy can often be making Dr. Phil happy, and humiliating my father, who is my
boss. If i can do both at once, well...
so phil was making pizzas, and my father asked me to chop up some bacon. so he changes
the radio station to some classic rock type thing, playing the eagles. so i start screaming at the top
of my lungs, "WHY DA WHITEMAN GOT TO CONTRAH DA BEATS! WHY NOT PLAY SOME
RIZZAP FO ME AND PHIL, MY PROUD AFRICAN BROTHER!"
to which he replied, "shut the fuck up and chop the bacon."
to which I replied "OH IS THAT HOW IT IS?! WHY DA BLACKMAN GOTS TO CHOP
THE CRACKA'S BACON?! SHOULD I DO A SAMBO JIG TOO BOSS?!"
phil immediately starts cracking up, which only encourages me
"YOU SEE HIM PHIL!? YOU SEE THAT CRACKA?! HE GONNA WORK THA
BLACKMAN TO THE BONE! SERVING FOOD TO THESE CRACKA'S ALL DAY! WHEN WILL
IT BE DA BLACKMAN'S TIME!"
phil chimes in "YEAAH, YOU MOFUCKIN CRACKA! STOP ENSLAVING OUR
BROTHERS WHITE DEVIL!"
so, my father, who isn’t the most humored fellow, glares at me and whispers "look you
fuck. there are people all around here ok? somebody walkin by could take it out of context. so stop
it, now."
"OHHHHH, I SEE HOW THIS SHIT BE! THA WHITEMAN GOTS TO SLAPPA DOWN
THE "DARKIES" OPINION DONT HE?! DONT TAKE IT PHIL, THE REVOLUTION IS AT
HAND!"
"YEEEEEAAHHHHH!"
"KILL WHITEY!!! ATTICA!!! KILL WHITEY!!! ATTICA!!!"
and i almost got fired over this shit...
Posted by ArcherDylan27 on 10-14-2003 10:18 PM:
ok me and my buddy godpeed here we were drivin with a friend of ours down some main
street and this mexican lady in a pink track outfit darts across the street as a jaywalker, my friends
and i are singin killerqueen or somethin by queen and my friend isn’t paying attention and when
she finally does she brakes hard and goes gliding toward the women who is shocked, and doesn’t
move, by the time my friend comes to a complete stop the ladies hand is on the hood of the car, we
just stare at her and her at us for quite some time and then my friend waves for the lady to go on
ahead, it was pretty intense then on another occasion i almost got side winded by a massive truck
and i ran over a squirrel and then got out and took a picture of it for my photo class, my teacher
loved it, you could really see the anguish in the little squirrels eyes, no joke!
Posted by Lazlosdead on 10-17-2003 03:19 PM:
I'm trying to take this to 102!
Often, because I never bought a car, I would use my friend Carl's Explorer when he went
to visit his girlfriend for the weekend. Normally, it was a 40 min drive to where we were going.
Once there, I'd drop him off, and turn around. Once this guy (I'll refer to him as "Jim") wanted to
ride down there with us, so we could drop him off in another city, a little bit past where we were
going. We all got some Burger King and went down there. Carl driving. I was in the passenger
seat. Jim was in the back. We ate our food, smoked some cigarettes, and got to where we were
going. A day of two later I put my fast food beverage in the back cup holder. (I can't remember
why.) Later that day, I picked up Carl. I reached back to grab my drink. AS soon as I took a swig
(through the straw) I made the gesture for "Pull Over" to Carl and rocketed out of the car for five
minutes of puking/ dry heaving. Apparently, I grabbed Jim's cup from a few days prior. Jim was
used his cup for an ashtray.
Posted by EthanRHunt on 10-17-2003 09:25 PM:
Baskin Robbins
I love this thread, so I'm going to give storytelling a shot.
So me and about 6 of my friends decide it's a good idea to grab a bite at Baskin Robbins.
We are all huddled around the counter ordering things all separately and slowing the place down,
naturally. There is a big guy there; he looks Middle Eastern, definitely giving off the whole "I'm in
some sort of a mafia" vibe. In a thick Middle Eastern accent he says to my Indian friend,
"Are you all together?"
Peacefully my friend replies, "No."
The foreign guy then says very threatening like, "Do you have a problem, brother?"
This is where I step in, I decide the best thing I can do is add a little humor to the situation.
I interject my opinion, "You guys should fight."
He says, "What did you say?"
I realize at this time that this man is not one for jokes, in fact the question felt like he was
pointing a gun at my head. "I said, you guys should fight."
"Are you sick !?"
"Yes, I am very sick "
I guess this is the last straw. With his pregnant wife and the entire shop watching, he gets
up in my face. All 38 years and 180 pounds of him, filling up my personal view screen. Without a
hint of bullshit he give me the ultimatum, it's practically in Hebrew but he didn't need to speak
English for me to know exactly what he said, "Shut the fuck up and get the fuck out of my face
before I break your fucking neck."
Now I'm faced with a pretty hard choice, either I step up and start a fight, maybe grab his
pregnant wife and punch the baby, or threaten to curse his family, maybe I should throw a chair at
him, or just deck him in the face, I have six friends with me right? Well, all of those options ran
through my mind so fast, I didn't even realize I was laughing at him the entire time, I mean how
can you take that stupid accent seriously. I look at my hands. In one there is a cup, filled with
rainbow sherbet ice cream (I love sherbet because it makes me feel like I'm about 5.) in the other
hand is a tiny pink spoon. What an asshole, threatening to kill me while I hold my rainbow
sherbet. Naturally, I back off, but I do it in style. I get up in his face like I'm gonna fuck shit up,
shove a big pink spoonful of ice cream in my mouth let it hang out like a god's tongue, put my
hands up and slowly back away, laughing.
After the whole fiasco, with him still in earshot, my friends tell me they wanted him to
deck me so bad. I love my friends.
Moral: The Indian/Pakistani conflict is bad, really bad.
After request: a story of wisdom teeth, catburglars, and marriage proposals that never
happened.
The setting was the familiar flat in Scotland, shared by seven girls, yours truly one of
them. It was that time in April that my wisdom tooth was coming out and, being stupid and
refusing to take painkillers, I just suffered quietly. Being in constant pain 24/7, sometimes just
plain dull and continuous, sometimes coming in sharp jabs, sometimes throbbing. During the day,
I was unable to eat, laugh, talk or think. At nights, I couldn't sleep.
So I was lying on my bed, trying to read something to pass the time, when at 4am, I heard
noise from the kitchen/sitting room. It was right next to my room and insulation in these flats is
non-existent -I was used to that kind of thing. I figured out one of the girls had got up to raid the
fridge. Normally, I would go to the kitchen for a chat and a smoke with the other
fellow-insomniac, but the tooth hurt too much for me to want to socialize. Whoever it was
rummaged a bit and then left. And I went back to my book.
The next morning, our Thai flat mate walked in the kitchen to find the window open and a
footprint on the seat underneath it. Sleepy as she was, she thought those wacky Greek girls had
been having ouzo and dancing on the seats and tables again. She duly cleaned the footprint.
Later on, one of the other flat mates was searching for her wallet. It was last seen on the
coffee table in the kitchen. And it wasn't there any more. We put the pieces together, and called the
police. The wallet had nothing of real value inside (and for once we had left no stereos and laptops
lying around in the kitchen), so we could be flippant about the whole thing. We had some great
laughs with the police who could not pronounce Greek, Thai, Spanish or Arabic names, we were
suspiciously asking each other "Do you have an alibi for that time?" and dear Kat got instructed
never to clean again. The news that people would come to lift off any fingerprints from the
window and to take ours for comparison, only added to the excitement. I spent the next hour
painting my nails and rehearsing "Oh, I do. I do!" just in case a policeman told me "Give me your
hand, please." We *hearted* the Brit coppers, and they were frequent visitors at our flat. The
burglar was never caught, but 5 pounds were well worth all the fun we had.
(not much of a story - one of you has a much better one and I beg that cultist to post it
here)
Okay, loki just made me think of this.
A few years back, they brought out these Cabbage Patch Kid dolls that had mechanical
mouths, and you could feed them plastic food, and they would "chew" it and eat it. Quickly after
their release, they took the dolls off the market. Why, you ask? Because American children are
stupid. American children are the reason they had to do away with scented crayons, because they
would keep eating them, even if they weren't food-flavored. They had to stop making these dolls
because young girls would get their hair caught in the dolls' mouth and their hair would get
ripped right off their head.
Anyway, after seeing several of these incidents on the news and marveling at their
stupidity, I one day found out that one of my friend's youngest sisters actually had one of these
dolls. I looked at it and though, how dumb would you have to be. So I put a sizeable piece of my
waist length hair in the doll's mouth.
Needless to say, my friend was immediately running for scissors to free me from the doll.
After that it didn't seem so stupid to me anymore.
Posted by Lazlosdead on 10-22-2003 02:42 AM:
I won't let this thread die
Alright here goes.
When I was in AIT (advance individual training) I was a holdover. The Army has a weird
talent for losing records. So, instead of going home, I got to stay at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, for a while
longer, until my orders could be fixed.
One Tuesday night, my friend Ken (also a hold-over) were bored. Seeing as the Drill
Sergeants didn't care about what holdovers did, we decided to go off post. When I say, "Didn't
care" I mean didn't have much control over.
Where to go? Where to go?
STRIP CLUB!
Not just any strip club, but a strip club that would let me get in even though I was 17. And
would serve me beer. Beer that was $7 a gallon.
Having too much money and too little sense we drank 4 gallons between the two of us,
over three hours.
So, now it's a little late and we stumble out too get a taxi. Taxis are everywhere at Ft. Sill.
We begin to head toward base in the taxi.
After a few minutes, Ken asks the taxi driver to go through a What-A-Burger drive-thru.
I say, "Noo, we need to go to Cha-lie Secon' of the eightieth... (Charlie 2-80 was our unit).
Ken gets food anyway.
Now all over this taxi are signs that say, "If you throw up in my cab, that'll be a $100 dollar
charge."
You know where this is going. Ken opens the What-A-Burger bag and I throw up. All over
me.
Crazy taxi driver yells, "You get any in my cab, you owe me a hunn-ad dollas!"
"It's all on me."
"You gotta throw up again, you tell me, and I pull over!"
"Pull over."
He does, and of course, I can't puke. When the cab starts moving again, "Blarrg!"
"Dammit!" says our new friend.
After Ken explained to him that the cab, was in fact, clean, we ended up where we were
going. Close to it anyway.
Ken came up with the idea, that we should sneak up the stairs, instead of having a cab
pull up in front of the barracks, so we wouldn't be seen by the Drill Sergeants. After all, we were
out past curfew, drunk, and not of legal age to drink.
Ken tried to convince me he'd "Scout out the area" and come back for me. He said the best
thing to do was sleep by the ATM. I wasn't that drunk.
So, we snuck up to our floor like drunk little ninjas.
Now, we were also told that the doors had alarms, to tell the DSs if a soldier left. We went
and Ken paid the guards $20 to have not seen us. (There were NO alarms on the door in reality. )
So, I got to my bed, through my vomit covered shirt in my wall locker and went to bed.
Two hours later, it was time for P.T. (physical training).
I was drunk to the point, my friends had to hold me up for role call. And that's the only
time, I can remember, that P.T. was an hour's worth of fuckin' sit-ups.
One of you has been quite naughty... And now that person is getting quite shy about
sharing their exploits with the rest of the Cult. Here is where Auntie Loop comes to the rescue. I
have been sent the following account, as I am completely unconnected to the person who wrote it
and can therefore publish it keeping the "offender" anonymous. And everyone is happy. Sit
comfy, children, here comes a story:
Well it was a Sunday night, I believe, and the target was a two story townhouse with a jet
black VW Bora V5 in the driveway that lived around the corner. So I did my thing. There was a
light rizzle on the night, and a nearby factory was making some noise, so I was in my element. So I
picked the lock to their garage roller door (4 pin cylinder, piece of piss), and rolled it up a foot or
so, enough to slide under. Once in the garage, I made my way through a heap of clutter to the door
that led to the lounge room, which I predicted they didn't bother to lock. I wasn't disappointed. I
let myself in silently, and began taking inventory. There was the silhouette of a laptop on a table
near the kitchen, and a mountain bike with disc brakes in the garage I'd walked past. Then I found
the house keys on the couch, and silently pocketed them. It was getting close to the end of
business hours for me, around 4am I believe. Thieves work between the time when white collars
finish checking their emails and go to bed, say midnight, and the time when blue collars get up for
work, say 4am. So I took a few last looks around the place and left without a trace. The owners
probably wasted half an hour looking for their house keys the next Monday morning. They
definitely didn't find them.
Then I think it wasn't until Wednesday night that I returned. I unlocked their front door
with their own keys, and went to work. I was like a kid in a candy store in there, lemme tell you. I
just kept reaching and filling up my black shoulder bag. An Oakley sport watch, a male's wallet
with $80 in it, which I positioned on the kitchen counter so he'd know I'd turned it down. I was
going to leave it sacred. Then a Nokia cell phone, a Swatch chronograph watch, a Sony laptop, a
Giant mountain bike. And then the key to the Bora. Now this was one very trick key. It had the car
alarm buttons built into it, with the VW logo on one side and three buttons on the other. And a
little button on the side, that when pressed, flicks the key out of the alarm unit. Nifty as. Please
note while doing this, there was an excessive amount of snoring coming down the stairs. Which is
a good sign, it means they're asleep, and not whispering into the phone to the police. So, being the
evil prat I am, I took a magnetic memo pad off the fridge, found a pen, and wrote with shocking
adrenalin shaking handwriting something like
"To whoever –
morals.
An effort will be made to get your desktop documents and sim card back to you. I do have SOME
P.S some 'Breath-rights' from your local chemist will help clear up that snoring problem.
-
the thief”
and whacked it back on the fridge. So with my shoulder bag full, I wheeled the bike out the door
and down the street to some vacant land, where I stashed it with the bag.
It had gone 4:30 by this point I think, so I was eager to finish. I went back up the road and
hid in the garden across the road from the bora. I aimed the alarm at it, and pressed it. There was
no loud "Bip! Bip!" which I was thankful for, and I heard the door unlock and the interior light
came on in the car. Very trick. I waited to see if I'd woken the people, just watching their bedroom
window, waiting to see a hand bend the blinds out of the way... it didn't happen. I waited too long;
the car relocked itself as I snuck over. I unlocked it again, and slowly opened the car door, and slid
in. Slid into the GLORIOUS cream leather seats inside.
My ass was in heaven, here. I put the key in the ignition, and here I'll tell you I have
exactly f/a experience driving a car. I put it in gear, and tried turning the key, it wouldn't turn. I
started trying different variations of gears and handbrakes. And the mo' fo' of a seatbelt light was
on too, which I had to put on. I was a cat burglar, not a car thief, and I was probably only seconds
away from the right variation and ignition, when the window made a tapping sound. Oh. Shit. I
looked up. It was an old geezer, maybe 50, wearing a singlet and tracksuit pants, no shoes. I nodded to him, then undid my seat belt and got out. The adrenalin was flowing at this point; I was
struggling to compose myself as I spoke to him.
"What's the problem?" he asked.
"I think it's the battery" I said.
He kept looking at me suspiciously. "Is this your car?" he said.
"No, it's my uncle's" I motioned up at the bedroom window as I said it.
"Why are you wearing gloves?" he asked, motioning to the black inner gloves I was
wearing *VERY professional*
"It's a cold night" I said, and tried to look cold.
And then he said, in a blue-collar tradesman accent which always brings a smile to my
face, "I think you're trying to NICK it" he looked at me trying to read my face.
I smiled a toothy grin while trying to look shocked "I wouldn't DREAM of it" I said, ever
the fucking charmer.
My charm was lost. He tried to grab me, spitting something about "you little" out of his
mouth. He couldn't get a grip. My furry high collar vest was both fashionable, AND functional.
We circled each other for a few seconds, waiting for the other to make a move. The car was lost at
this stage. Now preservation of my freedom and the stashed loot was main priority. I reached for
the knife on my belt. (I carried a knife in case I was ever in such a situation, not to injure anyone,
but more of a visual warning to discourage would-be vigilantes) he saw me reaching for my
waistline, and tried to grab me again, I was too quick, pushed him aside, and bolted down the
street. He sprinted after me for a bit, but he wasn't wearing shoes, and gave up. I reached my stash
in the darkness of the vacant land, put the bag over my shoulder, hopped on the bike, and rode
off.
And that was the defining point in my career. I gained entry to a house, and was out the
door with some $65k worth of merchandise, without waking the owners.
I'd broken out of society's boundaries, lived my dreams with no limits, and was back in
bed a law-abiding citizen by dawn. Sometimes it all seems like a dream, like a hybrid of fantasy
and reality. But then I type something on my laptop, and realize it was real...
Posted by dr dylan mcmillan on 10-23-2003 10:22 AM:
I’m not a writer- so please forgive shitty punctuation-sentence structure etc.
After spending far too much time in an all-boys education (discipline) institution, I was
finally admitted into a slightly more liberal co-ed school where I was fortunate enough to fall in
with the ‘fun’ crowd. It wasn’t the bad-ass ‘cool’ crowd, nor the hierarchical, bigoted, jock crowd.
We weren’t the socially maladjusted nerds though some of us were reasonably literate, but instead
we were a motley bunch united by our common desire to laugh ourselves silly whilst trapped in
the system. We shared a certain penchant for foolish behaviour.
At the time of this incident, my friend (we’ll call him pat) was having some family trouble
and was kicked out of home for a while. His parents were going away for the weekend on a short
holiday. They had changed the locks and deadlocked the whole house. Unperturbed, we simply
took the doors off the hinges, disabled the alarm and proceeded to call everyone we knew.
a whole mess of people turned up and the party was swingin’... but we weren’t the type of
kids to be contented with the obvious and foreseen. To really get our kicks we needed to do
something particularly stupid and pointless. e.g. we went through a phase of flagging. where we
would try to steal as many flags as possible during a night- mainly from new housing estates,
schools etc.
anyways.. on the night of the party we got to wandering around a new estate, which was
built nearby and found a house that was not yet completed. We walked in and monkey-climbed
the frame to the second storey. There we found, loosely placed in the frame, a brand new
Jacuzzi-spa. We stood beaming at one another, the same drunken grin slapped across each of our
faces. Within a couple of minutes we were excitedly/clumsily lowering the spa down to the
ground level.
There were about five of us- two of which were paranoid as hell, half-bent, hissing code
signals and doing commando rolls to avoid the enemy. The rest of us were laughing uncontrollably as we carried our prize home. We stopped briefly by the entrance to ‘PANORAMA estate’ in
order to modify the big, bold, brass lettering.
We giggled maniacally at the prospect of residents being greeted by the words PORN
MAMA on return to their humble home.
We were hailed as ‘half-wit kings’ on return to the party. The spa was rapidly filled with
water and crazyfolk.. Those returning were only slightly curious as to how the fire became so
fucking big. The endorphins were busy rushing around our heads, giving us a familiar and satisfied sense of stupidity.
For a moment, the mood was almost serene, until pat came tearing out of the house,
screaming like a Chewbacca, and proceeded to leap, limbs flailing like a madman, over the fire. at
the same moment, someone had decided that the fire needed a few more litres of petroleum
distillate “to really get it goin”.
Within a minute, the Fire Brigade turned up, sirens blaring. kids scrambled… like the
monty python race for people with no sense of direction. Pats parents came home to find half their
backyard charred and smouldering, their son in hospital with third degree burns and “….. is that a
fucking Jacuzzi?”
no formal charges were ever laid.
Posted by succotash moon on 10-24-2003 01:06 PM:
Two weeks back I asked my boss for a couple hours off on October 24, today. I explained I
had a doctor’s appointment (my yearly check-up), and needed to leave work a bit early. She told
me she’d run it by “the man.” Now, “the man” is the gentleman running the show, more or less,
sort of the owner’s henchman (I work for a janitorial company, by the way). Anyways, he’s a total
dick, and to say he doesn’t like me is a gross understatement. He fucking hates me, or so that’s the
impression I get. I’ve never really met the man myself, so I could be wrong, but considering his
actions in regards to anything I’ve requested, I’m guessing he’s not fond of me. He has written me
up twice, denied vacation time (when my father was going through brain surgery for god sakes),
threatened to fire me more times than I can remember, denied my request for a change in shift,
denied, well, denied just about everything I’ve asked for.
So anyways, I get word back that I needed to try and change the appointment, as Friday
was not a good day to leave early. Mind you, the work we do is about as simple as it comes, we
have a larger crew than we need, and having one person absent on what is traditionally the slow
day of the week has never been a problem. But regardless, I tried to change the appointment.
Now, the appointment isn’t just a standard appointment, it’s my yearly physical check-up where I
get the full work over. Blood work, hormone levels, prostate, breast exam, get my hormone prescriptions filled for another year, talk with doc, make sure I’m not “crazy” or whatever, that kind
of stuff. It’s a long drawn out thing, and has to be booked roughly two months in advance. I
explained this to my boss, and as I expected, I couldn’t get it rescheduled to a better time.
Now, last Wednesday, my boss tells me “the man” flat out denied my request, I cannot go
to the doctor. She explained that Day Porters (my position) should know to schedule their
appointments around work(which isn’t fucking possible because, hello, you work during the
day), and if I knew about this appointment two months ago, why didn’t I mention it before.
Naturally, I was frustrated. I assumed two weeks was plenty of notice to ask for a couple hours
off, especially considering that my co-workers have been known to give NO notice before the day
of their appointment and have received no grief whatsoever. Oh yea, worth noting, I’m not the
only who “the man” seemingly picks on, but there are certainly many others who have, what I see
as, complete freedom. Anyways, I’m bitching, I know, I’ll wrap it up.
