Musings on Pornography

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A Shitty Conversationalist

There are certain things people hear about, and while you nod in amazement as the tale is told, deep down you're thinking, "No way, that kind of thing only happens in the movies, it's too ridiculous."

Well, I had one of those things happen to be the other day, except I was the one performing the unspeakable act, and some poor sap was on the receiving end of it.

But let's start at the beginning.

It was a shitty day today. I was told to come into the office at 7:15 a.m., which for those of you keeping score at home, is an hour and 45 minutes earlier than usual.

The only thing worse than getting in so fucking early, is when you find out there was no need to have you come in so fucking early. I busted by balls to get in that early, including not taking a shower in the morning.

So I get into work, only to waste almost an hour because the stupid fucking thing I have to cover is not until 9 a.m. Which is the time I normally get in.

So I'm pissed, because I've wasted half of the day, and there was shit I had to do. Specifically, I had to track down eight people and get quotes and pictures.

But let me add a caveat to that last sentence. I was pissed, but a certain something calmed my mood. And when I say "calmed my mood", I mean "made me get a boner while standing," which is no small feat, especially with jeans on.

Because I was hanging out at some amphitheater, and there was a chick there filming video for something, and she was driving me up the wall. With hotness.

You see, she was dressed simply enough, with a navy blue polo shirt and some khakis. What enchanted me about this particular lass however, was how her khakis were molded around the most perfect ass I have ever seen on a white girl.

Now I'm not normally as ass man. I actually prefer a nice, tight stomach to a good ass most of this time. But I'm also a red-blooded male, and therefore, I follow the iceberg rule. For every foot you see of an iceberg above a water, there are nine feet of iceberg below. So for every inch this chick's stomach stuck out (which wasn't a whole lot) ninety percent of her depth was in the ass.

And it was absolute perfection. I have a picture of it. I might post it, but I don't want to violate this poor girl's privacy, even though her face is nowhere to be found in the dozens of photos I snapped, which I pretended to be taking of the ceremony.

Her ass is so signature, I'm sure every male in the D.C. metro area would recognize it.

But I digress. My day wasn't as bad as it seemed for the beginning part.

One of these people I had to track down is a general, who works in a certain five-sided building near Washington, D.C. Generals as a (general?) rule don't give random quotes to jerkass reporters like me, their executive officers get the quote from them.

Well, I get in touch with the XO, and he tells me that the general will call me in about a half hour. By now, it's 4:30 a.m., and I usually leave at 5. It's especially important that I leave on time today, because I have plans for dinner, which I never do.

So of course this is the one fucking day when I'm left playing with myself waiting for someone to call me.

To add a little bit if pubic hair on this shit salad, I really had to take a shit. And I mean bad. But it's 4:30, and I have half an hour to go before I can even comprehend leaving my desk, and I probably had to give it about a ten-minute grace period, just to be sure.

So I'm busting heinous ass for half an hour as people are leaving my office. I had to turn my desk fan off, lest the pre-shit flatulence set off the biological attack alarms, so I'm also sweating bullets.

At 5:05, I'm sitting at my desk, wondering how discretely I could dispose of a trash bag full of shit, the phone rings. It's the general's assistant.

She says, "General [blank] is still busy, but he should be available in about 20 minutes. What time do you usually leave."

At this point the pressure in my colon is causing me to hallucinate slightly, and apparently I told her I usually leave at about 5:30. That was utter horseshit, if you'll pardon the pun, but I said it without thinking.

So she says, "Okay, well, give me your cell, and if he's available before 5:30, and after that, I'll have him call your cell phone."

Like Ron Burgundy after jumping into the bear pit, I immediately regretted my decision.

What the fuck was I thinking?

Now I have to stay here another half hour, putting a serious crimp in my dinner plans, and an even more serious crimp in my colo-rectal health.

So I sweat out another 25 minutes, and then I limp my way to the bathroom. Of course the shitter stall on my floor is full (AT FIVE FUCKING THIRTY NO LESS!!), so I have to duckwalk up the stairs, careful not to let my cheeks spread too far apart on the dozen or so steps.

I get into the bathroom, hustle to the far stall with a window view (I like to look at fields while I BM), and drop trou.

I'm just about to let fly like Mussolini from the balcony, when holy santa claus shit, my phone starts ringing.

I have no choice but to pick it up.

And this is the situation you only hear about in the movies. No one ever talks on the phone in a public restroom in real life. Have you ever walked into a public restroom and heard someone on the crapper on the phone? Me neither.

But I'm here, talking to the general's officer while desperately holding in an afternoon's worth of leftovers.

And I couldn't make it.

