Not a good idea for a date movie

Like any red-blooded male, sometimes I feel the need to insert my genitalia into another human female. Sure, your hand can get it done, but sometimes you need human contact and/or you tear a ligament in your index finger on a lazy Sunday when no one is around due to excess self-pleasure (this happened to a.....uh... a friend of mine...).

And until the culture of this country allows me to walk into the "bitches" aisle of a supermarket, select a petite asian that I can treat like a dog and/or toilet, there are certain rituals you have to go through.

Often times these rituals include, but are not limited to:

• Expensive dinners
• Expensive drinks, only half of which are actually drank by me
• Shitty movies
• Mini-golf, without drinking and gambling

So I decided to try an old standard: the shitty, sentimental movie. Due to the nature of my job, I am often able to get passes to see movies, not only for free, but a week or so before they come out.

Recently, an opportunity to see the recent "The Boy in the Striped Pajamas" came up, and I decided to jump on it. If you have seen it, bear with me, because this is where it gets real weird.

According to the press release I got, the movie was about a Jewish boy imprisoned in a concentration camp who befriends the son of the Nazi commendant who is in charge of said camp.

Now, my love of both irony and Nazis, plus the fact that the movie was supposed to be about the friendship that sustains mankind under the direst of circumstances, meant that it might be a good mix for a first date.

Chalk it up to one of my more grievous mistakes.

So I ask this girl who I've met a few times through work to accompany me to the premiere, which, in addition to the movie, might impress upon the fair lady that I'm kind of a big deal.

So we go to the movie theater, a very classy one in the Washington D.C. city limits, and all starts off according to plan.

I spend the car ride there tossing zingers left and right, and most of them seem to be landing.

More importantly, I haven't gotten the "Are you fucking kidding me?" look or the "I can't believe I'm stuck with this tool for the rest of the night, which will undoubtedly be the longest night of my life" sigh. Both of those can indicate that your penis will not be touched by a female for the forseeable future.

We get to the theater, I give my name, they usher me right in to the special section, and lo and behold, there is even a label on a specific seat with my name on it.

Let me tell you something: if you're taking a young lady to an event, and there is a special seat with YOUR FUCKING NAME on it, well, that goes a long way to a fur-burger combo later in the evening.

So it's all pretty hunky dory on my end. Then the movie starts.

At first, it seems like it will be as advertised. It's a touching story of two young boys becoming friends in the worst of circumstances.

There are a few cutesy laughs, and there are some good moments that inevitably draw you closer together with the person you are with.

Here there be spoilers.

I don't know if you know how this particular film ends, but it is probably the most disturbing in film history.

"The Mist" is the only one that comes close.

In "The Mist" five refugees from a dead world overcome by hideous creatures that will kill you in a horrible way on sight run out of gas trying to find help.

They have a gun with them, and the gun has four bullets. So the leading man offers to spare his fellow survivors from a heinous death, by killing them with the last bullets.

The four people are: an elderly couple, the leading lady, and the leading man's son.

So the man kills them, one by one. He then steps out of the car to meet his maker, only he meets a contingent of soldiers who are busy kicking some creature-ass.

So not only did he kill the people 15 seconds too soon, but they had been driving away from their rescuers the whole time.

So that's the kind of ending we were looking at here. Except in this case, the German boy sneaks into the camp to be with his friend, and both boys are mistakenly gassed to death.

Wow. Talk about sobering, which I have never been in favor of.

And then gasoline was added to the fire.

Right as the kids are being led to the chamber, I texted a friend of mine, saying "this movie is about to get crazy." Innocent enough right?

Well, a minute or two later, as the boys are dead, and the camera is panning out to a shot of hundreds of pairs of stripes pajamas, worn by all the people who have been gassed, I get a response message, which reads as follows:

"Few people know that I am fueled creatively by my massive hatred of immigrants." A glorious line from the SNL where Will Ferrell played Neil Diamond, which is one of my favorite skits.