Anyways, after considering my situation, the only good action to take, I felt, was to put in
my notice to quit. I had been looking for another job anyways, but working all day makes it
extremely difficult. Also, financially I’m okay right now. I’m not filthy rich, but I’m stable enough
to leave a job without something lined up. Throw in all the other bullshit I’ve been contending
with at work and it seemed like a brilliant idea. It would shine light on just what kind of an asshole “the man” really is, it would get me out of an environment I despise, and I’d still get to keep
my doctor’s appointment. Win, win, and win.
After I put in my notice, my boss told me “It’s better this way, believe me, it’s better than
what “the man” had planned for you.” Apparently my head was on the chopping block, and I
didn’t have much time left there anyways. So, my last week was spent spreading the word why
exactly I was leaving, meeting with building management about what I though about “the man”,
and living it up (PARTY!!!) with my co-workers. Anyways, my last day rolls around and I’m
legitimately sad to be leaving. As annoying as my co-workers can be, you just can’t work around a
group of people for three years and not become a family. It was a rough goodbye, for sure. That
was yesterday, Thursday, my last day.
Fast forward to today, Friday, about 9am…my phone rings, it’s the doctor’s office. My
doctor is at the hospital delivering a baby, and my appointment (the root of this whole fucking
mess) is cancelled. It’s now rescheduled for mid November…
…goodtimes.
Posted by Lazlosdead on 10-26-2003 02:17 AM:
Strange Sign
In Corpus Christi my friends and I were driving once. I was taking pictures of various
things. There was a sign that said "Home of naval warfare" or something fun like that.... but there
was another sign that I had to get a picture of.... It said "TWAT WELCOME HERE" and some dates
following it. I had to solve the mystery of the Twat. I went inside and began asking questions...
I asked such helpful questions as:
"Does the Twat come here often?" "Is the Twat friendly?" "What's the Twat's favorite
drink?"
Til we were asked to leave.
TWAT stands for Texas Women Angler's Tournament. I guess there'd have been too many
jokes with "T-FAT"
So, Halloween night. My brother and I go out at about 1 in the morning trolling the streets
for parties at MSU. Most of the parties were dead, leaving drunken idiots wandering the streets.
Then I met up with Aaron, a friend from work, and he's with Daryl, his friend, a country boy fresh
out of the Marine Corps. Both of these guys were already trashed. Aaron leads us around, and
finally after high fives with numerous strangers, we found another party. We immediately started
drinking, and Aaron was talking to this girl for the longest time, and she was on the MSU
basketball team, I forgot her name, but she was wearing a toga. Aaron gets her number, and runs
through house screaming at us, "I've got it! My awesome skills! Take notes bitches!"
Some guy who lived at the house told him t o stop yelling, so Aaron immediately runs
into the backyard, lifts their garbage can, and throws it into the side of the house while screaming,
"AND THAT'S FOR HAVING A SHITTY PARTY MOTHERFUCKERS!"
So Daryl grabs Aaron by the collar, and gets us the fuck out of there before any shit
started, but as soon as Aaron got into the parking lot, he starts kicking car windows screaming,
"HEY YOU GUYS! I HAVE A COSTUME! I'M A RIOTER! GET IT?"
And the car window kicking continued, until we pulled him away. Aaron is a funny kid
sometimes, but he says and does really, really stupid things. The other day I made some joke and
called him a terrorist, so he adopted it as his own, calling anybody who infringed on his beloved
freedom a terrorist. Just when things were settling down, he cracked this joke to the wrong person.
Three guys walk towards us, and they ask if we know where any parties are. Aaron yells, "YEAH
SUCH AND SUCH IS OVER THERE! I GOT HER NUMBER!!!"
"fuck you then asshole..."
"FUCK YOU TERRORIST!"
Then the biggest one stops, and grabs Aaron by the shoulder. Apparently he was
Lebanese, and very pissed off. Daryl pushes the guy off of Aaron, and the guy shoves Daryl. and
Daryl says, "If you're going to do something, do it now..."
the guy doesn't move. we just stare on, sipping our beers in anticipation with the other 2
guys...
after about ten seconds Daryl shrugs and says "fine", he slugs the guy in the jaw, and
continues to pound on his face while he's on the ground. Aaron and I held back the other 2, Aaron
screaming, "STAY BACK TALIBAN, BACK!"
I just hoped that Darly was the one doing the punching, it was dark, and we were a little
disoriented. SO, at this point the big guy is about dead, and one of the others starts trying to slug
me, Aaron tackles him, and starts pushing his face into the sidewalk, screaming, "EAT GRAVEL
TALIBAN!", just then some chick pulled up in her car and started yelling at us, "FIGHTING IS
NOT COOL!", she screamed, "STOP FIGHTING NOW!"
Aaron looks up from his victim on the sidewalk and yells back, "SHUT THE FUCK UP
BITCH, YOU WANT A PIECE OF US!?"
I grabbed Dylan by the arm, and got the hell outta there.
One of 29 reported fights on campus this weekend.
Posted by succotash moon on 12-08-2003 09:15 AM:
Hell is a small interstate motel, where the demons pay by the week and the devil leaves
the light on for ya’. This is where I work...I actually work in hell. Things had been getting silly for
quite some time, but today was sooooo fucked. The manager, who hates everyone and likewise, is
hated by everyone, found a friendly (or just naïve) face in me, and after I just recently started, has
made me the head bitch. Today, with less than one month of housekeeping experience under my
belt, I was the chica in charge. Mind you, no one bothered to tell me what I was supposed to do,
they never do, you’re just supposed to figure that stuff out yourself, generally after people start
bitching at you. My first order of business was to listen to the manager NOT tell me what my job
was, but instead explain what a bunch of “dumbasses” I was about to adopt…hell of a pep talk.
Then, she informed me that I was training a new girl who just happened to speak zero English.
Not a huge issue, unless you take into account that none of the Hispanic girls speak English, and
none us Gringos speak a lick of Spanish. So, while I’m trying to learn a new position in which I
have zero training, I’m training a girl who can’t understand a word I say. I mean, this girl’s
English was as bad as my Spanish. She turned out to be a pretty damn good housekeeper, in spite
of the fact her supervisor is utterly clueless.
God, my body hurts so fucking bad. I put in ten hours today, which sucks when you consider you never stop moving, I mean never. You are always working, always running, you never
get so much as a second to stop and go, “Gee-whiz, this job really fucking sucks!” You get a half
hour lunch break, plenty of time to sit quietly in the lounge and think about the choices you’ve
made in life. And people can be unfathomably nasty, both in hygiene and personality. Some asshole threw something at one of the girls today because she woke him up at, oh my god, almost
noon, which is check-out time anyways. The fucker then booked back into the motel tonight, and
specifically asked to not be disturbed tomorrow. That asshole is SOOOO going to be disturbed
tomorrow…you just don’t fuck with the housekeeper.
Our motel allows pets, which is a raging pain in the ass. Some asshole today didn’t even
bother to put his dog food in a bowl, just dumped out a nice pile on the floor, which his dog kindly
distributed to every nook and cranny in not only the room, but the entire Western Hemisphere,
I’m sure of it. I never knew so much depended upon a bowl, but believe me, they are the bedrock
of modern society, without them…chaos. We had needles on the desks, vomit in the sinks,
surprises left in the commode, surprises NOT left in commode, bloody sheets, a whole collection
of totally unnatural natural disasters. All the while, I’m running back and forth, checking in with
the new girl to make sure we still can’t communicate. “Hi, you have a stay-over next.” She smiles.
“Don’t go into the room, there are people still in there, wait for me and I’ll show you what we do.”
She smiles. “Room 107, don’t go in there, wait for me, okay?” She smiles, and says something I
can’t understand… I smile.
Later…
I’ve had some sleep now, and I’m feeling much better, thank you. Now I get to do it all
over again today. YAY!!!
Posted by Dennis on 12-10-2003 01:15 AM:
Jesus, this thread is brilliant. I wonder why it took me so long to post here.
Anyway, I am the king of embarrassing moments. Dark days in my life, which fashioned
many of my teenage years. The type of kid who lived by the code of Murphy's Law.
Let's see, I got the Black Bear/camping story... the shit on my pants in High School story...
the acid/dust/16 "guilder" shots/7 joints story in Amsterdam...
I'll tell the snowboarding story to start.
I was up snowboarding with friends about 7 yrs ago at Hunter Mountain in NY. I was at
the top of this huge trail way up on the mountain. Very steep. And the edges of the trail were
extremely iced over. Furthermore, there was a fence running down the whole right length of the
mountain b/c... beyond the fence was a steep drop off into woodland.
Now, from the edge of the trail's side to the fence was about the distance of like 5 feet
maybe. And so if you walked to the side edge of the trail and looked down, it was like a ten-foot
drop down to a long path that ran down the length of the trail to the bottom where the ski lift was.
(probably used as for maintenance and ski staffers to go up and down without having to ski it)
Anyway, long story short, I was trying to monorail with my board on the icy edge of this
trail when I caught a bad patch and went right off the side. The ice threw me forward and I sort of
crashed into the fence and then began my plummet downwards. Only my board was wedged
above me in-between the icy edge of the trail and the fencing.
Now, picture the way Luke Skywalker is hanging upside down in that cave on Hoth in the
Empire Strikes Back.
This was what I looked like... to a "t."
Now, I'm one of those people that panics if I'm upside down for too long. All the blood
goes to my face and I started freaking.
So here I am trying to stretch my arm up and reach the binding on my board so I can
un-do my boots and then collapse the 10 feet down into the path beside the mountain trail.
And continually... I get a gloved finger on the binding, but can't undo the latch.
So I start panting and yelling for help. Yet at the same time, I'm so fucking embarrassed
b/c I can just picture the guy/girl who finds me, wondering, "Hell the hell did you even accomplish getting yourself in this position, you idiot?"
Finally, after what seemed like hours (but was probably only mins)... I got the binding
undone. I fell down into the snow and just laid there for a while, totally freaked out. Then I
jumped up and yanked my board down into the path with me and had to walk the entire fucking
length of the mountain down to the lodge.
This is one of those stories that people can never truly appreciate or understand. It's the
type of unheard thing that happens so rarely... so it when it happens to you, it's almost like you
have entered another world and briefly glimpsed the horror that awaits you there.
Posted by alex cassun on 12-12-2003 03:27 AM:
I'm posting on this thread not because I have anything particularly brilliant to say (you
know me), but because I want to partake in history.
One of my most embarrassing moments in my life came on the first day of 9th grade. The
day before classes began, I refused to let my parents take me cloths shopping unless we went
somewhere other than K-Mart. So we went to JC Penny's, and I was stoked. I got some new cloths
and I felt really good going into the new year.
I swore to myself that this was going to be the year when I stood out of the crowd and
made a name for myself. So I decided I'm going to balls it up and ask out the girl I've been
crushing on for years. That morning, during first period, I did just that. Her response was, 'Let me
think about it. I'll let you know after school.' Not know that this was the way a girl blows off a guy,
I accepted this and went on with my day. So, later, in 7th period, the last in the day, I was in PE
class, and we were choosing teams for basketball, and I was on her team, and she was really nice
and smiley towards me, and I knew that her answer was going to be yes. I was ecstatic.
So we were playing, and the basketball courts were divided by a volleyball net. Well, the
game was close and the time was almost out and someone passed me the ball but it slipped and
started to go out of bounds. But I followed it, chased after it with all the speed I could muster
because I wanted to show my self to everyone, especially this girl. Then I close lined myself. Right
out of Loony Toons, it was that bad. My feet went up in the air and I landed flat on my back. It was
ugly and everybody laughed, even the teacher. Afterwards, I couldn't look her in the eyes and
when she came to talk to me I kind of just turned the corner and walked away.
So I suck at telling stories, but here's one anyway.
And really, these first few paragraphs are just the prelude - kind of boring story, but I
dunno, it seems semi-necessary.
Friday night me and two friends go out to Rich's. It's a pretty cool club we went to last
weekend. Just found it's actually a gay club, though - but Friday night is 'Spundae' so for that
night it's 'not gay'.. *shrug*
Makes it kind of interesting, though. Trying to guess which chicks are lezz and which
aren't, heh. So we go there and all take a tab, except the driver takes two. Unfortunately, this man
cannot handle his drugs. We meet this really cool married couple - 21(chick) & 24(guy) and they
invite us to their apartment out in Katy for a little afterparty deal. Not much of a party, just
hanging out. Two Peruvian guys come, too.
So now that we're leaving, the driver wants to drive, since it's his dad's work truck or
some shit. And my other friend is freaking out - cos the driver's rolling his mother fucking ass off,
going crazy pretty much. Finally after almost getting into two wrecks we convince him to pull
over and let me drive. I'm such a great drug-abuser. Cool as fucking shit in these kinds of situations. Anyway, I take over and everything's fine for the rest of the night. But really, he shouldn't
have taken two, he starts having trouble breathing and getting too crazy and shit - hell, even just
on one tab that was pretty fucking weak two weeks before he was hyper as hell. I only took half of
one of those tabs, but I hardly even felt it and this guy's goin nuts, but not in a bad way - just kind
of annoying.
Anyway, we get back to their place and hang out all night. Two other guys that are good
friends of theirs drop by and hang out for a bit. Then they leave, then the Peruvian dudes leave.
Everyone there was really cool, which was nice. So, it gets to be dawn and the husband
half-jokingly says we should get another tenpack. Everyone loves this idea - so we end up doing it.
It's bad for them, cos they have a daughter and shit (she was with the wife's mom for the
weekend), but we end up getting one anyway.
We have to drive back to the northside of Houston though to get my car, cos my friend
can't keep his truck all weekend cos it's needed for his dad's business. So we get my car and head
back, so fucking tired at this point. But shortly after we got back the wife shows up with some
friends and the tabs. I don't really take tabs much, so this may not be saying much, but they were
the best ones I've ever taken and everyone I talk to speaks highly of them. Blue torches, I think. I'm
not really sure, cos there was talk of like 3 diff blue types & I got them all mixed up.
So then we all take one. Then a little bit later my friend that can't handle his shit wants to
sell me another, and the couple had each taken another too, so I take one too and he splits another
w/ my other friend. I've never taken more than one tab before, and these were pretty strong, but I
was fine. Rolling fucking hard, but not in a bad way at all. Anyway, we're all just chilling in the
living room, when we look over and see my friend with a towel over his head. He's just laying on
the floor... All of a sudden he starts hitting the floor with his fist and we think he's having a
nightmare or something, so my other friend takes off the towel and he fucking flips out and runs
into the corner and curls up into a ball.
He had this beanie covering his entire head and started crawling around trying to hide
under the table and this chair and all kinds of shit. Nobody was too worried at this point, just
trying to get him out of it. Then he just slumps forward, face-first, stops breathing and goes totally
still. He's fucking drenched with sweat and for a minute me and the wife thought he was fucking
dead. Finally he takes this really deep breath and then this shit just kept repeating.
He started talking about this doctor that was going to kill him and how he was trapped in
a cage and couldn't get out and when we tried to take off the beanie (cos we didn't think it was
helping the whole breathing situation) he'd flip out on us. He's a big guy, too, so we're worried he
might get violent.
This shit went on for about two hours. Finally I got this chick on his phone that he's really
close with... And he's talking to her and repeating what she said - and it was directions. Basically,
she was helping him navigate through this fucked up nightmare he was in. He said he had to find
a key, and the dumb bitch goes and says it's invisible. What the fuck?!?! So of course he gets really
upset and I hear him saying "there's no key!??!?! I'm gonna be trapped here forever?!?!" and I'm
just thinking "oh fucking hell"... But luckily the wife is like "no, there is a key, I can see it" and
we're all looking around for something to give him and finally we give him some chapstick and
tell him to open it to get out. So he does it and says he's out, but he starts getting crazy again,
saying the doctor is still out there and he's gonna get him.
So the husband turns on the lights and he just goes fucking apeshit, saying it needs to be
dark cos the doctor came from the darkness so he can leave with it. We don't turn them off though,
cos we're thinking at this point we just need to force him out of it or he's gonna be like this for a
long fucking time. He gets so upset over it though that we finally turn it off. Then he starts beating
on his chest like crazy, saying he needs to get it out of him. After that, he comes out of it and seems
okay.
He goes on to tell us that he was in the bathroom, after taking that 1 & a half... And he
started playing with these little glowsticks in the mirror and that it made the whole room go dark
& red/green, but then there was a third color... And he was getting weirded out by this, and at the
time he was wearing of those doctor's masks and he says that all of a sudden his reflection got
really dark and came out of the mirror after him - so apparently that was the 'doctor'. This freaked
him out, so for some dumbass reason he decides to take another fucking tab. After that,
apparently he put my friend in a cage - like, his real self - the one he could control, was trapped.
But then the doctor took over his body that we were with - said he got really small and got right
between his eyes and was working fucking levers and shit to control him.
He said he could hear everything we were saying, and he was aware of everything that
went on, but he couldn't do anything about it. He even had this name right - see, at one point
someone asked him what his name was and he paused for a second and said "Louis", which isn't
his name. And after all this he told us about that, how he had said his real name, but the doctor
didn't let that get out and said Louis instead.
And the breathing bit... He said that there was a vent in the cell that he was in or whatever, and that it kept closing, and every time we'd push on him (we did that whenever he stopped
breathing and kept tellin him to breathe) it would open the vent and let him breathe.
And the whole time I had been telling my other friend to leave the room, cos I knew his
presence was having a negative affect on the situation. I wanted to leave too, cos I didn't think I
was helping either (just people being around him in general was freaking him out), but I didn't
want to just leave him with the couple, I'd feel bad about that. But yeah, my friend wouldn't
fucking go away and after it all the guy that was flipping out said that my friend had turned into
the fucking doctor. God damn I called that. But he said every time he opened his eyes we all
looked like monsters to him and if he had been able to stand up he would have attacked us.
But he still wasn't over it, which sucked. By the time he got out of it, it was around 3am,
and the wife spent about an hour trying to talk to him about it and calm him down. Then we all
went out and talked to him, but he was still losing it. He kept closing his eyes (cos none of us got
any sleep the night before, not to mention we hadn't had anything to eat in the last 2 days except a
couple of slices of pizza).. And every time he did that he'd fall back into it. Jesus, every five seconds he'd zone out and we'd wake him up and his eyes would explode open and he'd look back
and forth at all of us really fast, like he didn't have any clue who the fuck we were - and every time
I'd have to remind him who we were and then he'd calm down. And every time he'd ask where he
was and we'd have to explain it to him.
Finally he seemed a little better so the couple went to sleep cos they had to get up early to
pick up their daughter the next morning. This was about 5am-ish. Me & my friend stayed in the
living room with him and we just kinda sat there watching him. Every time he fell asleep it was
obvious he was having bad nightmares, saying all kinds of strange shit. We kept waking him up
and letting him calm down, but after a few seconds he'd zone out and see weird shit again. So he
went to the bathroom to vomit (he had been vomiting ever since he 'got out of it') and my friend
goes to check on him, and he's lying on the fucking floor. My friend nudges him and he flips out
and gets back in the corner, yelling at him to get out. We remind him who we are and he tells us
that since the bathroom was all covered in red (they put up blankets & pillows and shit to cover
the mirror, cos he was scared to death of that thing [seeing as that is what the doctor fucking came
out of] - and since it was their little daughter's bathroom, it's all decorated in pink) he thought he
was in hell and when my friend tried to wake him up he thought he was a demon or something.
Ugh.
Then he gets back in bed and he keeps having nightmares, and every time we woke him
up it got worse. The last time he said something about being trapped in a coffin, which had happened the original time. So we're thinking "jesus, he's gonna fucking go back into it..."
So we decide to stop waking him up, cos at this point it seems like he's just gonna have to
tough it out till this shit wears off. So my friend goes to sleep and I'm left alone with him, pretty
fucked up feeling myself, and he starts getting really bad. Talking in his sleep about dying and
shit and then he starts waking up - where he bolts up and looks around really quick then hides
under the covers. I'm just lying down through this, cos I know if he sees me it'll just make it worse.
Finally I let him see me though, and of course immediately remind him that it's just me - and he
wakes up and I'm talking to him. And I ask if he wants me to get the wife - cos she was the only
one that could keep him calm. He wants to try and get through it one more time, but he zones out
right after saying that and flips out again, so I go get the wife and bring her back...
We're sitting there talking with him, and he seems to be doing a little better, but still
zoning out on us. What finally seemed to bring him out of it was the sun rising. I had been wondering about that - since he hated the lights more than anything when he was really in it. But I
thought, since maybe it's natural light it'll be okay. And it seemed to be really good. After it got
nice and light inside he started zoning out on us again and we were thinking he was just going
back into it, but when we'd snap him out of it he'd giggle and shit and tell us how he was seeing all
these colors and such. And from there on out he had a blast, said the whole experience was like
tripping, and now it had finally gone good on him.
Not really sure what triggered it, he seemed to think it was laced with acid or something,
but why didn't any of the rest of us experience any visuals or anything? I think it was just stronger
than what he's used to, plus he just rolled pretty hard the night before - dehydrated, sleep
deprived, food deprived and like I said - I don't think his body is good at handling this shit. He
said he had taken coke before and he really didn't like it at all. So yeah, I just think he can't handle
the semi-harder shit, and coupled with being as worn out as he was.. Yeah.
All in all, it was quite a fucking experience, and I guess we all got pretty close with this
couple - awesome people, really. Of course, him flipping out pretty much killed all our rolls for
that night, kinda sucked. But up until then the whole weekend had been really fucking great, and
even after that - it was just a fucking adventure.
Moral of the story: people that can't handle their drugs can get really fucking annoying.
Posted by Nightrious on 12-15-2003 05:49 AM:
Wow, that was long.