"Thanks for getting back to me sir, I appreciate it. (and.......RELEASE!!!) What's that? No I don't hear anything. Oh, that? Uh...I just dropped a roll of quarters into a bowl of oatmeal here. Don't worry about that. What's that, you can smell it over the phone?"

I made that last sentence up. He couldn't smell it. But you know who could smell it for sure? The poor bastard who chose that moment to come into the bathroom to wash his hands before he left for the day.

He walks in, is immediately slapped across the face, with a hand made of stank, and has to listen to me talk to this general's officer.

"Yes sir, I'm so glad he'll be able to help. No, we'll be glad to put his quote and photo in the paper. Yep, it will go in this week."

I'm carrying on a perfectly normal interview conversation, despite the fact that concentrated evil is coming out of me. Concentrated evil speckled with the corn I had for lunch.

Here's the real sticky wicket. I am now the only male who works at the newspaper that writes. The other two guys are older, and they're the editor and assistant editor respectively, so they're not likely to be tracking down many leads, especially not on the second-floor shitter on a deadline day.

So this poor fuck, God bless his soul, now knows what I did. The worst part? I have no idea who he was. He didn't even scream, "Oh my God, it's like the holocaust in this restroom!" (which makes him a better man than I) when he walked in, so I couldn't get his voice.

So now I have to go into the office tomorrow not knowing which is my fellow workers now thinks that I am a subhuman piece of scum. That should be fun.

Friday Hate: 7/31

This week marks glorious return to Friday Hate

Wedding rings.

For a guy in his mid twenties that is looking to bang every attractive piece of trim that comes across his path, there's nothing worse than seeing a wedding ring.

I would rather see an open, herpetic sore than see a wedding ring, because at least a sore means there's a good chance she'll bang you in some sort of closet/bathroom/phone booth.

A note to all you single ladies out there: avoid rings at all costs. It's just a turn-off, and no one wants to risk being that jackass that hits on a chick that is married.

At least with a boyfriend you have an excuse, because there's no instant boyfriend indicator like there is a wedding ring.

Side note: you chicks who have boyfriends that don't always come with you to parties or live in a another town, make that clear as soon as I start talking to you. There's nothing that pisses me off more than spending a party making inane conversation and pretending you're actually a funny girl (which don't exist), only to have you casually drop the phrase, "my boyfriend" at 3 a.m.

That shit is fucking infuriating.

I was at a party a few months ago, and spend the entire time talking with this bitch. We played shitty ass drinking games, like 'thumper' and I listened her talk about the stupid-ass degree she was chasing which would not have any practical application in the real world. Only, since I was trying to hit that, I was like, "Oh yeah, cultural anthromorphology, that's so interesting. Tell me, what does the inside of the zipper on my pants tell you about me?"

And of course, as the party is winding down, I find myself with her alone in the living room, trying to desperately close the deal, and the 25 beers I drank working against me in every way.

I comment on some movie that's sitting on the coffee table (I think it was Ghostbusters) and I go, "that's a great movie, the second one isn't bad too."

"Oh, I haven't seen that one, though I've always wanted to," she said.

Sensing the opening for a late night movie (read: genitals) showing, I say, "Oh, well, I've got it at my place if you ever want to watch it."

She comes back with, "Oh, that would be cool. My boyfriend says it's a great flick. His name is Chip, you would really like him."

BITCH. I WOULD NOT FUCKING LIKE HIM. IN FACT, I FUCKING HATE HIM.

Really? She couldn't have mentioned that five MOTHERFUCKING hours ago?

But there was no wedding ring.

The only thing that's worse than a wedding ring is chicks who don't wear them, then drop the h-bomb when I'm already committed.

I met a girl a few weeks ago, she was hot, and seemed to be digging the conversation. About half an hour in, she drops the "husband" bomb, and I got the fuck out of there.

To recap, I hate wedding rings, or chicks that are married that don't wear wedding rings, or chicks with boyfriends. Basically, I hate any chick that has a legitimate excuse for not boning me.

I also hate the chicks that have no excuse, but still don't bone me.

Well, that about covers the entire female species. I hate all you cunts. Prove me wrong.

First Contact

I come to you now after a long vacation. Both from work, and an even longer one from writing for this site. Part of me was seduced by the easy lure of Posterous, (which I still update please to be checking it out), part of me was a little burned out from doing so much at work.

But I'm back now, brimming with fresh stories of alcohol-fueled obnoxiousness. Like the following, minus the alcohol.

I generally wear glasses to see long distances. I ear them when I drive, I used to wear them all the time in class, and I wear them a lot at work.

Lately I've gotten fucking sick of wearing my glasses, making sure they're clean, not losing them while hammered, all that stuff.