Can you guess why it is one of my favorite skits? Because it makes me laugh. Every fucking time.

Including the time when a theater full of people are just coming to a slow realization that the children whose friendship overpowered Nazi atrocities have just died in one of the most awful ways possible.

Because I laughed. And I didn't just laugh and turn it into a quick cough. No, I broke out in a full, shit-eating smile, and I giggled like a dirty bitch.

Speaking of dirty bitches, the dirty bitch I was with noticed.

And not only did I get the "Are you fucking kidding me?" look AND the "I can't believe I'm stuck with this tool for the rest of the night, which will undoubtedly be the longest night of my life" sigh, but I got the "You are a black hole of a person, and in the physical world we occupy, there will never be an occasion where I will touch your genitals" sneer.

Fuck.

Needless to say, about five words were said during the walk to the parking garage and the ride to her house.

I didn't even know how to explain myself. What, was I going to show her what made me laugh? That someone I know hates immigrants, and his feelings in that regard make me laugh? Hell no.

And I haven't seen her since. The good news? My finger (I mean my friend's finger) has healed, and I (he) can once again spank it whenever the opportunity arises (pun).

A nice evening ruined, all because some dirty Jew had to wander into a gas chamber.

Awkwardness, thy name is office bathroom

Let's face it. There are few places where one is more vulnerable than when you're sitting on the toilet.

One of the many reasons I'm glad to be a male (besides not giving birth, having a penis, not being stupid, in approximately that order) is because they have to sit down twice as much as we do.

Sitting on a porcelain bowl, legs akimbo, pants down, dropping concentrated evil down the drain, it's just not a good position to be in.

It's one thing when you're at home, deucing in your own toilet. Then you can take your time, have your shit blasts go as loud as you want, and not have to worry about anyone else smelling the glorious stench.

But what about at the office? Because face it, for 40-odd hours a week, you're in the same place with the same people, and unless you're a freak, you're probably going to have to drop a mid-day deuce at some point or the other?

So how do you deal with that? It's pretty hard to respect people who are your superiors, or that peruse your work, when you meet them as they're coming out of the bathroom, then you go in and get slapped in the face with stank.

Because, let's face it. Every time you see them, you're going to be thinking, "well, the boss clearly needs to eat more fiber." And that's not conducive to a good work environment.

I once ruled out a pretty good job because the bathroom had incredibly thin walls, and was surrounded by hotties working at their desks. No way I would have been able to carpet bomb that turrlet when there is a legitimate "10" sitting less than five feet away, with only a thin sheet of drywall protecting my dignity.

I have been at my current job for almost eight months. I have had so many awkward bathroom experiences there, it's not even funny.

For example, everytime I head to the head around mid-day, the bathroom is right by this woman's office. I'm sure she notices when I pass by, and I'm sure she can hear my opening the bathroom door.

Then, when I'm in there for a good 15 minutes (thank you cell phone Yahtzee), then walk past her office, she knows what abominations went down in there.

And here's when it gets really awkward:

Imagine you walk into the bathroom to pee, and you catch the remnants of someone else's stink ray. Unpleasant, but no big deal.

Unless...

What if you're at the sink, washing your hands, and someone else walks in? Well, they automatically give you the stink-eye (pardon the pun), thinking that they're smelling your odor.

And there's nothing worse than that. You didn't even shit, but what are you going to say?

On the plus side, if you're standing at the urinal, you couldn't have been the culprit. Who poops, then pees at the urinal? No one.

I always like to give the person a knowing look when I'm at the urinal. A look that says, "Can you believe this animal?"

Here's a funny story.

When I go to the crapper, there are two sinks along the wall then two urinals (waterless urinals, which I will get into later), then a regular stall, then a large, handicapped stall.

I always use the handicapped stall. Call me crazy, but I don't want to be jettisoning my cargo that close to someone washing his hands, or God forbid, peeing right next to me.