I had no idea drugs could do all that to somebody. One time when I was eight, I had a
really bad cold and my mom gave me some pills that I guess were to strong for me. I don't
remember much of it, all I remember is being in a field and there was a bomb that was going to
blow up soon, and I was Wolverine from the X-men. My family said I kept screaming and yelling
the world was going to end. I don't remember that part, though.
I would love to see something like that. I gotta start hanging around with people that do
drugs.
It was so straight out of all those stories you hear about people's really bad trips. The only
thing I've experienced like that is when I try to go to sleep on painkillers. Like, it's happened on
Hydrocodine & Vicadin and even on fucking Nyquil. It's like, when I abuse those types of drugs
and just get fucked up on them I'm fine, but when I take them cos I actually need them cos I'm in
pain/sick, I try to go to sleep and freak out. It basically feels like I get 'stuck' in that phase between
being awake and being asleep and I have the worst nightmares, but they're not really nightmares,
cos I'm sort of awake. It really sucks, cos I get really into it and I get into a cold sweat and the
worst part is it's really hard to tell what's real and what's not. You start imagining all kinds of shit,
and I don't 'see' things, but I'll just start thinking I'm somewhere else and all kinds of bad shit is
going on and I'll get so sucked into it and then I'll realize it's not happening - I'm just lying in my
fucking bed, but despite realizing this, you keep falling back into it. And I feel like that's a similar
situation to what my friend experienced - his was just a million times more intense.
It was strange - the whole time it was happening to him, everyone seemed to be at a loss to
explain it. But for some reason I felt like I could tell what was happening to him. I mean, I guess it
was just the tabs & sleep deprivation affecting me in a similar way - I just didn't lose control, but
still, it was kinda weird. Like the whole time I was catching all these things that were making him
worse and nobody else caught on to it.
The husband said he had had bad trips before on acid and shit, but it was nothing like this
at all. He said he had no idea the mind could do such crazy shit - and this guy and his wife had
really got into X, acid, coke and everything before they had their kid. So it's not like he's new to
this or anything and he still had never experienced anything like that or seen anyone do it - had
only heard 'those stories'... But yeah, I'm not sure how bad it sounds written down - but being
there was pretty fucked up, probably especially since we were all pretty fucked up ourselves. I'm
just glad nobody freaked out in response to it. Some people just can't handle situations like that
and get all worried and shit - we were all really calm and collected about it, just trying to help him
out.
And yeah, long... Oops.
Posted by Pooka on 12-15-2003 10:34 AM:
A couple of people suggested I put this on here. It was originally on the "My First
Erection" thread.
I don't remember the first time I had an erection, but I do remember the first time I topped
off my first lot.
All my friends at school was talking about how they'd all done it, and how fucking great it
was, and I'm there thinking, "Have I had an orgasm?" - A sentiment many a woman I've slept with
has asked themselves at one time or another. Anyhoo, I had this big poster on my wall from the
movie "Up the Academy", it was a sexy spin off of Police Academy and had on the front this
gorgeous brunette lowering her knickers to accept a missile up her rectal passage. Every night I'd
whack off to that poster in the hope I too could top my first lot off. And every night I was disappointed - a sentiment that many a woman I've slept with has felt. So one night I'm in bed thinking
I'm all abnormal and shit, and I'm watching this Spanish film called "One Deadly Summer", and
it's like chock-full of full frontal shots of fine-looking senioritis. Consequently I begin whacking off
big stylee, and after about a minute or so it just happens...It's like everywhere, on my face, on my
hands, on my duvet, on my pillowcase, on my poster of "Beverley Hill Cop" above my headboard,
everywhere... And I end up getting really scared; thinking I'm a fucking freak and that I’ve broke
my dick or something! Two seconds later my dad walks in wondering why he can hear Spanish
people talking. When he switches the light on, I'm covered in spunk and he just says to me, "Stop
fucking eating ice cream in bed. Your mother’s gonna go mental when she see this mess! And turn
off the fucking TV... Is that naked people on there?"
Arrr, Happy Days.
Posted by Pooka on 12-15-2003 10:35 AM:
Okay, I’ll give this place a go for real now.
This isn’t really a story as such, but more a compilation of scenario’s I have found myself
in when dealing with the fairer sex.
Before I get started, I want to point out that I have slept with quite a few women in the
time God has allocated me, not anywhere in the league of probably Wes or Brock, but there has
been situations where my current number could have been increased considerably if only fate,
language barriers, misinterpretation and fucking mackerel and coffee wouldn’t have intervened.
So that said, please read on and don’t mock me too much.
Like I said, I’m not a complete novice when it comes to sex. I simply class myself and
naively cautious. One such time was when I was about 18 and I was in an Indie club in Manchester. I got talking to this girl who liked my James t-shirt. We were basically chewing the fat
about bands, gigs we’d been to, life and drugs, you know, just your common variety verbal foreplay. So it’s getting quite late and we’re sat on this real sticky shag pile carpet discussing fashion
in the early nineties, when I go in for the kill – by which I mean a kiss. But instead of accepting my
lips with ardour, the bitch totally moved her head back a good foot and a half away almost
knocking a drink out of some fucking Skelator looking dude’s hand sat next to her. Slightly
embarrassed, but equally incensed with the fact I’d spent all night fucking buttering her up only to
get KO’d on my first attempt, I sat back into the moist fabric caressing and looked blankly out into
the shoegazing public in front of me.
A couple of seconds later, the girl tells me that she does likes me, but feels awkward
kissing in front of complete strangers! She tells me “It’s just something I don’t do”.
This came as no comfort to my pants which were becoming tighter and tighter around my
ass, but I accepted her explanation with a simple nod and shrug.
So we’re outside saying our goodbyes, by which point I’m just like so fucking bored of her
company, when out of nowhere she grabs my arm and pulls me into a small alcove adjacent to the
club entrance. Now the freaky bitch is all over me like shingles! Fucking tongue down my throat,
hands all over my crotch, pulling down my zip and shit, and they’re all these fucking people just
walking right past us, and she’s like, “Ohhhhhh, yeeeeahhhhh”, and I’m like, “Shhhhhhhhh,
plleeeeeaase.”
So anyway I finally get caught up in the moment and head South in search of warmer
climates. Luckily she had a skirt on so my journey was brief. Until that is I felt the synthetic feel of
nylon meet with my fingers. “Tights…” she replies all wheezy to a question I had yet to ask. It was
also a question I misunderstood as, “Tights…you best not rip them because it’s cold out and I
don’t want to freeze my ass off walking home.” Therefore, just after she relayed this information
about her under garments, I quickly did up my zip, kissed her on the cheek and thanked her for a
lovely evening, leaving her with just her skirt hanging snugly on her hips and half a tit showing to
all and sundry.
I then met with my friend who asked me how having sex in front of complete strangers
was like, to which I replied that she was very cautious of doing such things so we didn’t.
“Besides…” I said with flushed cheeks, “She had tights on, which she didn’t want me to tear…”
My friend looked me up and down with the an expression best left for homophobes being told
they need a prostrate examination by Elton John, and then proceeded to tell me that he had just
finished talking with her friend who had told him that I would be getting the best fuck of my life.
It seems the girl I was with has this system whereby she prolongs her sexual energy until the very
last minute of meeting someone, only then to let it all out and do pretty much everything and
anything to that person!
I nearly fainted running back to alcove. Fucking got there and this guy was all over, and
she was like “Oooohohhhhhhhh, yeeeeesssssss…” and I was like “Oh fucking heeeelllllll”.
Another time, I met this Spanish girl at a club in Blackpool. The thing was her English was
worst than my chat up lines, and all she could understand was “Cheers mate”. I say understand,
but really whenever I said that to her she just started pissing her sides. After many renditions of
the line I sealed my fate with a bit of tonsil tennis that needed no translation.
So this Spanish girl, her friend (who was engaged it seemed), my two friends and myself all end
up back at my friend’s caravan. As the night grew old and the “Cheers mate” line finally became
more irritating than funny to her Spanish ears, I point at the girl and then point at myself and then
finally make the international symbol of bedtime by placing my hands in a praying position then
sticking them beside my head.
The girl agrees and we head off into one of only two bedrooms in the caravan. Needless to
say, due to that fact we couldn’t speak a word to each other, the empty void between ourselves
was filled with much kissing and fumbling around in the dark. We’d got to the point where we
were both dry humping when I realise I hadn’t got any condoms. Knowing my friends wouldn’t
because they were lame in matters of protection, I proceeded to ask the girl if she had any.
The only thing was, how?
I opted for the, “Speak English only with a Spanish accent” approach. So I’m like “Doo ya
hava anya condomias?” The girl’s face was as vacant as her vagina. “Doo yoooo” I’m pointing by
now at her vagina and then my dick “Hava thingya to goa ona mya dicka?”
And she’s like, “Cheers mate?”
And I’m like, “Noa. Forgeta whata saya.”
By now I can hear my friends, who must be only three centimetres away on the other side
of the wall, pissing themselves and repeating what I’m saying. Trying not to lose face amongst the
ranks, I set about resolving the situation with just some simple facts that would be easily
translatable.
“I ama CLEANA! Cleana? Comprendi? Noa HIVa!”
By now my friends are in tears and her friend in banging on the door for her to come out.
A couple of minutes later the both of them are in a taxi heading home, and all I get off my friends
all night long is, “I ama CLEANA! I ama CLEANA!”
…
My final story is about a time I was really after banging this girl for ages. I mean I’m
talking years! We’d gone to college together for two years and spent most of that time just flirting.
We then spent another three years after just meeting up from time to time and snogging on my
Mom’s couch and shit. So anyway, I get to the point where I’ve got my own place and I invite her
round for a mercy fuck.
Now take into account the amount of time spent flirting, multiply it by the time spent
dabbling around the foreplay arena, then multiply that by the fact I hadn’t had sex in about three
months, and you’ve got two very large testicles and a lot of cold showers. So, no sooner was she
through the door and we’re ripping each other’s clothes off on the stairs. When we finally make it
to the bedroom I nearly passed out due to the amount of blood being pumped into my cock. Time
passed by only in still images of flesh – hair – ear – leg – labia – nipple – shoulder thereafter, all to
the pulsating bass line of Faithless’s Insomnia.
When the song finally finishes, she’s happily playing on my pink oboe, and I’m lost in a
state of sheer rapture. But it’s during that lull between tracks that I hear the death cry of my Gran
shouting from outside, “Crrrrriiiaaaggggg!!!!! I know you’re in, I can hear music!”
I look down to a face full of cock and to a pair of eyes as wide as my mouth. “It’ll be okay,”
I tell the face, “She’ll be gone in a sec…Just keep sucking love”
I was hoping for the music to kick back in to drown out any sounds coming from the
outside, but the fucking cd I had on was only a cd single and it had finished! “Crrrraaaiiigggg!!!!!!
I’ve got your mackerel and coffee!!!!!!”
The face I was still staring at, which had oozed nothing more than a sultry expression for
the last fifteen minutes, was now falling victim to the gravity of the situation, as was my dick.
“Crrrrraaaaigggggg!!!!! Me bunions are hurting!!! OPEN THE DOOR!!!!!”
With the mood completely killed, and my dick as limp as John Water’s wrist, I set about
resolving the situation with a verbal flogging towards my Gran’s inappropriate timing. This came
as no consolation to the girl, and as such kissed me on the lips and proceeded to vacate the house
from the backdoor.
I finally let my Gran in, and we shared a cup of Jo and mackerel butter together.
I feel there should be a, “So the moral of the story is…” line proceeding this, but I feel I’ve
embarrassed myself too much already.
Posted by Grae on 12-28-2003 11:52 PM:
So this is how it was. A few weeks ago 2 friends of mine and I were at the local
McDonalds, I have no idea why it was built in this town because there’s another one 6 miles away,
and another one 6 miles away from that one. So anyways, we're at the McDonalds, for some
reason unbeknownst to my friend we never got our usual McChicken sandwiches, we got
cheeseburgers, we thought he knew, we really thought he knew so we didn't say anything to him.
We went outside and stood against the wall outside the McDonalds and start talking, my friend
took a while to eat his damn McChicken sandwich, so me and my friend are finished our burgers
real quick because it's cold and he's still standing there tucking into this meal. So we start talking
and my friend casually says: "You read in the paper the other day someone got laid off because he
was caught beating off into the mayonnaise?"
Our eyes are on our friend after that, he's got the sandwich in his mouth and he's looking
at the ground, then he jerks forward and starts throwing up all over the ground and himself, he
drops his sandwich and eventually he stops being sick, he looks at us and he's got spew all down
the front of his denim jacket and he's got his hand on his head and rubbing his eye as if he just
woke up, he says to us: "Can someone go in and get me a tissue?"
Posted by Valchrist on 12-29-2003 01:41 AM:
I'd hate for this to go out without something from everyone in here, and I'm part of
everyone, and I don't have a story here.
So counter productive, hmm?
So the opposite of accomplishment, hey?
I had been having sleeping issues for about two weeks. I would be going to bed at 9:00am
and waking up at 6:00pm. I'd be falling asleep at 5:30pm and I'd be starting my day at 3:00am. I
was sleeping a lot, but not when I should have been. I was a zombie at all times, and I couldn't
seem to fix it. I finally got into a regular schedule, but it was backwards. I would sleep all day and
be up all night.
I was dating someone at the time. Her name was Lisa. She had the same problems.
It actually all started when we stayed up all night to do homework, smoke cigarettes and
have sex. She needed to study her Spanish and I...well, I just wanted to get laid.
So this night of blatant debauchery and not so blatant homeworkery spun us both out of
control sleep-wise. I ended up sleeping through all my classes. Meaning I slept, but I was still in
class. We became nighthawks. Only seeing each other in the early hours of morning, and never
during daylight.
We’d keep reassuring ourselves that the time we had in the early morning was prefect.
Everyone else was asleep, there was nothing to do, so it would be the best time to finish our
homework and study for tests. It was our pact.
The pact lasted for about an hour and a half before we put on a movie. When the movie
was over, sex was much more interesting. When the sun had risen above us at noon, we would be
tangled in each other, stupid and asleep.
So a week or so went by. We became animals, because we so rarely left her dorm room.
We would surface to eat and, in the case where we could stay up, go to school My life became as
primal as possible.
Eat, sleep and fuck.
We ended up agreeing that the only way we could fix our sleeping patterns was to pull
another all-nighter. In our case, an all-dayer, and then through the night again, to ensure we'd
sleep extra hard when we were supposed to.
I said, "How can we do that? We barely stay awake for 12 hours as it is."
She said, "Drink?"
I said, "Won't that make us more tired?"
She said, with hesitance, "Coke?"
I said, with no hesitance, "That's not funny."
She said, "I have a habit I should tell you about, then."
It was about a week later. I strolled into my English class at 8:30am, feeling refreshed and
awake, right on time for my exam. I thought, "I did it. It took me 12 beers, five lines of coke, and
hours of sex, but I finally did it. I made it back on schedule."
I failed 3 of my classes that term, and took nothing from the ones I did pass. Basically, I
accomplished nothing for a whole term of school, by trying extra hard to study for it. I was the
class poster boy for not giving a fuck, and no one knew why I wasn't really bothered by it.
It was because I was smart enough to indulge myself without concern. I smothered myself
with complete laziness and effortless rapture. I did nothing with my life for days. I slept, ate and
screwed relentlessly without a lick of depression.
I lived as carefree and a house pet.
I lived the dream, and I am not ashamed.
Posted by SnowWhite on 12-29-2003 07:25 AM:
The Beginnings of a Tainted Childhood (story 1)
My best friend reminded me of this story last night....
So, i'll set the scene. I'm just about seven years old, equipped with all my milk teeth. It's a
Sunday afternoon in mid summer, back in the days where I would of been dragged along to
Family Communion, on the condition that i'd ONLY go if I got to wear my red sweater and
'favourite' blue jeans.
So, anyway, my nine-year-old sister, my seven-year-old best friend, her nine-year-old
brother and myself decide to go for a walk, and take our mummy's picnic basket and some
marmite sandwiches with us. We're busting to stretch our legs after two boring hours stuck in our
local church. We're all delighted that our mother's have allowed and trusted us to go for this walk,
so we're gallivanting down the back road of my best friend's humble abode, towards the vast
graveyard in front of us, which seems to go on forever.
We all stand looking at the symmetrical white crossed gravestones with our hands on our
hips as if we're about to disembark on a heroic journey. As if in unison, we begin to run,
ploughing down the field. My friend and I stop at a gravestone, and yell at the other two to stop.
We notice these green stones on top of each gravestone, which we innocently think are 'precious
stones'. We forget to realize that EVERY gravestone is covered with these 'precious stones', but
begin to innocently collect as many of the stones as we can in the picnic basket. It's been windy
that day, and a lot of the flowers and tags from the flowers which used to be on the gravestones
are no longer on the gravestones. Like the good little Samaritans we thought we were, we began to
'tidy up' the graveyard.
Soon, our basket is full of the stones, flowers and tags and our Christian natures are
starting to get tired. We finally get to the end of the field, where there's a patch of grass overhung
with trees, and some very old gravestones. Visible to our little eyes is a large gravestone, there's an
open hamper filled with food, a tartan picnic rug, with two plates set upon it, and a pile of clothes.
There are weird sounds coming from behind one of the bigger gravestones. We walk round to the
gravestone, where we can see an unclad couple rolling around together. The four of us are back in
our little line with our heads resting on our shoulders. Like the little punks my best friend and I
were, we throw a few of our 'precious stones' at the couple, her brother walks up to them prodding the guy with a stick. The couple soon become disentangled with each other.
"Clear off..." says a girl with large gold earrings, who covers herself up, with clothes, it
wouldn't be possible to wear anymore foundation on her face.
"We're going to go tell our mummy's what you've been doing!" I said, stamping my foot,
like the little grumpy-guts I was.
"No, don't do that!" says the man, who also has a gold 'pirate' earring.
"Why?" says my best friend's brother. I'm not sure if my sister and brother knew that the
couple had just been engaging in sex at the time, but whatever they had been doing, the four of us
had been rather shocked.
"Erm... Here! Take our chocolate mousse!" says the man, digging into the hamper with
one hand, the other clasped over his 'dog.'
None of us take it, not because we don't like to take food from strangers, but because the
assholes hadn't offered us spoons.
My sister suddenly motions for all of us to "run!", and we do, screaming all the way back
down to the entrance of the graveyard, my bestfriend's brother, clutching the basket (a few of the
'precious stones' fall out, and I stop now and again, to rescue our 'treasure')
We scream all the way back to the house. Our mother's are drinking tea on the lawn and
get up abruptly as we come through the front gate, panting. We explain what's happened, and our
mother's look at each other, horrified and knowingly. They call the police, and the four of us kids
look very proud of ourselves...until my mother finds the basket! "What's all this?" She says. Uh-oh.
We all realize that we've done something very bad, so the four of us shrink, whilst my mother
becomes the pair of legs in Tom and Jerry.
"They're our precious stones..." My best friend pouts.
"Well, you're all going to put all of this back! You wicked children! No, on second
thoughts, go inside! Right NOW!" So, it turns out we all get a talking to from the police, and go put
back all our 'treasure' sorrowfully once the couple have been taken away by the police.
Three years on, age 10, I'm sitting in my science class. I'm giggling to myself, as I now
know what those teenagers were doing.
the only lasting scar i have right now is right in the web between my thumb and
forefinger, about an inch long. here's the sad tale of woe about how it happened:
i was at a summer seminar at trinity college, oxford, and their whole deal was, you got
breakfast and dinner, but you had to find your own lunch. so i thought i was smart, and i went to
the grocery store there and bought a bunch of sandwich fixin's since we had a small refrigerator in
our room, thinking i'd save money on lunch. of course, since i'd brought no utensils i also bought a
paring knife to cut the tomato that i *insist* on being a part of all sandwiches i ingest.
so. brand new paring knife, mid-summer ripe tomato...one thing leads to another, next
thing you know the knife has nearly severed my thumb from the rest of my hand. i wouldn't really
say i panicked; i just sort of looked down at my hand, which didn't really bleed at first, and
thought to myself sort of detachedly, "oh. stitches."
but i must have been panicking in a way because even though my suitemate was in her
bedroom, i was convinced she wasn't there, and i ran down the stairs knocking on other doors till i
finally found this one girl at home. since i was still wearing pajamas and no bra i asked to borrow
her jacket to go across the courtyard to have them tell me how to get to the hospital. she said, and i
quote, "don't get blood on it, it's expensive."
so i'm running across the manicured courtyard of one of oxford's prestigious, ancient
universities, wearing shiny blue pajama pants, a green polo shirt with no bra, and this snotty girl's
expensive black jacket, a bit too small, around my shoulders, a white towel wrapped tightly
around my hand, complete with bedhead and dark circles under my eyes. we were expressly for-
bidden from treading on the front lawn, but i figured in this case, as going across it would be the
quickest route to the porter's lodge and tourists - literally, tourists - were milling around everywhere, staring at me, i ran across it. at this point one of the porters working the gift shop - literally,
a gift shop - leans out of his little house and yells at me, "could you get off the grass please?!?!" no,
you prick, this isn't an emergency...
so i get into the porter's lodge, and since the towel's wrapped so tightly around my hand
there's no visible blood. i'm telling the guy i have to go to the emergency room, i need stitches in
my hand, could we show a little urgency, can he call me a cab maybe. and he looks at me and says,
"well are you quite sure it's that serious?" and i'm like, "you want me to show you?" and i go for
the towel. and then he shuts up and gets on the horn to call a cab.
i want someone to go with me. i call the room of the girl whose jacket i'm still wearing - no
answer. three times. i run back there and find her placidly reading. i ask her breathlessly if she'll
come with me, being that this is my second day in a strange country, i need stitches for the first
time in my life, and i have no clue how the british healthcare system works. she rolls her eyes, and
reluctantly agrees to go. she brings her homework with her. meanwhile the driver of a "fast black"
drives me all over freakin town, running up my fare to 5 pounds when it should be emphatically
less. at this point this other girl mumbles something about not having money. i pay her fare. we
get out at the hospital, and she sits across the waiting room from me while i wait for the evaluation
nurse to appraise my injury.
i'm sitting at this little table, and she goes to take off the towel i've had wrapped around
my hand the whole time, and the towel is literally stuck inside the huge gash, and she has to kind
of rip it out. then blood just pours down my arm, i'm trying not to cry but i can't help it, and this
stupid bitch i brought with me is across the room reading shakespeare like nothing's going on. the
nurse i'm with clucks over me and puts on a bandage, but blood keeps seeping through the
bandage. i know it's not a life threatening injury, but now that the pressure of the towel is off, it
hurts like nothing has ever hurt me physically before.
the girl i brought with me walks over. "if you're uh, all set, i'm gonna catch a cab back,"
she says. "i've uh, got work to do."
i am most emphatically not all set, but i fish in my pockets with my good hand for money,
pulling out a 20. "this is all i have..."