So I decided to make an appointment to get contacts. I had a Monday off, so I went to this place, and got an eye exam, before getting fitted for contacts. It was in my insurance and close to my place, but it was a new doctor for me.

I don't have a phobia about eyes or anything, but there is nothing more terrifying than waiting for that fucking puff of air to get your eyes. I would rather wait in front of a firing squad.

I always flinch like a bitch at every little shift, and then when the puff comes out, I always shove myself back, sometimes letting out a piglet-like squeal of pure terror. I hate myself.

Once the exam is finished, it was time to meet my new eye doctor. I've had a few eye doctors in the past, and they're usually the weirdest looking people you've ever met. Very nice people, mind you, but strange.

This trip was the exception to the rule. Because my doctor was drop dead gorgeous. Tan, dirty blonde hair, and about 6-2.

I love tall chicks. And most importantly, no wedding ring. See this week's Friday Hate for more info on that.

The problem? I've been on vacation for more than a week now, so not only are my shower schedules way off (shower at night), but I'm about a month overdue for a haircut, and I'm wearing the same filthy-ass shorts I've worn for the entire vacation, meaning they probably smell like fish and cigar smoke and beer.

I was hoping for one of those "Which is better, number one, or number two?" style tests, only instead of the stupid letter chart, I would get to stare at those gorgeous breasts, but alas, it wasn't to be.

So I get my exam, and go through all the shit, and then they hand me over to some Oriental broad, and here's where the trouble starts.

It was like the scene where the Asian chick is waxing Andy's chest in 40-year-old Virgin, except this bitch was putting shit in my eye.

Then I had to take them out. Then put them in. Then take them out. Then put them in. Then take them out.

In and out three times had to happen three times before I was finished (hey-oh!). By the end of it, my eyes were bloodshot, there were hot salty tears everywhere, and I had nary a shred of dignity.



It was like that, except replace "body waxed" with "putting shards of fucking glass in my eye."

Monday Links: 6/15

Happy Mondee!

• I'm a simple man, with simple pleasures. And high-speed photography of a pellet popping a bubble is something we can all get behind.
• This is fascinating, and it explains how curveballs are so effective.
• Oh, the irony.
• Just ten more reasons that Clint Eastwood is better than you at everything.
• Well, I'm glad we got that figured out.
  

Expansion Is A Bitch

Apologies about the lack of updates, but it's not like I haven't been busy. I've been devoting a little more time to my posterous which is updated almost daily, albeit shorter.

Take a look see won't you?

Longer posts will be still posted here, so keep checking back, but you might want to bookmark the posterous as well.

Here's that site again:

http://popeofchilitown.posterous.com

Thank you, and good night.

Your Guide to Summer Fancy

If you're thinking to yourself, "Boy, I wish some asshole would write 1,300 words to tell me how to enjoy my summer," then this could be the greatest day of your life.

You see, we here at Fists With Your Toes are big fans of summer. Whether it's drinking and grilling, swilling ice cold beers on the beach, making mixed drinks and playing golf, beers and horseshoes, hanging outside at bars, we like it all.

It is with this in mind that I present to you, the official guide to summer fancy.

Obnoxious Sunglasses

Obnoxious sunglasses are a must for any summer person. Let's face it, the sun is bright as shit. And squinting sucks balls, whether you're trying to find the pin in a horseshoe pit, or you're hungover, squinting never did anything good for nobody.

Any asshole can buy a pair of sunglasses that are tasteful,. yet functional. But the true summer aficionado isn't satisfied with an ordinary pair of sunglasses.

No, you want a pair that covers your eyes, and possibly most of your face. That way, when your face is sunburned, you've got giant pale circles around your eyes.




I myself purchased a quality pair of Ray-Bans for the summer, I figured I'd get a nice pair and hold onto them for a while.

Behold, the Ray Ban RB4112

If you're not going to get obnoxious sunglasses, the only other option is to get mirrored aviators.

I'm sorry, but they just make you look awesome, no matter how much you suck in real life. With mirrored aviators, everyone is just a little bit more like Sly Stallone in Cobra, and that's something this society needs more than ever.



Cigars

Cigars are awesome. People who smoke cigars, with the exception of Fidel Castro, are awesome.

Therefore, to inject more awesome into your life, you need to smoke cigars.

There's nothing better than a cold beer in one hand, a cigar in the other, as you peer through a dime-sized hole into a women's locker room.

Wait, what? Never mind.

Cigars are the summer version of pipes. They both are excellent ways to consume tobacco, but a pipe is shorter, you do it outside, usually with a scarf and wool hat, because that's where you look the coolest.

Cigars are meant to savor, so you need warm weather to truly enjoy them.

They range from very cheap to very expensive, so let's take a look at what you should be getting.