So I always go to the handicap stall.

And this particular incident finds me struggling to make it to the bathroom before blast-off. I get in there, and it is gloriously empty.

So I make my way to the handicapped stall, unbuckle my belt, and prepare to re-enact Hiroshima on August 6, 1945.

Then, the unthinkable happens.

Someone comes into the bathroom, and sits in the stall right next to mine.

Now, I know my body. And I know that this is going to be an explosion. And call me crazy, but I don't like other people hearing the sounds I make.

Splashing, farting, sometimes sobs of pain and/or pleasure. No thanks.

And I'm pretty sure the guy next to me felt the same way.

So we sat there, at a stalemate, both of us just waiting to drop our rolls of quarters into the oatmeal.

Me? Even though I'm struggling to keep a cork in it, I've got Yahtzee to play. I don't know what this gentleman had.

So we sit there. And we sit there, no noise coming out of either of us.

And finally, I hear him shift. And then the sounds. And then the toilet paper being rolled out. Then the flush. Then he gets up washes his hands (and sheds a tear as his dignity goes down the drain along with the soapy water, or at least I like to think so) and he slinks off in defeat.

Let me tell you something. Sweet release has never felt so good.

This day my friends, I was a winner.

I probably won't cure a major disease. I'd be lucky to even safe a life. I don't know the joy of creating life. But that day, my friends, that day, I was more alive than I had ever been.

Of course, when I got back to my office over an hour later, I missed an appointment and had to scramble to make up my workload.

But you know what? It's the price of victory.

Beer hotties, cigarrette reps, and the ongoing conspiracy to kill me

Regular drinkers know how expensive it is to go to bars on a regular basis. As a recent college grad, I haven't lost my thirst for delicious, delicious alcohol, but I've yet to pay enough dues to make enough money to afford regular nights out.

Too often I have found myself chugging PBR from the can, with the salty brine of my own tears serving as seasoning, with nary a shred of dignity to get me by.

So when there are specials, whether from the alcohol companies, or the establishments themselves, I like to take advantage.

Fast forward to Sunday afternoon. My beloved Giants were traveling to take on the Cardinals of Arizona in a matchup of east v. west.

But since I live in the D.C. area, and the Redskins were playing a West Coast team as well, there was no way the G-Men would be on the telly.

So I went to a local watering hole that prides itself on showing every game. I figured while I was there, why not toss back a couple of delicious beverages?

So it's close to halftime, and I am about four large Miller Lites in. Feeling good. Feeling rrrrrrrrrrrrrrreal good.

Then, like a beacon of light, the wave of smelly guys in Redskins jerseys parts, and there are three hotties in referee shirts and short shorts.

Reps for Miller Lite, which happens to be my favorite American-style light pilsner beer, as well as the beer that is responsible for my current sense of scrumtrilescence.

So one of them comes up to be, most likely because she has a thing for guys who grow horrible beards, and asks what I'm drinking.

Of course, I tell her Miller Lite, and what are the odds, that is the same beer whose logo adorns her left titty!

So she gives me this card, and says give this to the bartender for a free beer.

And I'm pretty sure I asked the chick to marry me.

So I get the free bottle of beer, and am somehow not engaged at this point, and then they come up and ask me for my e-mail address.

Tip to all you spamsters out there: Rather than sending me bullshit spam with fake PayPal or bank links, why not use Miller Lite's strategy?

If you get a hot chick to give me free beer, especially if I'm already feeling good, my social security number, bank account information and the title to my car is yours.

So I give them my old college e-mail address, try to set a date for our nuptials, fail at that, try to get another free beer, fail at that, and turn away.

As the ladies walked away, I loudly ordered a Budweiser. Cunts.

So the game progresses, I drink more (non-free) beers, and enjoy another vice of mine: recreational smoking.