"it's ok," she says, snatching it. "i'll get you change." and she leaves without another word.
i'll give you three guesses as to whether i ever saw any of that change, and the first three
don't count.
i go into this little room with all these pictures of happy bunny rabbits, apparently for
calming little kids, which only unnerves me more for some reason. a doctor comes in and starts
poking at my hand to determine if i have nerve damage. though he points out to me that you can
see the tendon in my hand moving around when he makes me flex my thumb, and that's how
close i came to needing surgical repairs, i'm lucky, because i just barely missed nerves and tendons
and "if i'd cut at a different angle, i'd have severed my thumb completely."
thanks, doc.
the worst thing about the stitches was the anaesthetic. i don't know if anyone's ever stuck
a needle inside a cut that deep on any of your bodies, but goddamn. i have a high threshold of
pain, and i pride myself on not being a whiner or a crybaby, but i was weeping helplessly while
the nurse stuck me about five times. then, though, as i watched her have to take tweezers and
literally pull one side of my hand back toward the other, all the time clucking about how this was
a "terribly difficult place to have a cut," all i could say was, "i am so glad to be anaesthetized right
now." otherwise i would probably have been trying to kill her and make my escape.
another cab ride back and i'm the talk of the seminar. it being summer, there's no wearing
long sleeves to cover the bandage that goes halfway up my arm and around my whole hand.
people looking to make conversation ask me, "how's the hand?" because of the place that it's in,
they leave the seven stitches in for 14 days, which is precisely 7 days longer than they're supposed
to. by the time they're being extracted, skin has begun to grow onto them, and they have to be
ripped out from deep in my hand.
if i thought it was bad when it first happened, it was well and truly horrible as it healed. i
argued, pleaded, begged the nurse who'd just ripped out the stitches to cover it up. "if you want
an infection, you can keep it covered. but if not, then do as i say and keep it uncovered," she finally
snapped.
so i returned to campus with this freakish looking wound on my hand, and inevitably,
one of my obnoxious fellow students just had to point it out. "it looks like you have a vagina on
your hand," she crowed at me during a class. i'd have kicked her ass, but well, she was right.
luckily it no longer looks like a vagina.
I can't believe I haven't told this story before. Since Chuck had a kidney stone he will prob.
be able to identify somewhat with this story.
When I was at UMass, after I began my nervous breakdown in Oxford but before I ended
up in the nuthouse, I volunteered at the Amherst Family Center, which is a community center for
young children and their parents. It's kind of a cross between a day care and a parent education
resource center. The parents would leave their kids with us but they wouldn't leave the building.
The kids were grouped according to age, 0-18 months in one room, 18 months to 3 years in another
room, and 3-4 years in the preschool. I was, at that point, in charge of the 0-18 months room.
Maybe in retrospect that wasn't the best plan, since I was psychotic and deeply suicidal, but it was
the one activity, playing with those little babies, that gave me any peace whatsoever. And, after
all, the only person I wanted to hurt was myself.
As the head volunteer in the baby room, I was expected to attend the weekly staff meeting
at the Center. This particular Thursday, however, I begged off, saying I was sick.
It was true. I remember sitting on a bench waiting for the bus to take me back to my dorm,
feeling horrible fever-chills start creeping up my legs. My joints felt like they'd been replaced with
candlepin bowling balls. I started to feel dizzy.
Figuring I had some form of flu, I went to my dorm and got into bed. I was feverish but
not nauseous, so I remember clearly that I ate a small pizza with hamburger and mushrooms on it.
After that, every time I opened my eyes it got worse. I'm one of those people who can
always tell when I have a temperature, and I can accurately predict, within a tenth of a degree,
how high it is. Usually. This time it was off my own personal charts. I started downing
extra-strength Tylenol by the handful. This only seemed to anger the fever further. My life became
very simple: open my eyes, gobble Tylenol, sleep for four hours, repeat.
No one on my floor (including the RA, whose job I thought it was to think of these things)
had a thermometer. I didn't know exactly what my temperature was, and I was starting to think it
might be a case for University Health Services.
When I finally got out of bed again I was suprised by the fact that I needed help to walk. I
leaned heavily on my boyfriend all the way down the steep hills between my dorm and the Health
Services Building, finally collapsing into a waiting-room chair, which I promptly soaked in sweat.
The nurse who finally saw me an hour of waiting later took my temperature. It was 101.7.
Not bad. Except I'd taken 6 extra-strength Tylenol before heading down from my dorm.
The nurse practitioner who saw me finally told me I had a stomach flu. She told me the
mysterious pain I'd developed in my lower back was gas. She told me "the lab is closed on weekends, so we could do a blood or urine culture but you'd just have to wait till Monday for the
results." She told me to go buy rice and saltine crackers and Gatorade and stay in bed. Oh, she
added sarcastically, perhaps I should avail myself of a thermometer. I did just that. My boyfriend
and I went to the grocery store and got all those things.
Flash to four hours later - I'm puking rice, saltine crackers and Gatorade. More
importantly, I'm puking the Tylenol that had been keeping my fever down. Most importantly, I'm
adding a symptom to an already severe illness - remember, when I first came down with it I ate a
pizza with no problems. This is when I began to get a little scared. But then I passed out from
dehydration and febrile exhaustion, so that took care of that.
When I next woke up I thought my roommate was shaking the bed. Then I looked around
and figured out that it was me shaking. Shaking violently. It went beyond the fever shivers.
Looking back on it, I'm pretty sure that at this point I was convulsing. I was wearing three layers
of clothing, and I was under four very warm blankets. I was wearing three pair of socks, the outer
one made of wool. I was wearing a hat and gloves in bed. Still I shook.
I drifted in and out of consciousness for the rest of the day. At some point I had the
thought, which I found somehow amusing, "I'm going to die from this." I know that's something
people say in their whinier moments, but for the first time in my life I really felt that it was true.
Luckily I was too sick to give a damn.
Finally one of the other volunteers from the Family Center called me, which was
fortunate, because I was alone in my room and probably would have laid there till I lapsed into a
coma if she hadn't woken me from my stupor. This volunteer was also an RN at the local hospital,
and when I told her my symptoms, a tone of alarm crept into her voice. She asked me if I'd taken
my temperature recently. I told her I was shaking too hard to keep the thermometer in my mouth my last attempt had resulted in a reading of 88.6.
"Put it under your arm." she said. "Then add a degree."
I did as she instructed. When I removed the thermometer from my armpit, I was so
appalled at what I saw that I quickly repeated the process, sure it was a mistake. But no, there it
was for the second time: 103.6
Add a degree: 104.6
Oh, yeah...have I mentioned that my normal body temperature is 97.2?
Terrified, I took what was probably an overdose of Tylenol and staggered down to health
services again, this time with the help of my friend Whitney. They made me wait for an hour. I
finally had my temperature taken. It was "only" 102.7.
"Are you sure you know how to read the thermometer?" the triage nurse asked me. She
was lucky I was so sick, or I would have strangled her with my bare hands.
Whipping out the thermometer that I had so presciently thought to bring with me, I
double-dared her to try me. She checked my temperature with the thermometer. It came out at
precisely 102.7. She brought me through to the exam room.
Where I encountered the same nurse practitioner who'd told me I had a stomach bug. She
quickly left, stammering excuses. A real honest-to-Christ M.D. came in next. He palpated my back.
I cried out weakly when he brushed the small of my back, especially on the right side. His eyes
widened.
"Our lab is closed right now since it's Sunday..." he began, and I thought, oh Christ, not
again. "...So I'm going to do the urinalysis myself," he finished.
Never so grateful for the opportunity to pee into a little cup, I provided him with a
specimen. He returned forty-five minutes later looking even more wide-eyed than before.
"Okay. Um, you have the most white blood cells and bacteria I think I've ever seen? In a
urine sample? So...you need to go to the hospital right away. You don't need an ambulance - yet but you have to go tonight," is what he said to me.
Turns out I had a condition called pylonephritis, which is a fancy term for a kidney
infection. It doesn't normally go this far, though, basically because most physicians aren't as
incompetent as those at University Health Services at UMass. When I got to the hospital, the did
blood tests to ensure that the infection hadn't spread to my liver or my bloodstream (also known
as sepsis, which can be fatal). Luckily it hadn't. It still took four days of intravenous antibiotics and
fluids to bring my fever below 102. About halfway through I got a headache the likes of which I
only experienced the time I was hospitalized at 12 for a migraine. They gave me Tylenol for it. My
body laughed. They gave me Tylenol with codeine. No dice. Finally they gave me Tylox, the
narcotic form of Tylenol.
I was completely stoned from the Tylox when my friends came to visit. "You know," I said
to them, giggling uncontrollably, "when you're so fucked, all you can do...is laugh?"
They nodded as if they understood.
Let's not forget that in addition to being nearly-septic with a kidney infection, hopped up
on narcotics and stuck in a hospital after being the victim of medical malpractice with an IV I'm
inexplicably terrified of stuck in my arm and still with a fever of 102, I'm also psychotic. I should
probably also mention that the Tylox plays a part in the later parts of my Sad Tale of Woe, since
the remainder of the prescription I took home with me from the hospital after the kidney infection
was over was something my mother finally ended up wrenching from my hands the night they
took me to the nuthouse, as I was threatening to overdose on it, after threatening (before a similar
struggle with my boyfriend) to slit my wrists.
I can't prove this and I've never heard anything to support it, but the kidney infection did
something to my brain. I don't know if it was just the straw that broke the camel's back, or what,
but I had been psychotic, probably, most of my life (at least that was the theory when I finally
landed in the loony bin) and suicidal for at least a year. I had had a few questionable incidents in
Oxford following my hand injury. But I was still managing to stumble along, mentally, until this.
Two weeks after the kidney infection, I was having my first fight with the nursing staff on the
adult ward.
But before that could happen, the staff at this other hospital where I was treated for the
kidney thing had to give me an ultrasound to determine whether or not they needed to remove
my right kidney, which they didn't, but it still has scarring from the infection. Oh, and I had to
have my discharge papers signed, which they were, by a doctor I later discovered was being sued
at the very same time she examined me for the wrongful death of another college student.
Posted by AztecCaracal on 01-05-2004 11:05 PM:
The only funny story I can think of at the moment happened a little something like this:
*bear with me a bit, it makes sense at the end*
In January of Freshman year of HS I was very very sick. I couldn't really talk or breathe,
the doctors I went to gave some false diagnosis of walking pneumonia (never did find out what I
had) but anyway, I was in biology class with my then group of girly friends. Well, I get these
uncontrollable fits of giggles out of nowhere and any little word or action will get me laughing till
I can't breathe and I'm bright red in the face. That day we were talking about random irrelevant
funny shit. Astrid out of nowhere begins stroking a pencil and tipping the lead side to make it pop
up (like a hard-on, duh) and for some reason I find this so incredibly hilarious and one of my fits
of giggles came about. I started laughing so hard I couldn't breathe from all the congestion in my
lungs, then I start choking on all the mucus and phlegm. I get a breath in and the next thing I know
the lab desk is covered with clear, yellow, and green placenta like stuff that I threw up. hahaha,
The funny part? Astrid started crying cause she felt she made me choke and throw up. I reminded
her of this Senior year, she turned red and began apologizing like crazy.
Posted by HiGhJiNx on 01-07-2004 10:33 AM:
we ate shrooms, magical, lovely tasting mushrooms my brother, mike, his girlfriend,
erica, and I were waiting for my girlfriend Stephanie to get out of school. This was like 4 years ago,
junior year in high school, and we were waiting in the parking lot of Stephanie's catholic school,
which to say the least was a horrible idea tripping.. although we were only slightly feeling the
shrooms at the time... the three of us, mike, erica, and I were chillin, eatin doritos, drinkin
gatorade, staring at the stained glass windows, which looked extremely awesome... i brought
along a backpack, which at the time, i called my "trip kit"
which included a shitload of pens, pencils and markers, and paper and headphones and
music... anyways, it started to rain a little while we were in the parking lot, and my brother
decided to throw the bottle of gatorade in the air without the cap, and it lands perfectly upside
down on the ground in front of all of us without spilling and continues to stay there upside
down... it was awesome, then i threw the bag of doritos at mike, and it lands on his arm perfectly,
very fucked up
finally, we see stephanie, and we all decide to start walking like we were gonna go to her
house, and it fucking downpours, like ridiculous
and i’m flippin out cuz my mp3 player was gonna break from water damage or some shit,
and i’m tweakin cuz its rainin so hard and all we have are thin shitty raincoats, and i’m hovering
over my bag to protect my trip kit and mainly just my mp3 player from breaking, and of course
i’m the last one in the train of us 4 running to steph's house... we finally get there, and i look at
myself and my hands are covered in ink
i look like a fuckin wet rainbow, and we are all drenched, completely hysterical and
trippin our faces off...
we decide to all change into flannel pants and a new t shirt and throw all of our clothes
into steph's dryer so we can leave soon... and her parents are home... we bug hardcore
and decide we need to get the fuck outta there as soon as we can, only we're all wearing girls
pajamas, what the fuck!?
we decide to watch "half baked" and the first 5 minutes has us laughing ridiculously, and
we cant even stay still from laughing so hard, so we turn it off. we end up sitting in her room, with
gigantic pupils like pikachu, and wait til the clothes are dried, then leave and go get food...
that’s my story...
Posted by Tuffy the Dump Truck on 01-07-2004 09:36 PM:
The Getting Stabbed in the Neck Story
There is no attempt here at writing this out to be a "good story", but just to document the
event; to write it out as quickly and completely as I can before too many more details get lost. I
haven’t the time or energy right now to fill it out the way it ought to be; thus this is not an
especially good example of my writing "style" or abilities. Oh, yeah, I’ve also changed the names
of the innocent. Because Jane bugged the hell out of me about this for a year, here's three thousand
brief words. Sorry it's so long, but the little details just kinda flowed out...
So, I was a local promoter/DJ for a while; still am, I guess. I used to run a couple small
nightclubs around town – kept me out to the Wee Smalls and killed whatever spare time I
happened to have. Gave me an extra pocketful of chump-change and it was damn fun, too. Used
to close up around two a.m. then turn up the amps and have a few before heading home. It was
right nice.
Anyway, after one slow night just over two years ago (January 5, 2002), we – my crew and
I – were hanging around in the bar come three o’clock, shooting the breeze and finishing off some
Yuenglings. One of my DJs, Bobby, says well, gotta go, hoists his gear and exits.
Door swings shut behind him then reopens immediately. He comes back through as calm
as can be, "Can I use the phone?"
Sure, what’s up?
"There’s somebody breaking into my car."
Someone broke into your car? Where were you parked, in the alley?
"Someone’s breaking into my car right now! I’m parked right outside the door!" He begins
dialing.
I remember saying "Cool!" before bolting for the door. I figured I could at least get a
description of him for the police report. Or something. So I ran outside, another DJ, Matt, a few
steps behind, and stop to look around. I realize that I have no idea what kind of car Bobby drives.
The street’s deserted except for this one kid walking past me.
"That’s him!" It’s Bobby standing in the doorway, phone squeezed against the side of his
head.
I size the kid up; he’s as close to me as you are to your monitor. Five-six, skinny –
probably a hundred-forty pounds. Baggie gray hoodie, baggie jeans, Tommy Hilfiger beanie,
cross-trainers. I got six inches and sixty pounds on him, easy. This all happens fast. He brushes
past me, saying, "Excuse me." How polite.
I turn back towards the door, and cock my head towards the kid, "this guy?" fashion.
"Him! Him!" Yup.
I put my hand on his shoulder and clench his sweatshirt tightly. I say something brilliant –
I say, "Hold it."
He, whirls and throws his hand up in the air behind him – in retrospect, it’s that Norman
Bates stabbing stance we all remember, the way you don’t actually hold a knife when you’re
actually holding a knife… But he yells, "I got a knife! I got a knife!" You know, sending a message.
I glanced up, still holding onto the shoulder, and saw his had curled into a fist – and that’s all.
He’s bluffing, I thought. Trying to scare me into letting go for a second so he can run. I’m
not chasing after this guy; no way I can catch him.
I said something else brilliant – I said, "So?"
He punched me, aiming for the adam’s apple – I know this because I’ve been punched in
the face a lot. I know when it’s coming and where it’s headed. I turned my head slightly away and
threw my free arm up to block the punch. I was a little slow this time, however. Stupid beer. So, I
deflected the punch slightly, and it laded just behind and below my left ear. My arm-block sent his
arm flying back and he quickly brought his fist down again, right on top of my head.
I grabbed him by the shirtfront, pivoted, and shoved him face-first into the wall behind
me. Then I pulled him back and did it again. He was still struggling, so I did it a third time. He
was still fighting, trying to get free, and I felt my grip loosening on his clothes, so I pulled him
away from the wall, backwards past me, got him back to the center of the sidewalk and stood him
up. Wrapped my left leg around his, curled tight, and fell to the ground, pinning him facedown
beneath me. My left arm is around his neck, my right hand on my left wrist, pulling in – your
standard chokehold. I’m calm, not angry or anything; he’s small, and I am in complete control of
the situation. And feeling pretty good about myself – I just caught a real-live criminal. Yay for the
good guys! U. S. A.! U. S. A.! U. S. A.!
This is about the point where Matthew (remember him?) yells, "Don’t worry, Chris, I got
him!" And jumps on top of me.
Matt grabs his legs, the kid still squirming and fighting. I tell him to stop struggling or I’ll
hurt him. He writhes, cursing me, so I give his neck a little bit of a squeeze – I remember thinking
"Less blood to the brain. He’ll calm down." I tilted my head to the right just then, I guess, as I was
squeezing, and was honestly shocked to see an arc of blood shoot about six feet into the distance.
First thought: "Whoa! That’s not good!"
I looked down at my shoulder and saw that it was shiny. Then another arc of blood.
Second thought: "I hope this shirt’s not ruined; it’s brand new."
Seriously, you think some weird shit when the stuff hits the fan.
I thought for a second that he’d cut my ear off and just how ugly that would look later. I
squeezed his neck tighter. Really, as hard as I could. I figured, kill the son of a bitch. Who would
convict me? Self-defense or something… The way the blood was shooting, I thought that there
was a good chance that it might be REALLY BAD. I might even be dying. Thoughts: "Neck blood
spraying bad exsanguation. Die." Then, a coherent one: "He has a knife." He has a knife. His arms
are pinned under him, but if he gets loose, he’ll stab again and again and keep at it…"
So… Make him forget all about the knife. I let loose of my wrist and hooked it in the crook
of my right elbow – this is, I am pretty sure, the police-illegal "Bar-Arm Chokehold". Illegal
because it is so often fatal. Then I took my right thumb, and inserted it into his right eye-socket,
between eyeball and bone. Until it wouldn’t go in any further. He screamed long and hard. It felt,
well, disgusting, and I pulled it back out again. Then I put it back. I figured maybe I could break
through the bone and start digging around in his brain. He screamed again. A horrible scream. A
real one. All kinds of clichés like "blood-curdling" come to mind, but really don’t do it justice.
You’ll know it when you hear it. I held him like this, squeezing his throat shut, and grinding into
his eye-socket for what seemed like hours. Really, I figure that the elapsed time between Bobby
saying goodnight and that moment is, maybe, ninety seconds. Like I said, this all happens fast.
So there we are, kid on ground, me on top, Matt holding his legs, Bobby inside with the
owners of the bar trying to raise the police (if you’ve ever had to call 911, you know what I mean.)
Sauntering up the sidewalk comes my friend Amanda. Amanda… is punk as fuck. She has
"MORE GORE" tattooed across her knuckles (you’ve seen her in my avatar before.) She is a
Suicide Girl (if you don’t know, Google it.) Amanda is way too cool for school. So, she walks right
up to our little pile of meat on the sidewalk, looks down at us and says, "Hey, Chris. What’s up?"
"Kid stabbed me! In the neck! See! Blood!"
"Yeah! Want me to kick him in the head?" Exact quote. I told you she rawks.
"No, it’s okay, I got him."
"You sure?"
I catch sight of my own blood-spray again. "If you wanna..." Before I’d even finished
saying that much, she nailed him three or four times in rapid succession, square in the face,
popping my thumb out like a cork, and sending his skull backwards giving me a crack in the teeth,
numbing my mouth and nose.
"How’s that?"
I mumbled something – I don’t remember what – wondering if my front teeth were
broken. I sure was gonna be real purdy after this. If I wasn’t actually dying…
Either way, this kid under me wasn’t struggling so hard any more. He spit a bit, gasping
as I re-tightened around his neck, finally coughing out, "Can’t! Breathe!"