If you're buying cigars at a CVS, you better be pouring the guts out and wrapping marijuana in them. Otherwise, they are not acceptable, and often to more harm than good to both your breath and reputation.

Your standard tobacco store will have a good selection, I recommend not paying more than six bucks per cigar, unless you really want to go for broke.

I prefer a nice Ashton as my go to. Light, refreshing and mild, you can't go wrong.

The Churchill or Corona size is a good way to start, since they're middle of the road. I myself don't like anything longer than 5.5 inches (If I had a nickel...) but it's up to you.

If you're buying the stogies at a liquor store, you might not have a good selection, but if you get a Montecristo or a Romeo y Julieta, you're probably OK.

Beer

Beer now comes in seasons. Around March, the Summer Ales start pouring in, pardon the pun. As the leaves start to change, OctoberFest beers and the Winter Lagers start coming in.

You can't beat a cold beer on a hot day. You just can't. But the age-old question still remains: bottle or can?

There is no right answer, it depends on where you're drinking. If it's a controlled environment like a BBQ, then bottles are the way to go. The beer tastes better, and you can get better beer out of a bottle.

If you're going for specialty brew, I would recommend something hoppy. Troeg's HopBack is very good, as is Sam Adams' Summer Ale.

If you want to be cliche, drink Corona with lime. If you want to get the same effect, only with less douchebaginess and a better beer, try Pacifico with a lime. If you're a fuckstain, go with Bud Light w/ Lime.

If you're drinking somewhere where you need to be active, such as at a river/beach, you're best bet is cans. A lot of places don't allow glass, and cans are much lighter when they're empty.

Coors Light is a staple of summer drinking. It's slightly less alcohol content will help you get home from wherever you're drinking it, and the watery taste will give you the illusion of being hydrated, thus removing the possibility of a psychosomatic hangover.

Bud Light and Miller Lite. Two of the same, and it really boils down to preference, i.e. if you have a preference, you are undoubtedly an asshole.

If there's a choice, I usually get Miller Lite, but I couldn't give less of a shit. I know people that will not drink anything Miller makes, if they have a choice between not drinking or drinking Miller, they will not drink. Notice how I didn't say "I have friends that will not drink anything..."

There's a good reason that those fuckers aren't my friend.

Stay away from anything heavy. There is nothing that will turn you off of drinking faster than a lukewarm Guinness Stout on a hot, humid day. Like drinking roofing tar.

Music

Any good party begins and ends with good music. Just like beer, there's a time and a place for certain kinds of music.

There are two artists people tend to associate with summer, Bob Marley and Jimmy Buffett. While both are acceptable, be careful, overuse of either one can make you look like a giant tool.

Stay away from both "Margaritaville" and "Jamming" lest you look like a rank amateur.

For Jimmy Buffett, "Fins," "Cheeseburger in Paradise," "Son of a Son of a Sailor," "Volcano" and "Changes in Latitude, Changes in Attitude" are hits, but also good songs, and they are deep enough cuts not to make you look like a prick.

For Marley, "Natural Mystic," "Iron Lion Zion," "Exodos," "Is This Love," "I Shot the Sherriff" and "Get Up, Stand Up" are all acceptable, nay, awesome.

As for other music, obviously it depends on your personal taste. I always though that the Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Stadium Arcadium" is a great summer album.

The Eagles are great summer music, particularly, "Life in the Fast Lane," "Take it Easy" and "Already Gone."

The Who album "Who's Next" is good, as is Neil Young's "After the Goldrush." I would also recommend anything by George Thorogood, Oasis, Iron Maiden and The Doors.

Other summer-specific albums that I enjoy are: Bad Company's "Bad Company," Jackson Browne's "Running On Empty," Grand Funk Railroad's "Closer to Home," and Slobberbone's "Everything You Thought was Right."

Sunroof

Having a sunroof is absolutely essential for a glorious summer. Not only does it allow you to cruise with your aforementioned sunglasses, blasting your aforementioned music, but it's a great alternative to being a pussy who blasts their AC all the fucking time.

It allows you to park your car near a beach and blast tunes, as well as throw trash into while you are drinking far away, it's like a little game.

If you don't have a sunroof, I would recommend anything without a roof.

Sandals

Sandals are surely God's finest creation. The day he looked down and said, "My sons, you need not look like squares during the summer, yay, I give unto you these sandals, styled after my own comfortable footwear.

Take a look at these historic examples:


Fucking right God loves sandals.



There you have it, a guide to enjoying yourself this summer. No, I didn't cover everything, there's also grilling, sunburns, and the always popular theme, "keeping sand out of your asshole and/or vagina."

Perhaps we'll cover these another day. And perhaps not. Until then.