I don't really consider myself to be a smoker, but I buy a pack on the weekends some times, because I like to smoke when I drink, especially at a bar.

So I'm lighting up one of North Carolina's finest, a Camel Light, when the bartender comes over and asks me," You see that guy over there?"

Hoping I'm not going to be the go-between for a good ol' man-on-man butt pounding, I hesitantly nod.

"He's a Camel rep, I bet you could get some free shit out of him."

"What's that? I'm sorry I don't speak faggot," I replied.

Well, not really. But it would have been funny.

Instead, I walked over to the guy, lit a delicious Camel cigarette, and blew it into his face, and said, "I am in flavor country."

He didn't get the hint, so I said, "Just smoking a delicious Camel cigarette over here."

That got his attention, although he said I didn't have to be a Camel (or is that pole) smoker to get two free packs.

So I gave him my e-mail, and got two free packs of cancer sticks, even though one was that Camel crush shit.

Now I have three packs I don't want to smoke.

As I left, I gave him my best zinger: "Tell Mr. Reynolds I said hello."

God, I hate myself.

A beginner's guide to self-harm

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You could be reading the blog of a convicted felon...

We interrupt our regularly schedule program about e-mail scams to bring you this:


For those of you who don't know, the majority of the stories on this blog are false to some degree. They come from things I experience in real life, and I think about what could make them funny.

The story below is absolutely true.

And yes, it could have ended with me in jail, or trapped at my office overnight.

How's that for a teaser?

Tuesday afternoon, I had to go to a ceremony at a local, metropolitan national cemetery. No problem, right? After all, it started at approximately 3 p.m., and the cemetery closes up at 5 p.m.

Plenty of time to go to the ceremony and get back to work. Or so I thought.

I decided to walk through this local national cemetery to the ceremony. I had an assignment to write something about Veterans Day, and I figured, what's the best way to get some perspective?

If you said walk through a national cemetery on a brisk Fall day, you are correct sir.

So I walk. I left my office at about 2:15, and the one-mile walk took me about 30 minutes, as I took my time.

I get to the ceremony, do my piece, and go to leave, when I notice that time has passed to the tune of two hours.

It is not 4;45, and the cemetery closes at 5. The math is not in my favor.

I hustle nuts through the cemetery, but sure enough the five o' clock bell rings when I am about halfway through.

Five minutes later, a security guard approaches me, and the following exchange takes place.

Guard: Excuse me son, but the cemetery's closed.
Me: Yeah, I'm sorry, but I got caught up at the memorial, and I have to get back to [my office].
Guard: Sorry man, the gate's closed up ahead, you're gonna have to get out the main gate.

The main gate also happens to be in the opposite direction, which would make it at least a four-mile walk, and the sun is just beginning to set, and me in all of my manliness, I don't have a coat.

Me: My car's over there, I can't walk that far, my tauntaun will freeze to death before I get halfway there!
(Okay, okay, I didn't bust out the Empire Strikes Back reference, but in retrospect, I should have.)
Guard: Alright man, listen up. I'm telling you that you need to go back to the main gate. But if you have to get to [your office], you could always try and jump the fence. But make sure you do it when no one's watching, or else you could wind up getting arrested for trespassing on federal property.
Me: Oh. Thanks, I guess.

The guard then left me to my own devices, and I had a dilemma on my hands.

Well, not really. If you don't think breaking federal law isn't exciting (even for something lame such as this, then you're wrong).

So I go for it. I get to the fence. It's about five feet tall, and about three feet thick, made of stones mortared together.

I give a quick, sketchy glance around. Then, throwing my camera bag on the fence, I hope over. As if I didn't look shady enough without lugging a black bag with just about enough room for a few pounds of C-4 and a detonator.

But alas, my ingress (or is it egress?) went undetected. So, thinking I've pulled off the perfect crime.

Until, that is, I get to my office and find the door locked. No problem, I think to myself, I'll just use my keys to unlock the door...