Matt yelled "Good!" (Way to be there for me, Matt.)
And, I swear this is true, Amanda and I replied - in unison - "If you can talk, you can
breathe." Our parents must have attended the same class or something.
This is when the cops and the ambulance arrived and my awareness starts going in and
out in flashes. Ambulance pulls up, attendant steps out, "Awright, who’s stabbed?" I let loose of
the neck and raised my hand. I’m peeled off of the kid and sat down on the sidewalk. Direct
pressure is applied with a large white bath-towel. "Hold this against your neck. Tightly." Never
has a bath-towel been held so tightly against a neck.
I don’t remember being moved into the ambulance, but next thing. I’m sitting up in the
doorway of the ambulance and Bobby’s girlfriend, Jen, is trying to clean the blood off of my face –
which is funny, you realize, because I am saturated from the top of my head to my knees. I shoo
her away, telling her not to get any of my blood on her. The cops are taking statements from Matt,
Bobby, and the bar’s owners. Ambulance guy comes back (Where had he been? Tending to
knifeboy.) and swaps towels with me. I see that my old one is saturated.
We’re driving. I’m sitting up in the ambulance, still holding a towel hard against my neck,
and the attendant asks me which hospital I want to go to. "The closest one?" We’re about the same
from Mercy and Presby. "The better one?" He laughs. Presby it is.
Now, I’m not feeling so good. There’s gray fuzzy stuff all over the place and I feel warm –
not in a good way. Everything looks like an old film where the colors are wrong. I ask if I can lie
down. "Not if you don’t want to die." Ah, that. Yes. Stay upright. Nevertheless, this is where I
fainted.
I’m on a gurney, wheeled feet-first into ER. The lights are bright and the noise is
incredible.
They’re trying to cut off my shirt. I don’t let them, and pull it off over my head. Talk is
everywhere. Loud. Confusing. Questions. Things I don’t remember.
"Okay, Chris, I’m going to probe the wound." These are words you just do not ever want
to hear. "You tell me when it hurts."
I kept hearing "Zone 3", "Zone 3" splattered throughout conversations. I’ve just now
Googled it:
"Zone 3 Vascular Injury. Patients who are in profound shock or who are exsanguinating from the
neck wound require immediate haemorrhage control. In Zone 3 injuries significant haemorrhage is most
likely to stem from injuries to branches of the external carotid artery. These can be very difficult to control,
and may require dislocation or osteomotomy of the mandible to achieve access. Where possible therefore,
angiography and embolisation is the modality of choice for delineating and controlling the vascular injury,
even in the haemodynamically unstable patient. Where angiography is not available, surgical intervention
will be necessary.”
(http://www.trauma.org/vascular/neckzonethree.html)
Nice.
"Dislocation or osteomotomy of the mandible"… Removal of all or part of the jawbone.
My earrings are being removed by a friendly nurse and sealed into a urine sample jar. I
am shown the jar – that it’s taped shut and that my name is written on it. It will be kept safe for
me. "When was your last Tetanus shot?"
"I don’t know. I was… I was nine." Jab.
There’s talk of MRIs, PET scans, CAT scans, medical shit. "Do we need a chest X-ray?"
There’s consultations… Why they would need a chest X-ray, I never figure out. They don’t tell you
a lot of stuff when you’re laying there. But they sure do ask you a fuckload of questions.
The X-ray technician comes in – an enormous jolly black man that you instantly trust, like
in the movies - and slides a board under my back. "Hey! What about these? You want this series
with or without the nipple rings?" He chuckles. It’s quickly decided that it’s too much trouble to
remove the rings right now and we’ll wait for what the other scans show. He chuckles again and
leaves. I am disappointed for some reason; I’d liked him.
More stuff I can’t see is done to me. Tubes are stuck into my arms and taped in place. I am
sewn shut, first inside my neck, then outside. "Five" the attending physician tells me. Five?
"Stitches." Is that all? "You were stabbed straight in, not cut across.
"Will I have a scar?"
"Yes, you’ll have a scar."
"Good. I’d hate to go through all this and not have a scar." He laughed. Right happy
bunch we got here. Even my spirits are good. I realize that this was a massive adrenaline high and
try to enjoy it. I try to relax. "Now what?"
"You get to have an angiogram to make sure that you are no longer bleeding internally."
I think of nicked carotids and how quickly such a little thing like that will kill you totally
dead. "If I am?"
"Surgery. You get a bigger scar. Ever have an angiogram?" I hadn’t. "You’ll like this."
I’m wheeled away to angioland and secured to the table with tape so that I can’t move my
head. The angiatrix holds up a syringe. She also asks me if I’ve ever had an angiogram before. Still
no, but I’m eager to get on with it – potential internal bleeding and all. She says, "This frightens
some people." I’m already hooked up to an IV, so I’m not concerned about another shot. "No, this
is imaging fluid. You know how they use Barium for certain X-rays?" Actually, I did. "This is
similar. Only, you’ll be able to feel this as it moves through your veins. It will seem very warm."
Oh? She pops it in the IV tube and shoots me with it. And, you know, I could feel it as it entered
my arm and crawled up to my shoulder and went into my chest. It shot out of my heart, straight
down into my feet. Then the sensation lessened as it moved back up, finally spreading through my
body. Cool, but kinda creepy.
The police arrived to take my statement of which I gave them a slightly abridged version.
Officer Paul Banks, a young guy with a large nose and a crew-cut leans in to me and says, "Dude.
What did you DO to him? He couldn’t remember his own name when we got there." I explained
that he might have gotten kicked in the head a couple times. "Yeah, his face is pretty fucked up.
We found his eye, by the way. I don’t think they can put that back in." Euw... "Well, we had to give
him a little, too, when he got lippy in the car (have I yet mentioned my adoration for the
Pittsburgh Police Department?) Don’t worry, he’s in a different hospital." Hadn’t occurred to
me… "Good thing he was so drunk." He handed me his card. "Nice going, dude. You need
anything, anything at all, you call me."
"Oh, and his name is John Schraeder. He lives on Mount Oliver. You know, just in case…"
I don’t much remember the waiting, but everything came back okay; I wasn’t bleeding
internally. Friendly Nurse wheeled me into a security ward (because I had been assaulted) which
required passcodes to enter. My passcode was "Orange". I was told that I was under guard, and
that I would be checked on every fifteen minutes until I left the hospital. Also, that if I was in any
pain, I should let them know immediately. "If it gets real bad, we’ll get you a morphine drip." One
of those push-button jobs with the do-it-yourself dosing? Cool! I must have seemed too eager,
because it was never mentioned again. "Your friends and family are waiting for you."
"Send ‘em in."
"Uh, no, we gotta get you cleaned up first." Friendly nurse showed me a hand-mirror, and
I see that my whole face is brown with flaking caked blood.
"Can’t I show them this? It’ll be cool!"
"No." She helped me wash up. "I’ll send them right in."
I reclined the bed all the way, half-closed my eyes, and tried to assume a deathly pallor.
They filed in at the foot of the bed and stared at me. Without showing any movement, I hit the UP
button, raising the bed slowly slowly slowly to the sitting position. I opened my eyes, regarding
them slackly. Then I couldn’t fake it anymore, and grinned hugely, "THAT WAS SO FUCKING
COOL!!!"
Maybe one of these days, I’ll tell you the bookend stories about the trial and how I went to
jail myself.
P.S., Who is stupider, the fucker who breaks into a 1982 Chrysler K-Car? Or the idiot who
almost dies defending its honor?
Posted by JKabol on 01-08-2004 03:42 PM:
Here is a fun/dumb story
April-Dumb
April. She is whom I think of. I don't know if she was the person I was thinking about
when I was laying on my bed naked. I remember that I was on my bed, I was naked and I was
thinking. Then I went to my bathroom and I started my bath by running hot water into the tub.
Then I glanced over to the mirror and looked at my face. And then without much thought I went
to the mirror and started trimming my beard. When I’d finished and was happy with my mirror I
went over to my tub and placed my right foot into my tub and my foot slipped and my weight
collided with gravity and I crashed straight down. And the thick, hard ring of my porcelain tub
was smacked hard with the lower right side of my front ribcage. And I lost my breath briefly. I
was stunned and I felt no pain – only a sharp numbness. Hours passed in that brief moment of
numbness and I was relieved to experience feeling again. And then all at once I shrieked because
my hot water had been running for three or more minutes by that point and my right leg and right
hand were resting in four inches of scolding hotness. I got back to my bed, and I’m not certain
what I did first or second, but I turned off the water and had a towel around me and I was back on
the bed. And I couldn’t think of anybody that could do something this dumb. Then it came to me
that I could think of one other person that could do something this simple and dumb, and I felt a
little better. April. She is whom I think of.
Posted by qualitycontrolrep on 01-09-2004 12:17 AM:
The thing was, my dealer had got caught up in a bunch of shit with the police, so everyone
we knew that carried anything immediately went a-wall.
I was living with my girlfriend at the time. Her mother moved back to town and stayed at
our place for several months. She's a nurse. So everyday, my girl and I would sift through her
mother's things looking for drug samples she'd left in her lab coat the from the night before. And
then one day, I find this huge bottle of Ibuprofen bottle. I picked it up and shook it, just for the hell
of it. Whatever was in that bottle was definitely not Ibuprofen. I immediately put the bottle in my
pocket to examine later. By myself. We were so hard up. I was so hard up.
After Keri leaves to go to work, I rush to get the bottle out from under the mattress and
dump it out on the nightstand. It was Adovan. 10mg. And there was too to count. I wasn't
working at the time, so I had all day everyday to get fucked up and go hang out with the boys as
soon as Keri and her mother left for work. And I'm still hearing stories today about all the fucked
up shit I did.
What I do remember is going over to Keri's sister's apartment one day to smoke a bowl.
She smokes a bowl for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Everyday. When I get over there, she has
company. A shady guy with a heart of gold sits on the couch. Passing the bowl around, I begin to
complain about the current situation. I needed oxycoton, and it was nowhere to be found. And
that's when this guy, tells me he has connections in Atlanta if I'm up for the drive. I tell him I've
only got four dollars. But that doesn't seem to be a problem. He doesn't have a car, so he offers to
pay for my fix if I just take care of the gas. I don't think about it a second longer. Keri's at work. It's
only a two-hour drive. I'll be back in time for dinner.
When we arrive in Atlanta, we go straight into the projects. He tells me not to make eye
contact. He tells me the reason we had to get here before sundown, is because it's easier to spot
cops making their rounds. And I'm scared as hell. I hate cops with a passion. I don't have to be
doing anything. I don't have to have anything on me to feel completely paranoid every time I see a
police car drive by me. And here I am. White boy in the projects looking to score his first fix of
heroin.
I was so impressed with the efficiency of the dealers. We pull up. James says how much
money he's got. And the guy hands us our score. That simple. I'm used to playing phone tag. I'm
used to waiting all day with my fingers crossed, never sure exactly what's even around to be
gotten. As we drive off, James begins to cook the stuff so we'll have it ready when we stop.
He tells me to pull into the back of a parking lot in the college part of town. Behind the
strip of coffee shop after coffee shop. James shouts up, then pulls out the other rig and hands it to
me. I immediately understand why people get hooked on this stuff. It's so much cheaper than
prescription drugs and ten times stronger.
I was suddenly in another place. another country. streets full of people. strangers greeting
you with a kiss on both cheeks. We run into a cheerful husky pothead that was apparently left
behind by his friends. It turned out, he lived twenty minutes away from where we did. I offer him
a ride, amazed by the coincidence. On the way home, James offers to drive because he realizes
how fucked up I still am. So we stop and get gas with my last four dollars, and James gets into the
driver's seat. Finally, I can relax, listen to my cd player in the back seat and drift off into la la land.
The car begins to shake and sputter. James keeps calling my name as he pulls off onto the
side of the road At the gas station, two miles back, I went inside to prepay. I took my time in the
store. When I came out, James was already in the driver's seat, so I assumed that he had already
pumped.
We had run out of gas.
So we leave our plump hitchhiker in the passenger seat and walk to the next exit. I see a
restaurant across the street and tell James I'll bum a couple bucks there. " Servers have plenty of
money. They'll give me some because our car's out of gas." Sounded great at the time. But then
you have to imagine it from someone else's point of view. Someone that's not fucked up on heroin.
Stumbling through the restaurant, I only have the time it takes to ask one girl for money before a
manager politely asks me to leave immediately. So I leave. I walk out and see James with a gas can
full of gas. Whatever. Problem solved. We get back to the car and sink back into my drug-induced
delirium. Fade to black.
I don't remember returning the gas can. I don't remember dropping off the hitchhiker. I
don't remember pulling into James' driveway. I don't remember getting out of the car. I don't
remember going into his garage and sitting on his musty couch. What I do remember is watching
from an out-of-body perspective, floating up through the dew burdened grass of a new day into
the open doors of the garage, to see myself sitting on the couch with my head in my chest. As I
float entirely around the coach, focused on myself, asleep, I finally enter my body.
I wake up. wipe the drool hanging from my bottom lip and look outside. I get up and go
home. I have some explaining to do.
Posted by Dennis on 01-09-2004 12:59 PM:
Dennis' Dark (and smelly) Day...
Hey everyone,
I know I don't post in General Discussion that much, but this seems to be a thread that
doesn't want to go away. It's always lingering and I always read the title and think, "What exactly
IS this thread all about???" It wasn't until a couple months ago that I finally began realizing the
beauty of it. When it comes to embarrassing stories, I'm the king. I've been stuck in more Murphy's
Law type situations than you can imagine. The type of situations where you say, "Is this shit
REALLY happening to me right now? Why me? WHY!!???"
Anyway, I can tell tons of stories right now but the one I'll unveil for you today deals with
freshman year in High School. I went to a Catholic school named St. Mary's. Sort of preppy but not
rich at all. It was actually quite economically diverse and you'd get the types of kids who wore the
same shirt every day for a solid school year, as well as the GAP kids who'd have a different plaid
tie on every day. It was also the first year that St. Mary's went co-ed. (which was the deciding
factor for me to attend last minute)
Freshman year, as we all know, is a very important time of setting your feet into the grass,
meeting new friends, establishing alliances... and maybe forming some sort of reputation for
yourself.
With all that pressure on my mind, I got on the school bus one rainy day, early in the year
with my friend Van. Upon walking down the narrow aisle of the bus I immediately noticed a
spread out puddle of brown dog shit. It was painting a major portion of the aisle and every kid
around it was.... well, not around it. Picture the blast radius of an A-Bomb, as seen from an
airplane and the amount of "nothing" that would surround it's center.
Well, that's what this portion of the bus resembled.
Somehow, Van and I got around this mess and found our normal seats towards the back
of the bus. (this is where all the cool kids sat in our neighborhood). I set my school bag down and
leaned back for the 25-minute ride to school, comfortable in the fact that I was clean, confident,
and ready for another day of establishing my alliances and working the social cliques.
I think the first sniff-and-a-glance I got was on my way to my locker.
I walked down the aisle, a skip to my step and a smile on my face - until I noticed a trend
in the expressions that passed me by. An expression that said, "Ughh... what the fuck is that
smell?"
Now, the one thing I had going for me at this moment was how crowded the hallways
could get. For all everyone knew, that smell could be coming from anyone. Which is the same
thing I thought at that time.
Until I got to my locker and went to hang my school bag up. For all over the bottom of
my school bag were scraps of brown, wet, smelly dog shit.
I panicked.
And I mean I fuckin' panicked.
The shit was everywhere! How could this have happened? Could I have placed my school
bag into a smaller puddle of shit on the school bus without knowing it? But how? I was so damn
careful! Did those people in the hallway know it was me the whole time that the smell was coming
from??? Were they just humoring, yet secretly judging and laughing at me???
As I stood, pondering these horrible thoughts, Paul, my locker mate (yes, St. Mary's made
us share lockers) suddenly appeared before me.
"Hey, Dennis! How's it - whoa! What the hell is that awful smell?"
I immediately responded, "I think I might have stepped in some dog shit or something."
Then I gave him a grin and a fake laugh that said: Hey, it happens to us all. He laughed too and I
immediately darted for the bathroom.
Which is when the real horror began...
Ducking into a corner stall, I frantically locked the beat-up, metal door (why are they
always so beat-up???) and examined the situation. The shit was bad... but it was a containable
situation. And so I wetted a bunch of paper towels and began the horrible task of wiping the crap
off the school bag and then flushing the wet paper towels into the toilet bowl.
But no matter what I did.... the smell was there to stay.
At this point, the first period bell rang and students rushed down halls to closing doors
and classrooms.
I was alone in the world. A panicked, stupid, freshman at a new school with dog shit all
over his schoolbag.
Which is when I realized that it wasn't just on my school bag.
Glancing down at the back of one thigh, I noticed a long skidmark of crap going from my
ass to the back of my kneecap.
It was thick... chunky.... evil...
HOW THE FUCK COULD THIS HAVE HAPPENED??? COULD IT GET ANY WORSE???
I figured that the math had to go like this:
Step One: I avoid the large puddle of dog shit on the bus, not realizing though that there was
more of it that had spread to the back of the bus too.
Step Two: I place my school bag down on the bus' floor, directly into a smaller puddle of the dog
shit.
Step Three: I throw my school bag over my shoulder, thereby getting whatever was on the bottom
of my bag onto the ass of my pants.
Now finding out how this happened was all fine and dandy... but it didn't exactly help me
now. I had some serious cleaning to do.
Paul's voice suddenly manifested outside the stall.
"Dennis, you okay? First period just started? What the fuck are you doing in there?" said
Paul.
"Uhhh, there's like... uhh.... there's like a little more shit on my shoes than I thought...
uhhh.... GO AWAY!!!!!!" I screamed. (actually, I didn't say that last part, but it sounds dramatic
right?)
Paul did leave, but not before praying for my soul.
15 minutes later, I had a pair of very wet pants and a school bag that looked like I found it
in a dumpster. Somehow, I stepped from that bathroom and actually walked to first period, my
button down shirt untucked and my blazer wrapped around my waist.
I remember feeling like I was naked when I stepped into that classroom. I studied every
eye... every nuance... listened to every giggle.
Did they know? Could they still smell it? Was there anything to still smell???
I sat down and plastered a fake smile on my face. Occasionally someone around me
would sniff it and turn towards me. I'd do my best to mouth the sentence, "I think I stepped in dog
shit. Sorry."
I think all I did was baffle people. Either way, I knew I'd never survive the day. You can't
wash the stench of that much dog shit out of your pants with wet paper towels. And so I did what
any kid does when they wanna get the hell out of school: They fake like they're sick and go to the
nurse's office.
Suffice to say, getting home wasn't going to be as easy as I thought. I needed a guardian to
pick me up and my mom had just recently switched offices at her work. And so I didn't have her
phone number. My dad drives an 18-wheeler and back then, cell phones were the size of
Ghostbuster backpacks. So I couldn't call him either.
And so I actually had to call my friend Van's mom, a person I definitely couldn't confide
in about my stinky dilemma.
Two hours later I was sitting in the backseat of her car. ("Dennis, just sit in the front,
what's the matter with you?" "No thanks, Mrs. Grasso... I don't feel so good, I'd rather lay down in
the back.") I could only imagine what she thought as she picked up a kid complaining of stomach
cramps that needed to go home from school and who smelled like shit when he got in her car.
To be honest, that was my biggest fear during the whole ordeal. Not that people would
know I had gotten dog shit spread all over me. But that they would think I had actually crapped
myself. A freshman in High School with a big, smelly mess in his boxer shorts.
Luckily, I survived this ordeal. Nobody ever found out what happened and no rumors
about me started in the days that followed. But I swear to you, for 3 years after that I wouldn't
leave the house before thoroughly examining my ass in a mirror for at least 10 minutes.
Talk about a complex.
Posted by Prensa Taladradora on 01-09-2004 01:32 PM:
That reminds me of this time...
I was six years old... my dad was in the Air Force and we had been living in Germany on a
base for about a year. Because my parents had recently given birth to my baby brother our family
was allowed to move into an apartment with one more bedroom so we moved two streets over, I
remember it was from Nevadastrasse to Texasstrasse and we settled in nicely, me and my brother
sharing a room now instead of all four of us sharing one room. Soon (maybe a week) thereafter
neighbours downstairs moved in. A girl about my age, oh joy! So, as a five year old would
naturally do, I started showing off a little, I did some cart wheels and somersaults in what passed
for a front yard in our government-issue housing development. I was feeling great. It was sunny
and the new family was moving their stuff from the truck into the apartment right below ours.
Giggling, laughing I rolled around in the grass. Until I smelled something stinky. I stood up and
tried to look around like there was nothing stinky, but there WAS... Then I noticed the big brown
patch spreading on my pretty new yellow terrycloth capsleeve t-shirt. WITH rainbow stripes!
It was all over my shoulder. Dogshit. and it reeeked. I darted in side and I don't remember
what happened after that except I was mortified for probably ten minutes and then later the new
girl and I became best friends.
She had Barbies... I wasn't allowed to.
Posted by Tuffy the Dump Truck on 01-12-2004 01:31 AM:
We need to build more public dog restrooms - this is just way out of hand.
There was the time I was in crush with this girl, a stunning redhead named Fiona who
barely knew I existed. Well, I'd managed to finagle some time with her and we'd hung out for a
couple hours, me being as charming as I possibly can be, which, as you all well know, is pretty
damn charming. We'd walked around, skipping school, having lunch together at a secret location.
I think all the while that I'm doing pretty good - that I may be making headway to an actual "date"
or somesuch. I'm twelve feet tall and can bend iron rails in my bare fists, yes.