I reach into my pocket, and the sentence completes itself, ...the same keys that are SITTING ON MY FUCKING DESK!!!

What the fuck?!?! How could I have been so stupid? I didn't take them with me.

Now it's past five, and I am in an empty building, a mere fifteen-foot walk from my only way to get home. Only there's two locked doors in the way.

So here I am, in one of the most important military headquarters buildings in the D.C. area, trapped.

So what do I do? I call my boss, who happens to live close by, and she said she would come let me in, she'd be there in about 20 minutes.

So what to do for twenty minutes. I briefly considered a quick masturbation session. After all I like to spread my seed anywhere possible.

Forty-two sweaty seconds later and...

Just kidding.

But I did wander into corridors of the building, looking for shenanigans.

The only thing of note that I discovered was when I decided to check out the Ladies' Room.

Those bitches have motion activated sinks! And here I've been turning knobs like a caveman.

I got out of there quickly, lest I be discovered by me female boss. Not not before, well.....you know..

Kidding again.

Soon enough my boss got there, and I made like a tree, and got the fuck out of there.

We'll be back tomorrow with an e-mail scam update.

E-Mail Scams: Part II

Well, after sending my response at 10:24 a.m. yesterday, I received a response from Mr. Jafer at 5:19 p.m. yesterday. The text of which is as follows:

Dear Winston
Thank you for your encouragement and willingness ,I am most grateful for your mail,and I seize this opportunity to thank you for coming to my help in concluding this for the less priviledge. I got your contact on the web directory on the internet and I opted to reach you since relatives and friends have deserted the truth and to go their own way. And i must be quick to sieze the opportunity to also thank you for coming to help in this lucrative project,you must be the kind of person i will need to conclude this project for me.

Just like I stated in my first mail to you this funds is presently in a cargo company in Europe and i deposited this funds as personal effects.I must be quick to mention here that the company does not know that this boxes contains money,this was done deliberately by me for the security of the funds.please i beg you with my last breath to do what it's meant for when it is finally payed to you.

All the necessary documents required to get the funds out of the cargo/security firm are in my possession and I will be sending them to you after we must have come to a conclusion but i have a little time to live.

Please this funds must be distributed as planned.(it was not by my making,but through a dream/ i saw people with no aid, no assistance what's so ever, and decent care,this prompted me to tourch the lives of the homeless one way or the other and this was the best i could do to revive some dying souls).

Please I will need you to give me your words that you will be very honest and straight forward when the money gets to you considering my health and that of this project. So long as you can distribute this funds successfully to CHARITY ORGANISATIONS of your choice all over the world.

On reciept of your responce,forward your most confidential addresses so as to introduce you to my Solitor overseas'to draft a power of Attorney to your name as my foreign partner,subsequently I will be sending you the documents needed to get the two trunk boxes out of the cargo/security company once I get a guarantee and assurance from you that this funds will be safe and be invested on the said project/foundation etc.

A copy of this power of attorney will be sent to the cargo/security company that is holding the funds and a copy will be sent to you as well.Please also let me know if it will be convenient for you to secure this funds on my behalf for the said purpose,so that i can go ahead and intorduce you to my lawyer he will then proceed in sending you the necessary documents needed to conclude this project.because'i'm going to die as medical experts has confirmed.

MY QUESTIONS:
# WHAT IS YOUR OCCUPATION?
# ARE YOU MARRIED,IF YES,HOW MANY CHILDREN?
# HAVE YOU BEEN OF HELP OF THIS TYPE BEFORE?
# ARE YOU CAPABLE OF HANDLING SUCH?
May almighty Allah strenghten you to conclude this foundation on my behalf.
Best Regards,
Salam Jafer

Almighty Allah, eh? Oh, I almost forgot, he included a picture of himself, as a .bmp file:


I tried to find the same image on google somewhere, but to no avail. Maybe this is for real...