So, we're walking along this grassy area, waiting for her Mom to pick her up, you know,
"from school", and she wants us to sit in the shade under this tree. Okay. I don't know what comes
over me. Maybe it's the beautiful Spring day, or my feeling that she's starting to like-me-like-me, or
my subconscious need to show off to her. Perhaps it's as my (former) psychiatrist believes, that I
have limited impulse control (if it even momentarily occurs to me to do something, I will do it,
consequences be damned.) Maybe it's all four combined, but I do something completely out of
character for me; I run and execute a perfect somersault onto the grass coming to a stop right next
to her. You can't plan for things like that. Pleased with myself, I glance around and notice a
flattened pile of feces not far from where I was. Right in the middle of my tuck-and-roll landing
zone. I pretend that I don't see it. I couldn't have rolled right over that, right? Life couldn't possibly
be so cruel.
We chitchat for a while until a mutual female friend, Cary, arrives and joins us. A few
minutes later, Fiona's mother pulls up - la lalala la la, "Hey, why don't I give you kids a ride
home?" and we all pile into the station wagon.
It's oddly quiet on the ride home.
Cary and I live in the same neighborhood, so we jump out together saying goodbyes all
around. I walk her to her door and give her the ol' see ya later. She heads up the porch, but stops,
turns, and says to me with a disturbed look on her face, "Hey, is it just me, or did Fiona's mom's
car smell like dog shit?"
I denied noticing anything.
I avoided Fiona for the rest of the term, and after that she moved to England. Forever in
her memories, I am sure, I will be The Boy Who Somersaulted Into Poo. You just can't live that down.
Posted by Prensa Taladradora on 01-12-2004 05:44 AM:
Not a poop story, or How a Cow Almost Killed Me.
When I was about eleven I was good friends with a family that owned a dairy farm right
up the street. My kid brother and I would go almost every day to play with the animals, climb on
the machinery, and jump from the hay loft into the big pile of hay below. The farmer and his wife
enjoyed having us over, all their children were grown but they did not have any grandchildren
yet, so we were a sort of substitute until the real ones started showing up. There were always
kittens around to catch and torment, calves that would suck on your thumb (gross!) and chickens
to steal eggs from. The cows, truthfully, were not that exciting, just big slow creatures that barely
seemed to take note of us at all.
Sometimes I'd help with the milking, slipping the little milk sucking nozzles over the
nipples just because they'd let me.
One day around evening milking time, the farmer asked me to go in to the pen and goad
the cows into the milking room. This was pretty easy, the cows knew what was going on and most
of them would go in by themselves, but some would just keep chewing or wander around, unless
you walked up to them, and then they would kind of move away from you, so the idea was to
approach them from the right direction, and they would end up in the milking room on their own.
So this is what I was doing, little eleven year old me, with a little stick in my hand which the
farmer instructed me to use for the occasional cow butt smack in case they just weren't moseying
quickly enough.
I had almost all the cows moving in the right direction, but there was this one cow who
seemed more... I dunno, conscious maybe than the others, 'cause she looked right at me and
actually walked towards me This was totally unexpected, and cows are really big when you're
eleven, so I just kind of moved out of her way, but she was literally coming after me at this point
and I got a little scared. My footing was not so good, I was standing in a sea of cow pies, and
because I was watching the cow and not looking where I was going I found myself backed into the
corner of the pen and the wall of the milking room.
Now I'm panicked, I completely forget that I have a stick in my hand and I just stand there
as the cow starts to head-butt my chest, over and over again. This cow's head was huge, especially
from my close vantage point, and she was incredibly strong, much more than I had ever imagined
although, admittedly I had never tried to imagine how strong cows were before, it just hadn't
come up...
She keeps head-butting and I have the wind knocked out of me, I can't breathe, I can't
scream, even though the farmer is only inches away on the other side of the wall that I'm pinned
against. I am completely defenseless (in my mind, not in reality). I remember calmly thinking "so
this is how I'm gonna die... crushed by a cow's head..." and I was really fine with it. No fight or
flight instinct here, nosirree...
Finally the farmer decides I'm taking too long and comes out of the milking room only to
see what this evil cow is doing to me, and (I'll never forget how effortlessly) smacks the cow on the
butt with the stick he takes from me (I'm still holding it??) and the cow backs off and goes into the
milking room by herself.
I'm fine, really, my chest hurts and I can't breathe so good, but the farmer is pretty shook
up, and he's explaining to me how you have to show the animal who's boss, don't ever let them be
in control of the situation, and I'm still thinking "I can't just hit a cow!"
I hated that cow after that, but not enough to hit it. And she hated me too. Number 17, I'll
never forget. Whenever I walked by her from then on (on the safe side of the feeding fence) she
would stare me down, and if I got too close she would push me hard with her nose, enough to
almost knock me over. I don't have a fear of cows now or anything, she was the only one I ever
met that reacted to me that way, but I'm still baffled by the way I reacted to her attack.
I just let it happen...I'm a little disappointed in myself.
Posted by kayla_macneil on 01-12-2004 04:10 PM:
Wal-Mart has a paging system, and *someone* told a few people the code to it, and by
doing this ANYONE can go over the speaker and do or say anything they want.........so awhile ago,
these people came in and started making an orgasm noise over it for at least 20 minutes, and as it
went on it got worse and worse until they finally started making spanking noises... to this day
they haven't caught them, but it is legendary!
Posted by GlassSandwich on 01-13-2004 02:10 AM:
I used to work at a Wal Mart and something happened like that happened with the
walkie-talkies they give out to the cart pushers and the managers and the maintenance people and
who ever. One day they fired one of the Cart pushers and he went into his car and blasted some
rap that was telling people to suck their dicks over the walkie-talkie. He would also call for the
assistant managers and then ask them questions about how slutty their wives were or something. I
believe they brought him up on criminal charges. I wouldn’t want to fuck with wal-mart
I'm taking this out of the noobie thread and putting it here:
My Car Accident Story
I was living with a guy, he was a real computer junkie to the point that he lived in his
parent's basement and built a room in his living room to house his computer, complete with a seat
from a car that he sat in to play games and a steering wheel joystick thing and he'd go in the room
and stay there for hours and play online games, wearing a motorcycle helmet to complete the
immersion experience. He'd never had a girlfriend and me being there was more of a fluke than
I'd like to admit to myself. This was about seven years ago.
We had made a pact to not tell any of our mutual friends about the relationship in order to
keep it sacred, (and sacred is not really the right word, but it comes closest in this scenario) but by
the time I moved in pretty much everyone knew what was going on, however we did not discuss
it. Very strange circumstances. I was working in a halloween store, close to halloween, lotsa hours,
I was never "home". Except to sleep and drive him to work in the morning.
So, anyway, his current job (at a factory) was my old job, and his current "boss" was my
old "boss" etc. She was very delicious oriental girl whose trademark was babytalk which only
made her that much more delicious. My new retail job was changing shortly, to a new location,
even further from home than the first location, so I think the impending inevitable change was
making him insecure about our future, whatever, I didn't think a lot in those days, I was very
much go with the flow.
So I had to go away for a week to set up the new store, and when I returned, he was
standoffish, the way people get when absence does NOT make the heart grow fonder, and at one
point he tells me he likes this girl. The boss girl. I'm pretty much OK with this as my
understanding is that I meet people for a specific reason, but it is not to spend the rest of my life
with them, and he must've gotten what he came for and is now ready to move on. I'm ready too.
Curiously, within about five minutes of his declaration, SHE calls there (a first) and asks to speak
with me and tells me that she heard he "likes" her and that she had nothing to do with it and
would I please not hold it against her and so forth and in my head I'm thinking "what the hell is
happening? I need to find a new place to live asap and how strange...?" But that's it.
Then I go to work the next day, my first day at the new location and I'm lost and trying to
find the highway and i'm gonna be late and I'm on backroads and I look up and realize the car in
front of me is not moving. Apparently they were trying to make a left turn without a blinker, but I
figured it out to late and slam on my brakes and there's nowhere to go and I slide on the pavement
and slam into the back of their car. Just my driverside front corner with their passenger side rear
corner, not very fast, almost no visible damage but impact all the same. I bang my nose on the
steering wheel. We both pull in to the place where they were trying to turn (a church parking lot)
and all of us get out. Two old ladies. My first accident. And they were trying to go to church. I'm
an oblivious, inconsiderate jerk, instantly. Plus I'm young and not at all wholesome looking, so I'm
totally the bad guy. But this isn't the accident I wanted to tell you about...
So a few days later I go to my friend/boyfriend whatever you want to call this mess,
'cause he works on cars too, and pay him $200 to fix the little bit of damage there is cause I need an
inspection sticker and I would've paid a hell of a lot more had I taken it to a garage. And he does it
but we're not talking so I wait in the basement apartment until he's done. And at some point I have
to go into the kitchen to get a glass of water or something trivial, and there's a fucking used rubber
lying in the middle of the kitchen floor. Inside I go completely mental. Outside I'm calm as shit,
play like I never saw a thing, shouldn't have been in the kitchen anyway and eventually leave. For
good.
He NEVER used rubbers with me. We never talked about it, just one of those things you
do when you are both too stupid and inexperienced to actually talk about things before you do
them.
I was hurt on so many levels: because she called me to tell me it was nothing and three
days later they were doing it (with rubbers nonetheless!) because he told me he liked her and I
decided I should leave and three days later they were doing it (with rubbers!) because I had only
been out of his bed for three days and they were doing it! (Ack! rubbers!) Because it took us so
long to get to the point where we could do it and it only took her three days. I don't know, my self
worth sunk through the floor.
But I was out, I was living in a new town and new job, new people to meet and everything
was going to be fine, under what better circumstance could I ask for this particular embarrassing
situation to happen, right?
Flash forward about one month. I'm fine, I'm soooo over it it's not funny, I'm great. Free,
single, new pad, new mall, new bars, great. I have the weekend off so I decide to go visit my best
friend in the whole world who lives back in the town where all this other stuff happened. It's
shortly before x-mas, rush hour, at night, so traffic is insane. I'm on the Mass Pike which is a huge
four-if-not-five-lane-highway that cuts straight across Massachusetts from almost Albany, NY to
almost Boston, and I have to get off the pike to connect to one of the north/south highways, and
I'm flying along and I come over this hill, and I see a string of brake lights a mile long. Everyone in
front of me is stopped, dead in their tracks. I slam on the brakes, Ministry blaring that TVII song,
and miraculously I stop. Inches from the guy in front of me, but I stop. For a split second I have
relief, then I look in my rearview mirror, and I see headlights. Giant devils-eyes headlights coming
towards my ass at like eight thousand miles an hour, and my brain is repeating "please don't hit
me please don't hit me please don't hit me..." Then they hit me and this is the cool slowmotion
part: I slam into the car in front of me because I was only inches away, but I don't think that
would've mattered considering how fast the guy that hit me was still going, and then I bounce
back and hit the guy behind me again, and then I bounce again and hit the car in front of me and
get kinda stuck there. In his driver's side door, my impact must've spun him around and I'm
staring at this guy whose like a foot away from me now, and we just stare. We're in the fast lane
which in this case is also one of those rare left-hand exit lanes and traffic to my right is still going
by at 90+ miles an hour, but everything is strangely quiet. I hear nothing even though my radio is
still on.
Then I think "I can feel my face, why can I feel my face?" and I try to look in the rearview
but all I can see is one eye with a little crescent of blood going from the eyebrow to the bag under
my eye and I think "well that doesn't look so bad", but I know I can't move because I'm on the
fuckin Mass Pike and there's no where to go. Plus I have a BMW stuck to my hood and something
else (I can't see, it's too dark) with giant headlights stuck to my trunk. So I get my bag and stick by
bowl inside, (cops are coming, I know this too) and put it in my lap and look around and all of a
sudden there's this huge head in my window and it's saying something and all sound comes back
real quick and I hear "CONNECT THE GODDAMN DOTS!!! CONNECT THE GODDAMN
DOTS!!! CONNECT THE GODDAMN DOTS!!!" and the guy is touching me and my head and my
neck and he says "DON"T MOVE" so I don't and then he comes back with a friend and I say "THIS
IS MY BAG. IT IS VERY IMPORTANT. IT HAS MY PAPERWORK. I NEEDS IT TO STAY WITH
ME!" and they put me on a board and tie me down and put me on a stretcher so I can't see the
scene at all, all I can see is the sky and flashing and I can hear the stretcher being rolled to the
ambulance, (OH yeah, I KNOW what is going on now...) and I can hear little pieces of glass and
plastic crunching under the wheels of the stretcher, and I think sadly "that’s pieces of my CAR!"
and then I'm in and away and at the hospital and the whole time I had my bag with me and I'm
fine. I'm fine, really, I"M FINE!!!! They give me some ice for my eye and I'm sure I signed some
stuff and then they said I could go. Just like that. Go. So I find a phone and I call my friend who is
eagerly anticipating my imminent arrival and tell her briefly what happened and where I am and
she's on her way to come get me. Good.
So I go sit down and write about it real quick, just to document the situation, and then I
have to pee, so I find the bathrooms and pee and wash my hands, and while I'm washing my
hands I look up in the mirror and there's this MONSTER! no wait it's just me but what the hell
happened to my face? It's like twenty-six different colors and caked in dried blood and swollen
and I seriously don't recognize any of me in it. And I think: “this is cool..."
Skip ahead a few hours, said friend came to get me, I'm fine, I'm fine, I'M FINE!! We get
back to her house where she lives with her new roommate: you guessed it, the babytalk boss girl.
But she's not home, she's spending the night at HIS house. No big deal, I'm in pain, I wanna get
fucked up NOW, let's catch up…
I wake up in the morning feeling like I got hit by a truck. Newsflash, it wasn't a truck, it
was a van... and I can't breathe so good. (broken rib, found out later) and SHE's here and HE's
coming over and they have a christmas present for me... uh yeah. So I spend the next month on my
best friend in the whole world's couch watching HIM and HER make out right in front of me and I
can't breathe enough to say: "fuck off, you oblivious, inconsiderate jerks."
P.S. the gift was a white southpark t-shirt. I have never ever ever worn white.
Posted by JKabol on 01-14-2004 10:32 AM:
Okay, I don’t have a poopy story. In fact, I don’t even write non-fiction at all, ever. But this
that follows is about as close to non-F as will ever been seen from me. Even calling it non-F is
questionable.
I started working nights again. After two weeks of working nights your body feels achy.
Your head starts to hurt the way that a computer monitor makes your head feel after looking at it
for a couple of hours. But that feeling doesn’t go away with a cup of coffee and sunshine. It doesn’t
go away when you get to work or the rest of the time that you do what you do. This is the way that
I feel now – not awake and not asleep, kind of like your trying to concentrate on a thing but you
cant stop thinking about everything else that doesn’t matter, and you cant go to sleep and you try
to stay awake at the same time. Your head is a spiral that goes round and round and this
merry-go-round is not the joyful thing that you loved in childhood. You look at the floor-plan at
work and you try to take it all in but you can’t figure out how to focus, not in the way that you
forgot how but in the way that you never knew how. And if you have a couple of beers at the end
of the night to calm your nerves and suppress your constant thinkingness, you’ll wake much
worse the next day. You may for a trick of thought think that heroin may help, but you dread the
possibility that you will be worse afterwards, worse in the way the same condition will occur but
also be compounded with uncontrollable sweat, nervousness and the constant booming sound of
your heart that overpowers all of you other senses, like you won’t see straight, everything will feel
grainy like sand or rust, you wont be able to hear words or things and everything you put in you
mouth will taste like straw mixed with mud, kind of earthy and very bland. It takes a while for
your body to adjust, and everything is subtle, including your very gradual ability to become
normal again, the kind of normal where-in you’ll be able to breathe without sighing and walk a
straight line without strong will, and enjoy foods and a sound mind. Until then you deserve a
straightjacket and sedatives. The only thing that you are certain of is that you just have to take one
step at a time because you think that may be the right path.
Posted by origamiLips on 01-15-2004 11:09 PM:
Disclaimer: Sorry for the "verbal diarrhoea" below. For the longest time, I thought that I didn't
have any interesting stories to tell. After talking to my friends about it, I realized that yeah, I do
have some stories. Hopefully you will enjoy them as much as I do telling them, at my expense of
course!
Here is the first, and I promise the others wouldn't be as long as this one.
--------Earlier this year, my sister told me that she is finally getting married and that no matter
what, I should fly all the way back to Taiwan to be there for the biggest day of her life. Obviously,
I agreed. Little did I know that 4 months later, Taiwan was on the WHO hit list as one of the places
not to go during the whole SARS scare.
My whole family was torn. They want me there for the wedding, yet they did not want to
risk my life, even though the chances of dying from the common cold is higher than dying from
SARS. I had to know whether I can go ahead and fly back because I had other things to take care
off in Toronto, yet another hot spot for SARS. I wanted to take summer courses in the summer
because I want to graduate with a double major and a minor in something that actually matters to
me. Yet with the wedding in the way, I couldn't enroll in summer school nor could I find a job.
For 2 weeks, I would get calls either from my mother or my sister telling me "yes, fly home
now", or "no, it's too dangerous." It got to the point where I didn't care anymore. Imagine getting
calls every other hour and dealing with their perpetual fickleness. Then, my sister called and told
me that forget about the whole wedding thing because whoever flies into Taiwan from Toronto
would be quarantined in a government funded hotel for 10 days.
This made no sense to me because SARS was much worse in Asia then it ever was in
Toronto. Despite all this none sense, it worked to my advantage because I came up with a plan
where I was to fly from Toronto to a different destination, and then at that destination, purchase
my ticket to Taiwan. Clever?
I had a friend in New York that I always wanted to visit and combined with my
fascination with the Big Apple, it was just too good to be true. I had always wanted to go to New
York and experience all the things I see and hear about, sadly mostly from all the Seinfeld
episodes.
So the plan was for me to fly from Toronto to New York, stay overnight and then board a
plane from New York to Taiwan the following night. Essentially I would have 2 full days in New
York to do my "thang". Except, I wouldn't tell my mom about my trip to New York because they
would freak out. Overprotective, yes.
I made all the travel arrangements, figured out the parking problem, booked a hotel, etc
etc. I was so psyched to be finally able to go to New York on my own, because the last time I went
to New York, I was with my sister and it was disastrous. I spent most of the time in the hotel,
nursing a box of tissues because I had a nosebleed that never stopped.
Then, when I was about to fly out, my mother called with the final word. She told me to
NOT fly out at all. I was devastated. I wanted to go do the New York thing on my own, and to see
that friend of mine. Now I had to cancel all the arrangements even though I spent hours of
planning to make sure that every thing was going to happen. Yet nothing happened.
Of course, two days later, they told me to fly out. Turns out that Toronto had been
removed off the "black list" in Taiwan, and that I wouldn't be quarantined. There was no reason
for me to fly out from New York. So my dream ended there.
How was the wedding? It wasn't a wedding per se, rather, it was a carefully orchestrated
ceremony. I didn't know any body there having lived on the other side of the world for 13 years.
The only memorable moment that I tell people whenever they asked "how was the wedding" was
this...
According to Taiwanese customs, once the bride gets married, she is "given off" to the
groom's side. In fact that's what happens on the wedding day; an elaborate ceremony where my
parents gave my sister off to the groom's side. It is a sombre occasion for us because she is no
longer our "responsibility." The groom would hold a banquet to celebrate this, his gain. Then, 5
days later, the bride is to "return home", and hold a massive banquet to celebrate her return. This
is the bride's family turn to celebrate the "joyous" occasion.
My mom, being the competitive type, decided to "put the in-laws in their place" by
hosting the most elaborate banquet ever. Due to my uncle's political connections, we invited many
big shot politicians there, even though they have no clue who we were. We hosted the banquet at
the most prestigious hotel, ordered the best wine, the best foods, etc etc. She felt that the banquet
that the groom's side hosted was an embarrassment to our family because it did not do the bride
justice. This was a way for my mom to gain her sweet vengeance, to show them how it was done.
It was hugely entertaining for me because the politicians didn't know who we were and
because of it, made a lot of "liberal" statements that made no sense. It was hilarious because it was
error upon error; it was as if the current speaker was learning all that he can about our family from
the previous speaker, until it was spun out of control. Apparently according to them, we
immigrated to Vancouver (I never stayed in Vancouver for more than an hour), and my dad had a
Ph.D or was pursuing one. My cousin leaned over when she heard this and asked whether it was
true or not. I brushed it off and said "I guess so..."
Naturally everyone got disgustingly drunk. Free liqueur! Courtesy of the Su family.
Asians are not known for keeping down alcohol, and it showed. Originally, my sister had planned
on going shopping and getting a haircut right after the banquet (yeah, I know!), but since her
husband was so drunk, she had to stay and take care of him - the vomit machine. My sister had no
clue what to do with him, and instead of dealing with it, she drew up a hot bath and dump him in
there, alone to vomit, while she came to be and whined. She was so pissed off yet didn't know
what to do other than swore at him. While she was doing that, my cousin who was staying in the
next room was too vomiting and his wife had to take care of him as well. My mom, in the room on
the other side of us, too was taking care of my father, who decided to puke all over the bed I
remember seeing all this, skipped down the halls and humming to myself that "thank god I am
single." After all, I have no one to take care off.
This would not last for long. Hours later, the "girls" regrouped for buffet style dinner. I
love unagi (fresh water eel). They are very expensive; they usually go for about 20 dollars for a
tiny piece at higher end restaurants. However, they were dirt cheap in Taiwan because we export
them to Japan and other countries.
I loaded my plate with all the unagi, still high from realizing the freedom of being single
and unbound. I sat at the table, quietly enjoying myself not really listening to what my mother and
my sister was talking about until I heard my name...in combination with another name.
Apparently my mom is high from the whole marriage thing and wants to marry me off. I'm 21 by
the way and no way ready for any of this. My sister cheerfully joined and explained how "Taiwan
Joe" (a nickname my friends and I came up with) was perfect for me. He is my brother in law's best
friend and really, he is a nice guy.
Yet something happened. The thought of them sitting there talking about my future,
without me in it, not allowing any say of what I do with my life, did something to me. I couldn't
stomach all the eel I was eating. All the food I ate, literally came up.
So what happened to Taiwan Joe? He's nice, yes, but is he for me, of course not. Well, at
least not now. I am with someone else that my family has no clue about. The less they know, the
better it is for me. No awkward explanations. Both my mother and my sister still question me as to
whether I am involved with anyone. The answer is still no, each and every time. I don't like lying
to them, yet I really think it is better for all of us for me to shut up and say nothing. Yes, the lies are
getting quite complicated and really I have nothing to be ashamed off. But really, I really do
believe that the less they know, the better.
Just the other day, my mom called and in a really harsh tone, asked "Do you have a
boyfriend?" Without any thought, I said no. She didn't believe it at first, all because I wouldn't lent
out my cellphone to her when she was visiting from Taiwan. I quickly explained how I live with 4
other people and share one phone line and having a cellphone gives me the flexibility of always
having a line open for me. Even though in actuality, I don't get calls. She then asked whether I still
talk to Taiwan Joe. When she found out that no, I don't really talk to Taiwan Joe anymore (due to
the fact that I don't know how to type in Chinese and he doesn't really understand English), she
was genuinely disappointed. I think she wanted something there in hopes that I will return home,
and settle down in Taiwan. She bought a gigantic condo recently with 5 bedrooms, with a room
especially for me.
It's rather sad, all of this. I made my roots in North America, whether it is Toronto or say,
New York. It would never be in Taiwan. It is highly unlikely for me to meet a Taiwanese guy and
chances are, I would marry a Caucasian. My sister even joked that my future husband would be "a
white German jew who used to smoke." Although my mother is prepared for this, yet I really
don't think she is.
Posted by origamiLips on 01-15-2004 11:47 PM:
Embarrassing stories in the Romantic (?) Lane
I have been single for the most of my life. I experienced what a "normal" North American
teenybopper just recently: my first kiss, my first date, my first boyfriend, and "all that". I guess I
am just a slow bloomer, well at least that's what my sister said. I guess I've been drowning in a sea
of unrequited love for a little too long and missed out on other opportunities. Or, it might be
because I never really feel that it was necessary for me to "hook up." Like Robert Ross of Timothy
Findley's The Wars, I am truly asexual (sorry I have a tendency to relate a little too well to the
books I read). Well at least, at the time.
Back in high school, I used to be attracted to this boy - the 6'2 Libra man of my dreams. He
was Korean, insanely intelligent, on the basketball team, ran the school paper, played the
saxophone. Perfect. People used to think that we are identical, other than the fact that I was female
and Taiwanese. But seriously, we were perfect. We worked really well together and would always
keep each other on top.
I always thought the feelings were mutual, and to this day, I still do. At first, I didn't really
like him. I don't know what happened that made me fall so deep later on. But later, perhaps
influenced by Gatsby, I think I never liked him. Rather I was in love with the idealized him, and
not him himself. Like Gatsby (see, there it goes again), all I ever wanted is to be validated by him.
Towards the end, it was more important for him to tell me that he liked me, rather than liking him
for who he is. Sad. Pathetic. Yes.
In my last year in high school, I got really bitchy. I was really sick and tired of being in a
limbo of getting over-liking-getting over him. It took up too much of my time and really, I should
be concentrating on getting into university or something. Being me, I even thought about applying
to Cornell because his sister went there. Then I realized, I really shouldn't follow some guy
around. Perhaps that is the main reason why I didn't apply for any US schools. Instead I went to
the best programme that Canada has to offer. Funny, I found out later that his sister got into the
same programme yet turned it down for Cornell.
I went onto university, still debating whether I was really over him. But really, I was, yet I
still wanted that validation or at least some sort of closure. In fact, I was so close to getting him to
answer my question "was it mutual", but a friend interrupted me to go help him edit his English
paper. That was the end of that.
During the summer after I finished first year university. I had this strange dream of a boy
I used to know back in grade 6. He knocked on my door and moved in with me. This was the same
boy that the local "bitchy" girl harassed me about back in grade 6 because she was going out with
the boy at the time and thought he was flirting with me. Yeah, sure, whatever.
Then, a surprise twist. One night, I was supposed to drive to my friend's house to pick up
some notes and then go to the grocery store to pick up juice. I ended up staying at her place for 2
hours, didn't find the juice and decided to cruise each and every aisle out of sheer boredom, and
then getting lost coming out of the parking lot. Then, when I was entering my condo, I see him.
The boy, quite literally, in my dream. I haven't seen him since grade 6, yet I still recognized him.
Yet, I was already heading down the underground parking and can't really just stop and yell at
him.
It was surreal. After I quickly parked my car, I realized that yes, he does live in my
building. After all this time? I waited for him to come back, but after 30 mins of waiting, I left and
went upstairs. I decided to look him up in the phonebook and give him a call the next day. It turns
out that he lives beside another friend of mine, and that his father used to live right beside me.
Small world.
We ended up meeting each other for the first time in ages. Talked. Hung out. Had fun. Etc,
etc. The whole time, I was trying to figure out why I had a dream about this guy, and what he
means to my life. I'm a chick, so there. Don't judge.
Then, one day, we were driving back to my house and I asked about whether it is possible
to fall in love with "a wall". Meaning if it is possible to fall completely in love when the person
doesn't even return any affection? I was of course referring to my 6'2 Libra. Yet, the boy in the car
looked at me, and said, in a sombre tone, "Rita, are you...talking...about...me?"
I was shocked because the thought never came up in my head. The whole time I was
thinking about my "failed" relationship where all the seeds were planted yet nobody did anything
to let it grow. I didn't know what to say but blush...really really hard. I was like, no I wasn't even
remotely thinking about you. He was like, "cause Rita you know I love you right, but not like that."
Well duh, I mean I had no hidden agenda, all I ever wanted from him is to know why I had a
dream about him and then bumping into him in some weird twist of fate. Needless to say, it was a
very uncomfortable drive home.
We hung out for the rest of the summer, even took an unexpected road trip to Philly, then
hung out again in the winter. Then, money got in the way, and it got ugly. I haven't spoken to him
since, other than to call him to ask for my money back. He owed me $500 dollars and it was only
until this Christmas I got it all back. Maybe my dream was a cautionary tale, that I would be
supporting this guy, which I did. Out of all the things I did for him, I can only reasonably ask for
500 dollars of it back. You would think that money would never get in the way of true friendships,
I guess this wasn't one...
Hmm, since we are talking about my embarrassing "romantic" story...
Well, like I said, I'm "slow". I don't "pick things up." Last Valentines day, I agreed to see
"The Stewardess", the Titanic of 3D films, even though it was a blatantly badly acted soft porn,
with some guy who I knew liked me, yet I did not like him. Since I never been involved with
anybody, "Valentine's day" was not something in my radar. I said yes, we went. Didn’t have a
good time because it was my 2nd time seeing it, with him actually. I actually met him at the first
screening 5 months ago.
Anyway, afterwards he took me to a goth club because I had never been and he had
friends who were goths (he was not). I was unprepared for all this, and wore a bright neon yellow
puffy coat. Naturally I stood out. People were polite and did not stare. Yet there was just so much
smoke from all the ciggies that my eyes literally could not take it. It was to a point where I couldn't
see anything, because my contact lenses were literally wanting out. I don't have my case, so I
couldn't do anything but kept on dripping eyedrops into my bloodshot eyes. That is, if I could get
them to open up. It was to a point where I had to perform an "emergency operation". No, not that
drastic. I went to McDonalds and asked for 3 cups: two to hold my each of my contacts, and the
last one that acted as a lid when I stacked all of them up.
Yup, that was my night. Very very embarassing. No wonder I don't date.
Posted by origamiLips on 01-16-2004 12:11 AM:
Now for some short snippets of stories about my sister, the other one.
I have two sisters, one is 7 years older than me and another one who is 9 years older than
me. Of course, like all the other families out there, the middle child is always the weird one and I
never really related to her. This is of course a somewhat embarrassing story about her. Sorry sis,
well it's not like she will ever see this.
One year, we went back to Taiwan and our mothers decided to send us off to some
student tour thing. This is, for those who read my previous posts, the trip where I nearly died
from excessive nosebleed, where I literally had blood coming out of my eyes. But I will save you
from all that.
Anyway, right before we got to the meetup place, my sister got hit by a scooter. Yes, a
scooter. Now all of us inherited the "fat gene" from our mother. Now, I am 5'10 so I can carry off
the weight, and my other sister was bulimic, so she is not so..."spherical" as my 2nd sister. You
would think that because she was hit by a moving vehicle travelling at 40km/h, that she would be
the one to be hurt. Yet, when she got hit, she simply got up, pat her bum, and walked away. The
tiny girl on the scooter was left screaming in pain.
I'll leave you with that image.
Now, are you prepared for another?
The same sister is a devoted Evangelical Christian (I am agnostic), who firmly believed
that thou should not have sex before marriage. Now, she too was a slow bloomer, and basically
"stuck" with the first guy she met. No joke here...well she did meet this other guy but it didn't
work out. At 27, she decided to be engaged to this guy (34) who she barely met. They met 4
months ago, and decided they were perfect for each other and married another 6 months later.
Now, a large part of me still believe that they "rushed" things because of the sex factor. Too many
youths today get married simply because of religious confines. Of course, this is all in my opinion.
Trust me on this, this is NOT a pretty thing.
The only thing I remember from the wedding ceremony was this...after the first round of
food at the reception party, my eldest sister and I went with my sister to touch up her makeup.
The reception was held at a historical, romantic hotel and when we saw the room, we were in awe.
Everything was just perfect. There was this white sheer canopy above the bed that gently flows
down to the sides. The bed was covered with rose petals and lots of pillows. Yes the whole
Danielle Steel romance novel comes to life. I of course haven't read any of that, so am pathetically
at lost of what else to say.
All I can remember was my sister's face, when she was in that room. She wanted
everything to be over and done with. She wanted to be on that bed with her husband...NOW. I can
see it in her face. All that anxiety, all that sexual anxiety. It wasn't very pleasant. Just like how you
never want to walk in on your parents having sex, same thing. She was horny as hell, and I was a
witness to all that...
Every time I look at her, I cannot help myself from seeing that same face, over and over.
Maybe that's the reason why I don't really keep in touch with her...Yes...that's it...
Posted by origamiLips on 01-16-2004 12:18 AM:
Since I took up way too much of your time, I'll leave you with the last one. Originally I
had at least 5 more to tell, but I think this one will do as I am borderlining overkill.
This happened to a friend of one of my closest friends...here goes, in her own words: So,
there I was in Union station, on my way back from school. I had been listening to the CD you gave
me at all available points during the evening and loving it. Seriously, it's classic Celine. You can
practically feel it when she slaps herself. We've got triumphant ballads, we've got key changes,
we've got songs to her son which are kind of creepy since we know she doesn't write her own
music, the works. I was a happy chappy.
Then I walk up to the Subway girl and ask for a 6" turkey sub with no cheese on whole
wheat. (We'll talk about my tremendous display of dietary restraint another time). She looked at
me like I had 3 heads and said 'excuse me?'. I mentally called her a moron, then said it all again.
Her response? "uh, I don't speak french"...
Yep.
I had lapsed into french.
So I say "oh, I'm sorry." and place my order in english. But do I tell the clerk the truth and
laugh it off?
No.
Not Sonia.
I speak with an accent.
Yep Trying to keep the facade of a french-woman going, I keep the accent through the
whole veggie process. "Yes, ahh wuld like zee oleeves, and zee salt et peppaar. Zank you." Then I
went back to my headphones and into a world where it's ok to be french and whack yourself.
Posted by Alex on 01-16-2004 01:55 AM:
I'm six years old or so, who knows, and I'm at the park. My parents and brother are there,
there's other kids, the sun is shining, birds are singing, at least one adult there is having impure
thoughts about someone else's kid; a beautiful summer's day.
So I'm on the swings and this kid is running around in front of me. If memory serves me
correctly, and it probably doesn't, I'd been pushing him on the swings and now it was my turn.
The kid is running around and runs right in front of me. I try to reason with the laws of gravity
and physics to get myself to stop but they won't listen. My face meets the side of his head. I'm on
the ground, he's screaming quite a bit as am I. He's younger than me I remember and screaming
far more than I am, then again he's hurt and I'm bleeding from my mouth. Actually I'm bleeding a
lot from my mouth. Actually I'm quite impressed that my mouth, or me, has this much blood. My
father had a handkerchief and I recall stuffing that into my mouth all the way to the wherever it
was we went, hospital, dentist, whatever.
My mind has only a few images from that day: The park, the swings, a very quick zoom in
on the kid's head, the city streets going by in the car window while I pack my teeth asking "derth
dith mush bluhd in my head?" and then screaming relentlessly. I remember crying until that
bloodied tampon of a handkerchief was hard and brown and being used again to dry my tears
when the bleeding stopped but I wouldn't shut up with my crying.
My parents deserve some sort of medal for putting up with me, then and now.
Liar.
I was living in Boulder, Colorado, but I had only been there for about a year.
Before I left New Hampshire a few friends of mine and I had started an annual tradition of
going to the Bread and Puppet Show in Vermont. Which is basically 50,000 hippies in a
cowpasture for the weekend. The main event is a theatrical performance in the pasture, portrayed
by 'actors' holding up thirty-foot high papier-mâché puppets that tell a story of Mother Nature
and the seasons. At the end there's this huge paper guy that people write things all over that they
want 'out of their lives', predictable hippie stuff like "evil" or "hunger", and he gets set on fire and
we all cheer and trip out and dance until the sun comes up... neo pagan BS, it was like a mini
Burning Man before any of us had ever heard about Burning Man.
But it was fun, to a degree. At the end I was always more than ready to go home, but I've
never been much of a camper anyway. I loathe Portapotties, and I like to take a shower at least
once a day. I was never meant to be a hippie.
So, anyway, I was living in Boulder, and that summer I had the brilliant idea that I needed
to go back to the Bread and Puppet Show for a reunification with all my NH friends, and also to
show my new Coloradian buddies what a great trippy time it was. I organized and financed the
whole thing. I had this sweet brown 1979 Volvo stationwagon and I got two guys to commit to the
trip. I specifically remember putting all the pot pipes and things in one place, so it wouldn't be
strewn all throughout our stuff.
We were driving through Nebraska, actually one of the guys was driving, the other was
sleeping in the back and I was riding shotgun. We had long since realized that we left the precious
stash at home by accident, so no drugs until we got there, but then, of course , there would be
PLENTY. Nebraska is one of those states in the middle that you basically have to get through to get
to other places, and the highway that goes across it goes straight across, and you can literally
almost see the end the whole time, but you plug along anyway because you have to. It was pretty
late at night, probably 3 or 4 am, and there not many cars out, but there was a car behind us for a
while, at least an hour, and we never paid any mind to it at all. Until I tossed my cigarette out the
window and our whole world was submerged in flashing blue lights.
Cops? Jeesus! Who'd have thought? And what the hell did we do, anyway? The cop
comes to the window, and he's already such an ass. He starts spewing all this stuff about how it's
illegal in Nebraska to throw cigarette butts out the window, and I said there was no sign and then
he said it's common sense, and this went on for a while until he made me get out of the car and go
sit in the front seat of his cruiser. He got in his seat and told me that I have to give him $75 cash or
he's gonna take me to jail right now. So I'm freaking out, I haven't had a lot of experience with
cops so far and I'm still really young so I go back to the car and go to get my money and the two
guys are like "what are you doing?" I'm crying and I tell them what the cop said and they say I
should not give him the money, he's gonna pocket it (which would have never occurred to me)
and really I needed the money to get where we were going, so I went back to the cops car and told
him I couldn't give him my money cause I needed it, and then he said "Do you mind if I search
your vehicle?" And of course I said that was fine so he went and really tore the crap out of the
thing, I mean even I'm surprised he didn't find anything, and he spilled my milkshake all over his
shoes. He was so pissed he didn't find anything, but all he ended up giving me was a summons to
appear in court for two weeks from then. I was on my way to Vermont...?
Anyway, I'm still not allowed to drive in Nebraska, and I don't care. Kansas is the same
thing...
The rest of this trip is a story in itself, I'll tell it another time.
Prompted by the recent celebration of their fiftieth year, Hefner's definitive place in
history and also by threads in the News section of this very cult forum, I went to Joe's Smokeshop
today and purchased my very first Playboy magazine.
I had been planning it for about a week, and it took me a few days to even figure out
where to get one. I asked the girl (and I use that term loosely...) at 7-11 if they carry it, and she told
me in her predictable mongoloid (no offence to actual mongols, please) babble: "I ownt ink soh..."
(blank stare as she shuffels dirty, flat donuts from a cardboard box into a metal rack with her bare,
puffy hands)
I resist going to The Big Bookstore, because of their proximity to The Big Mall, which is
difficult to access, and trying to get there always ruins my day.
Good ol' Joe's Smokeshop. I had to drive around the block three times before I got a good
parking space, (it's negative twenty degrees here people) but once inside I knew I would have
success.
It's a rinkydink kinda place, a one-story brick structure, with a row of payphones stuck to
the front. (Darth Vader sez: WELCOME to verizon...) And there are always people standing out
front smoking, appropriately. Right across the street is a Video Expo, but it will be a while before I
can go in THERE to buy something, let alone to browse.
It actually took me a minute to find the guy magazines, but the 50th Playboy stuck out like
a sore thumb for the simple fact that it was the only one not pink in hue.
I was really hoping someone would say something, so I could tell them about the article I
was buying it for, as I placed it on the counter. I even had my ID out, but the dood never looked at
it. No one said a thing, but I was still giddy inside.
I got into my truck and drove to work..."I got my first Plaaaay-boy" I kept singing to
myself, Peter Gabriel's soundtrack to The Last Temptation of Christ piping from my tiny tape deck
through my tiny single speaker...
Nine and a half hours later and the only thing my old man tells me about his day at work
is that one of the maintenance guys brought three "really disgusting" porno mags to work with
him (Fox, Juggs and Swank or maybe Spank, I'm not sure...) and passed them around.
I tease him: "But you checked them out anyway, just to make sure they were truly
disgusting, right?" and he starts telling me about horribly distorted assholes, gigantic close-ups
and how he might have "horny dreams" tonight. "That's OK" I think, "I won't be in bed to witness
anything, I'll be in front of the computer..."
On his way to bed he spies my inconspicuous brown paper bag (and pizza box left over
from supper).
"You got pizza?
"Yeah, but you wouldn't like it, it's got spinach and no meat..."
"What else?"
"Some magazines for work"
"You went to your P.O. Box today?"
"Yeah, TIME, Rolling Stone, a packet of cards from the Eastern Paralyzed Veterans
Association, the usual..."
"No porno?" He actually says this, even though it's just a joke, and inside I'm all "how
ironic" but outside I'm all "No-wah!"
After he went to bed I spent some time looking for anything in The Cult about the article
but there's not much yet. Then I went in the can (cause it's the only place I'm supposed to smoke)
and opened the magazine.
There's something really nice about the superglossy cover, the gold embossed emblem,
the inside flap. The Absolut ad is singular.
I expected to be pelted with boobies from the onset, but the first person I see is actually a
guy in really tight, white, tiny undies with the slogan "pro stretch".
I found the story although it is segmented in a way that you have to skip over twenty or so
pages to get to the next part. And the style, although recognizably Chuck, is so filled with the
names of the vehicles repeated over and over again that I found myself a little lost.
I liked this part: "The rules: Your header must be at least 16 inches above the ground. You
can carry only five gallons of gas, and your gas tank must be sheltered in the bulk tank used for
wheat at the center of each combine. You can use up to 10 pieces of angle iron to reinforce your rig.
You must remove any glass from the cab. You can't fill your tires with calcium or cement for better
traction. You must be at least 18 years old and wear a helmet and a seat belt. Your combine must
be at least 25 years old. You must pay a $50 entry fee.....Despite all the rules, you can still drink.
Tipping back a can of Coors, Davis says, "If you can walk, you can drive."
I feel like I don't want to crack the spine or get fingerprints all over the glossy black cover.
I can't wait to read the HST article.
I think I'm gonna get a subscription.
Posted by Tuffy the Dump Truck on 01-17-2004 06:20 AM:
The Burning Down A Boat Story
This one never fails to get me drinks in any bar.
So, I’m homeless, right? Doesn’t matter what all the details are, how I got there and such,
just know that I was pretty-much living on the streets and had been for a few years. It was the
early Nineties. Bush was president. We were at war with Iraq. The economy was in the shitter.
Yeah, de-ja-fucking-vu.
Anyway, so you understand, being off-grid, initially - while a tad on the scary side in all
the ways you might expect (What am I going to eat? Where am I going to sleep? That kind of
day-to-day scary) – is invigorating, in the sense that it is a physical thrill. A fucking roller coaster.
Real Indiana Jones exciting adventure stuff. New and exciting cities all the time. New and exciting
people who just might kill you. New and exciting garbage to pull out of new and exciting trash
receptacles that you can eat or wear. People throw away the most amazing shit, but that is, as they
say, a different story. If you keep an open mind about it, being on the bum can be pretty okay.
Right up until it makes you crazy.
You see all those homeless crazies out there? I have a theory – based on experience, mind
you – that half are homeless because they’re out of their heads, and half are insane because they’ve
been homeless too long. After a while, the constant, low-grade ambient fear and paranoia just
kinda gets to you. "What’s crawling on me? Who’s touching my stuff? What fucking month is it?
God DAMN! It’s cold!" A couple years of that, and, yeah… Your inner dialogue gets set on a
feedback loop and weird shit starts going off in your head. Voices first. You hear people
whispering your name. Or calling you from a distance. They never are. But you keep hearing it.
This is a good time to get off at the next station.
After a few years, I was at this point. Time to either crawl away somewhere to die, or get
back into the system. How do you do that – what separates a lousy bum from the All-American
boy next door? A job and a place to live. Simple. Trick is, getting one without the other is difficult.
And getting the other without the one is damnear impossible. I needed A Sucker.
A Sucker. A Sugar-daddy. Well, not a sugar-daddy, as such, but you get the idea. I needed
someone who was willing and able to give me a leg up. Preferably without demanding too much
in return. Eventually you realize that, if you aren’t willing to use people once in a while, you’re
just going to sink into the shit and disappear. Sometimes, you find people who like to be used.
Sometimes, you find people who need you to use them, and a mutual, symbiotic relationship is
formed. Sometimes you find people who flat-out deserve to be used. These are the ones you look
for.
It didn’t take long. A few inquiries. Keeping the eyes and ears open. The heavens opened
and a nice, ripe one appeared right before me. It seems a friend of a friend’s brother knew this
guy…
A millionaire. Seriously. You know all those leather-bound law-books you see in the
background of the courtroom dramas on TV? The ones with the red and black labels with the gold
trim… you’ve seen them. Well, those are the real deal – same books in law libraries all across the
country. There are a few major publishing houses that exclusively handle these books. One of
these houses is owned by an old-money family back east. The son, a legal resident of the fine state
of Arizona, kept a yacht (a goddamned yacht!) docked in nearby Huntington Harbor. He was
looking for an on-site caretaker for his boat.
Living…
On a luxury yacht…
While getting paid to look after it…
One block off the finest beach in all of Southern California.
When they say something is too good to be true, they have no idea what the hell they’re
talking about. I asked if an introduction could be arranged. I was lucky; he was in town.
This is how I met Frank. Frank was forty-two years old. Looked like a younger Einstein.
Wild, receding hair. Walrus mustache. Unkempt. Rumpled. And had the social graces of, well, he
had none. As he spoke, he stared at that spot where the floor meets the ceiling. His hands drifted
aimlessly and unselfconsciously about his person. If he had an itch, he scratched it. It was obvious
that basic grooming needs such as bathing and teeth-cleaning were neglected as often as not. He
chain-smoked generic ultra-light cigarettes. He was an unpleasant, tubby little lump of a man.
Of course, he took a shine to me right away.
"You don’t know how to read radar, by any chance, do you?"
"No, but I’m ready to learn."
"You can do it, right?"
"Sure."
"Great. I’ll get you in a class."
It was agreed that I would board ship (whee!) the next day and immediately begin my
duties. One of my aces had been that my grandfather, in all his Hemmingway-esque big-game
hunter delusions, had been an amateur deep-sea fisherman and I had practically grown-up on
boats, or at the very least near the ocean. So I would feel right at home and have a quick
understanding of the work to be done.
Yes, there would be work. Now, while this was a million-plus dollar luxury yacht, it was
by no means one of those gigantic gilded sea liners you see on Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous.
This was your classic fixer-upper. It fit the man perfectly. Don’t get me wrong, it was a nice ship,
but not new – a forty-two foot 1963 Chriscraft; all hand-carved mahogany and solid brass fittings –
they really don’t make them like that anymore - three decks, two staterooms, and one head. That
would be the bog. The loo. The bathroom. My room would be "before the mast", a comfortable
triangular-shaped space with a sharply sloping ceiling. The very front of the boat. Anyway, the
hull needed scraping, there was sanding and varnishing and painting to be done – your basic
maintenance work. It was a job, after all. But, hey, free room and meals, and all the amenities.
Frank had outfitted his boat nicely. Aside from the generic smokes, he had deluxe tastes. Silver
spoon, you know. Refrigerator and pantries stocked with months worth of gourmet crap you
would never buy for yourself. Goose-liver pâté with capers? No one has ever been able to
adequately explain to me what the hell a caper is. And the bar. I’ve seen pubs with less. Rum (light
and dark), Whisky (Irish, Canadian, Scotch, and Bourbon), Vodka, Tequila, liquors, mixers of all
sort, Guinness draught, Corona, Tecaté, Dos Equis… Cases and cases of the stuff. The Romance was
one hell of a party boat.
Yes, "The Romance". Shut up.
Right. Convection oven, telephone, color TV, satellite dish, majorly expensive and loud
stereo. Everything you could want. One tricked-out boat.
And it was June… Did I mention that it was June? This was going to be one hell of a grand
summer. Wake up, nice breakfast, work a couple hours on the boat, hit the beach (I never was
much of a beach person really, but hell…) come back and relax into the cool evening under the
stars with a few cervezas, some easy tunes, and maybe a Betty or two... Almost enough to make
you weep. Gidget! Moondoggie! Wait up, I’m comin’ home! Yes.
I return to my friend’s house and have a long, screwed-up adventure in Fontana. We
won’t get into that here. Anyway, my friend Opus – his name was Opus - felt that he should now
give me The Talk.
Full-Disclosure. "Frank is gay. That’s not an issue because you aren’t his type. He prefers
blond, tan, smooth teenage surfer twinks. However, Frank is a virgin. So he’s really really
obsessed with blond, tan, smooth teenage surfer twinks. Does this bother you?"
”Uh… No."
"Good. Frank is also schizophrenic."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Frank is schizophrenic.
"That’s what I thought you said… "
"Generally, he’s fine, but he can get kind of… Schizophrenic. He’s on medication, but
sometimes they don’t seem to work. He forgets to take them once in a while."
"Is he at all dangerous?"
"You can take him." That’s reassuring. "Just go along with his… stuff, and you’ll be okay."
Stuff? What stuff?
"Wait! He lives in Tempe. I won’t really have to deal with him all that much, right?"
"Frank’s decided to spend the summer on the boat."
Shit.
Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit and more shit.
Next day, I officially signed on The Romance. Frank was there to greet me. I was wary for a
while, but aside from his obvious quirks, I didn’t see any real problems with him. Modify plan
slightly, get comfortable. I settled in nicely.
We took turns with the meals. Cook didn’t wash up and vice-versa. He spent most of the
day either locked in his stateroom or huddled over his laptop. This was in the early days of the
internet. I asked him what kept him so occupied, and he explained, "This is a forum; a place where
people gather to exchange ideas and information. We’re focused primarily on politics. I have to be
on here all the time. I’m a moderator. That’s a cop. Also, I advise the president."
Oh.
I returned to work.
It wasn’t bad, really. In the evenings we’d watch TV, or sit out on the deck, grill fired up,
him sipping Mount Gay Rum & Cokes, me with a beer, only… He kept count of his beers. I was
only allowed so many. Fine. He didn’t drink beer. Couldn’t stomach it. It was for the parties that
were coming. The guests that he would have on his boat. His tan, blond surf-twinks…
And we’d talk. Me, pointing out the stars and planets and constellations and retelling the
myths attached to each one; stuff I had learned as a child but never forgotten. Him, about his time
in ‘Nam. He talked about his squad, the firefights, and the men he’d lost… Getting weepy, he’d
tell and retell until I’d learned the name, rank, and age of each of his fellows. Often, he would be
sobbing by the time it was over. Bob, 27, gunny sergeant. Bonner – Bob’s closest friend since
childhood – 27, lance corporal, the two were inseparable to the point where I began to think of
them as one person… The Kid, 17, The Armenian, 19, Pfc's, both. Good men. Good men, all.
Everyone looked out for the Kid…
Frank, you realize, had never served, had never been to Viet Nam. These were books; a
paperback war fiction series that he’d read and it had become memory. When he cried so long that
he had to excuse himself to his stateroom for the rest of the night, leaving me to pick at roasted
spaghetti squash, that was the only time I ever really got worried. I went along with Frank’s
"stuff".
Summer went on. Not the summer I’d envisioned, but not bad. I juggled a couple of
girlfriends who would come over from time to time. I was eating (and bathing) regularly. I knew
where my shit was and, most importantly, I knew from one day to the next where I was going to
lie down at the end of the day. Compared to where I had been six months previously, this was
damn good.
Fourth of July came and went. I dropped a lot of acid and didn’t return to the boat for a
couple days. Frank was livid. Very quiet. Very terse. But livid. His eyes were purple. He’d cooked
chicken. I told him glowingly about how I’d spoken to the spirits of the ancient Anasazi and how
they’d taught me to make friends with the raccoons, about travelling to the future to see the
bubble cities, and about the purple squiggly things that had made me laugh once I’d realized that
only I could see them. The old hippie in him understood and softened up the rest, so he forgave
me. We talked the rest of the night about The Sixties. Disaster avoided.
Summer neared its end. There had not yet been any parties. No one but Frank, my two
girlfriends, and myself had set foot on the boat. The Romance had never left the dock. One of my
jobs was to run both engines for twenty minutes a day, but that was as close to moving as we ever
got. He talked of shoving off and heading to Catalina for the day "with a boatload of party-boys.
And a girl for you if you want," which sounded just great to me, but the one time I brought it up, it
was, "You know what gasoline costs? Those are three-hundred gallon tanks in there. Filling them
would cost a fortune!" Which, of course, he had… I had by now figured out the generic cigarettes
that he bought and smoked by the carton. Miser. Total. Any money he did spend was for the
benefit of appearances. "I have a yacht." "I drive a Mercedes Benz." "I own three houses." Yeah, in
Tempe, you dipstick.
Fucking millionaires.
Frank decides that the next acquisition for the boat has to be a dinghy. Funny word,
"dinghy". Usually, it’s a small inflatable life-raft-type boat you drag behind your yacht. You use it
to go ashore for supplies or whatever when a conventional dock isn’t handy. Not really necessary
aboard The Romance which only manages to traverse the eighteen inches of slack in its ties when
the tide comes in. So, a dinghy it is. And what a dinghy! He buys a sixteen-foot Galaxie tri-hull
skiboat with an 85 horsepower Evinrude under the deck. Pays three thousand dollars. Cash. When
it’s delivered, it looks great tethered next to the yacht. "Hope you like it there," I think to myself.
"You’re not going anywhere for a while."
To my surprise, Frank announces that he’s taking the dinghy out, and I am allowed to
come along if I wish. Well, hell, the chance to get out onto the water, even if it’s just within the
harbor, is something I’ve long been waiting for.
So, we tick around the harbor, just barely keeping the motor running. This is a No Wake
zone, and we abide all safety regulations when upon the sea for She is a harsh and unforgiving
mistress – ah, I’m getting into it, see?
Anyway, we tool about for twenty minutes, running the boat through the checklist,
something he should have done before buying, and we absolutely should have done before
sailing… Drain plug (always the first thing you check), fuel tanks, engine, throttle, rudder, bilge
pump, running lights, ash tray… Running lights…
We had no running lights. I mean they were there, but they weren’t lighting up. You’ve
got to have running lights. Everyone knows that. Green on the right, red on the left. Flick the
switch, nothing happens. Flick again. Flickity-flick. Nothing. Okay, we turn the boat around and I
run through the possibilities out-loud for the benefit of Frank. Burnt-out bulbs, disconnected
wires, bad wires, bad switch. We know the battery is good, because the boat started… I’m damn
good with obvious stuff. We get back to the dock and tie-off. I check the bulbs. They’re good.
Fuses (I’d forgotten those earlier), they look good. I decide to run through and check all the
connections. Make sure that the wires are all hooked-up where they’re supposed to be. Now, the
wiring of a small boat isn’t all that complicated; you’ve only got a few things hooked-up to a few
switches and what-not. Plus, all the wiring is fairly accessible. So, I poke around for a while and
find that the lights have actually been completely disconnected at the fuse box. I inform Frank of
this. He asks me if I know how to do electrical work.
"I rewired a doorbell once."
"Can you fix the lights?"
"I don’t know. I suppose so."
"You can do it, right?"
"Sure."
Frank announces his immediate need to head to the store to buy supplies - generally
booze, smokes, and food – he’ll be gone a couple hours. He always did manage to be away when
anything dirty needed to be done. What the hell, it was his boat, and I was his lackey.
Now, the lights had been disconnected, and the bilge pump wired in its place. Bilge is
mucky black water that collects in the bottoms of all boats. A bilge pump pumps bilge out when
there gets to be too much of the smelly, oily crap collected in there. It sits in the bottom of the boat,
quietly humming away, squirting bilge out of a little drain hole. When the bilge is gone, you turn
the pump off.
I get the tool box, futz around and get all the wires connected in a few minutes. I take my
time because I want the job done right, neatly, and because it’s a beautiful day; I’m outside in the
sun and in no hurry at all. I give it a test; flick the switch. Running lights - green on the right, red
on the left. Nothing to it. Flick again. Flickity-flick. God, I’m good. I pack up the tools, clean up the
stray bits of wire and insulation and head back up the dock to The Romance. On the way, I stamp
out my last cigarette, crumple the pack, and toss it into the bin. I’m thinking of making some
lunch.
I make a burrito. Bean and cheese. Homemade – none of that microwave crap for me. I get
on the phone with my girl Natalie and we gab for a while. She’s as vapid as they come, and I can’t
really stand her, but damn, this is an attractive young lady of a most unusual sort. Enough of that.
We talk – she baby-talks me, which makes me cringe – until I make some excuse, any excuse, to get
off the phone. I whip up a second burrito, because life is good, and I can, and descend the stairs to
the dock. I want to gaze at my wiring prowess again.
You know where this is going, don’t you?
I get about halfway down the dock when I notice
smoke.
A lot of
smoke.
A lot of thick,
black
smoke.
The burrito fell in the water.
I ran to the Galaxie Tri-hull. Which was now completely engulfed in
flames.
I think I must have stood and stared at it for a minute. It just… didn’t… there wasn’t… it
was…
“FUCK!”
I saw the gas tanks. The two red plastic, five-gallon gas tanks. The two full red plastic,
five-gallon gas tanks now starting to blister in the flames. This was going to be very bad in about a
minute. I jumped into the boat, reached into the burning engine compartment, unhooked the
chokes, the fuel lines, the gaskets, the filters, and lifted the tanks onto the dock. Then I jumped
back out of the boat. Again, I think I just stood there and stared at it without comprehension. I
remember thinking casually that there was a fire extinguisher aboard The Romance.
I sprinted up the dock. Ate shit going up the stairs. Grabbed the extinguisher. Nearly ate
shit again going down the stairs. I sprinted down the dock.
Now. I don’t know if you’ve ever had the occasion to actually use a fire extinguisher
before. Let me tell you, it’s not everything you’d ever hoped for. I actually stopped and read the
instructions.
Pull safety pin from handle.
Aim at base of fire.
Squeeze the trigger handle.
Sweep from side to side at base of fire.
"PASS" Get it? When they say, "Aim at base of fire," they mean it. Because PSSSHT! That’s
it. That’s what you get - three full quarters of a second of white powder flying everywhere but
where you need it. So, now covered in white powder and with a fire rapidly turning an expensive
skiboat into shit, I did the only thing I could think of left to do. I grabbed the coffee can we used as
an ashtray and started bailing. Normally, when you’re bailing water, you’re scooping it up and
pouring it out of the boat. I was now doing the opposite.
After several minutes, the fire was out and I sat down on the dock trying to figure out
what the hell to do next… The boat was a blackened shell. My first instinct was "How can I make it
so he doesn’t notice anything?" My second was, "Pull the drain plug. Sink it. Pack your shit and
get the hell out before he gets back," but no, this was all part of my attempt at rebuilding my life, at
taking on my responsibilities, at owning my fuck-ups. I can’t just do that to this sad, crazy man.
I started bailing the near-foot of water out of the boat thinking, somehow, that it can be
repaired. Somewhere in there, Frank came home I met him at his car. Still covered in extinguisher
shit and ash. He rolled down the window as I approached. "Frank. Two things. One. I am terribly,
terribly sorry, and I am fairly certain that it’s not entirely my fault…"
"What did you do to my boat?"
"…and, um, two. I think it can be fixed?"
"What the fuck did you do to my boat?" Voice raising. Not good. Calm him.
"Frank. There was a fire. It’s out now and…" Not exactly how I wanted that to come out.
"What the fuck did you do to my boat!" Screaming. Bad.
"…no one got hurt. That’s what matters now. Everyone’s safe." I have no clue what I’m
rambling about at this point. Frank and I are both hysterical. "Come. See."
Luckily, as soon as he passed through the gate, he could see that the yacht was okay. But,
looking down, he now saw his brand-new skiboat, quite literally a charred ruin. I jumped down to
it and blathered away, showing him the gas tanks, how they were burning, how I had Saved Us
All by pulling them to safety, getting burned a little in the process. Glabber glabber glabber I just
went on mindlessly.
"Chris."
He was so… so quiet. He barely moved as he spoke.
"Wha?" Frightened out of my idiocy.
"I want to take this boat out on the water tonight."
"Frank…"
"I want to take this boat out on the water tonight. I want to drive it around the harbor. I
want to smoke. And sail. Tonight."
"Frank…"
"No excuses."
"You don’t understand. Look! There was a fire…" Panicking a little, yes, I was.
"I’ll be back in a few hours. That boat will be ready."
"Frank, I don’t think it can, I mean, we need a professional…" He said nothing. Just turned
and walked back to his car, and drove away. I slumped to the dock and stared blankly at the
former boat.
I gave it the college try. What can I say? I got in that boat, bailed out all the water,
scrubbed it down, prized a blackened lump of a former bilge pump – oddly enough, wired in the
‘On’ position – from the floor of the boat, threw away bags full of trash that had once been upholstery, compasses, nautical gee-gaws of all sort… When I was finished it looked…
Like the charred remains of a skiboat.
I needed a cigarette. Badly. I went to The Romance, entered the cabin, and remembered
that I was out. I picked up one of Frank’s several cartons, opened it, removed a pack, opened it,
and removed an ultra-light (*shudder*), then wrote a note and taped it to the carton: "Frank, I owe
you a smoke." I returned to the dinghy. Ex-dinghy. Whatever. Sat down amidst the disaster and
smoked. What to do? What to do? I thought about a lot of shit right then. You get real introspective when you’re fucked. Things hadn’t exactly worked-out the way I’d planned, you know.
Frank returned.
I quickly made myself look busy, hoping… hell, I don’t know what the fuck I was hoping.
Frank walked silently back to the big boat. A minute later, he returned. "Give me your key."
I’d been expecting this. "Look, Frank, I’m really, God-awfully sorry. And if you want to
throw me out because of this boat, I guess I totally understand; I feel just…"
"The boat is one thing. I don’t care about that. But I can’t have you stealing from me."
I beg your fucking pardon? "Frank?"
"You cannot help yourself to my things. That is stealing. I can’t have that. Give me your
key."
What could I do? I gave him my key. There was nothing else to say.
He played with his dinghy while I packed my things. My things also included a bottle of
his Bushmills, a four-pack of his Guinness, and that damned goose-liver pâté with capers. I’m
using people, remember? That’ll show him.
He escorted me to the gate. I walked to a payphone, and rang-up Natalie, "Hi, I need a
ride." Next day, I moved to San Francisco where a girl I knew let me sleep in her closet for the next
couple of months.
Some time later, I ran into Opus, and we talked about Frank, his boat, and The Fire. I
repeatedly said to him, "You’ve gotta tell him how really sorry I am about that. How terrible I still
feel…"
"The boat? Naw, he doesn’t blame you for that. He thinks it was an assassination attempt.
He’s still pissed because…"
"Yeah, I know, I know… Because I stole one of his cigarettes."
Fucking millionaires.
Notes from Contributors:
Dane McBurnie (Valchrist)
Hopefully, this isn't going to be the last thing you read by me. Thanks for the inspiration,
and happy birthday. Mother Earth has invited you to enjoy another year of her fabulous party.
Don't trash the place.
Jane Skinner (jane s.)
Dear Chuck,
Thanks for all the inspiration you've given us over the years. Keep it coming.
Leonard Shelby (leonardshelby)
Happy Birthday buddy, and thanks for taking the time to write awesome books. Because
being awesome is the cure for all troubles!!! By the way, hope you enjoyed the CD I burnt and
gave you at the NYC book signing! (You asked me if you were "gonna get sued for this?")
Later man, I love your work, hopefully you'll be able to one day say the same for me ;)
Lupus
Happy birthday, Chuckie P. Keep those lovely books coming.
Mirka Hodurova (Mirkah)
Happy Birthday Chuck! Thank you so much for all the time you make for your fans be it
signing books, sending audio blogs, your participation in the online writer's workshop, not to
mention cranking out one rollicking book after another. You're the best!
Morey
Just remember Chuck, whatever else they do, they can't take away your birthday. Not yet
anyway.
Nightrious
Happy birthday, Chuck. If we were Cowboys, and I had a mule and you didn't, and you
really needed to go somewhere, I would definatly lend you my mule.
- Nightrious
Prensa Taladradora
Hey, Hope you enjoy reading these as much as we did.
- Prensa
Rita Su (origamiLips)
Happy Birthday Chuck!
Thank you for breaking that "fourth" wall by being so available to all of your fans. You
care about your fans; you take time to reply to their fan mails, conduct an online workshop, and
inspire budding writers. Your fans gather in the forum to discuss your works while at the same
time try to find their voice through all the noise. It is this synergy that makes you truly beloved
among your fans. I hope you enjoy my stories; hopefully I won't bore you to death!
- Rita Su (origamiLips)
SnowWhite
Dear Chuck,
Thought you deserved something special on your birthday.
Love, Hattie (SnowWhite)
ps - Hope you liked the Kangaroo Scrotum.
Tuffy the Dump Truck (Tuffy the Dump Truck)
Happy birthday, Chuck, and thanks for everything.
Wesley Sonck
'its the same flame as evah! happy b. chuck'
- axel, Sydney

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