Yeah, right. This morning, I e-mailed him the following response:

Mr. Jafer,

Thank you for the information. I do have two questions for you regarding our transaction:

1. Why did you send your response from a different e-mail address?
2. As my e-mail address might suggest, I do not believe in charity. I will gladly take your funds and use them, but they will not be used for any happiness other than myself, and the places I do business with. I'm sorry if this conflicts with your goal, but it's how I live my life.

As far as the answers to your questions:
1. I am a ear, nose, and throat doctor.
2. I have one child from a previous marriage, and one with my current (and second) wife
3. I have not been of this type of help before.
4. I am capable.

Best,

Winston

Ah, my favorite flavor of bullshit.

I told him I do not believe in charity because I'm curious as to his response.

I said doctor, because that assumes I am well of, which I most certainly am not in real life. Ear, nose, and throat, because that sounds funny to me.

Why two wives and two children. I suggest you google Winston O' Boogie.

More as it develops...

E-Mail Scams: Digging Deeper

We've all gotten those e-mails from people who claim to be:

A) A relative of someone wealthy that just died
B) The executor of a wealthy estate with no one to inherit the wealth
C) A dying rich man

These usually come from a Middle Eastern or African nation, and are vague enough that you could probably find something similar that has happened recently.

Of course, they are always scams, and they will surely leave you worse off for your effort.

Or will they?

I recently received an e-mail to my account with the following text:

HELLO

This letter may come to you as a surprise due to the fact that we have not yet met. I have to say that I have no intentions of causing you any pains so i decided to contact you through this medium .As you read this, I don't want you to feel sorry for me, because, I believe everyone will die someday.

My name is SALAM JAFER, a merchant in Dubai, in the U.A.E. I have been diagnosed with prostate and esophageal Cancer that was discovered very late due to my laxity in caring for my health. It has defiled all form of medicine and right now, I have only about a few WEEKS to live according to medical experts.I have not particularly lived my life so well, as I never really cared for anyone not even myself but my business. Though I am very rich, I was never generous, I was always hostile to people and only focus on my business as that was the only thing I cared for. But now I regret all this as I now know that there is more to life than just wanting to have or make all the money in the world. I believe when God gives me a second chance to come to this world I would live my life a different way from how I have lived it. Now that I know my time is near, I have willed and given most of my properties and assets to my immediate and extended family members and as well as a few close friends and Scho
I am writing this from my laptop computer in my hospital bed where I wait for my time to come. I pray that God uses you to support and assist me with good heart

God be with you.
MR. SALAM JAFER


It was awfully nice for the dying Mr. Jafer to contact me in order to spread his wealth. And as part of my duty to you, the faithful reader, I replied to his e-mail with the following:

Mr. Jafer,

I am sorry to hear about your illness. I would be happy to assist you in the matter in any way you see fit. Please contact me, and I'll see what I can do.

- Winston

Now we'll see what transpires, because like you, I have always been curious as to what the actual scam entails.

Stay tuned...

Native American Appreciation

Did you know that November is Native American Heritage Month? Yeah, neither did I. But hey, I'm always down for a celebration. Especially one that celebreates non-white people, the second-best kind of people. They're like the silver medal winners of evolution.

So when I heard my office (I work at an Army base) was throwing a little shindig, complete with authentic Indian (fuck calling them Native Americans) dancers and an open bar I'm down.

After all, the last time the Army and the Indians got together, everything was all fun and games, right?

So I show up the event, and it started out great. There were tables filled with Indian artifacts from every Indian nation. I got a double-fisted helping of bourbon (after all, it was Native American History Month) and coke, and I was on my merry way.

On item in particular interested me. It was an intricate tapestry of reds, purples, and oranges. It was made of straw, beads and feathers.

"See anything you like?"

I turn around to see an elderly Indian gentlemen, dressed as you'd expect, leather boots with jeans and a western-style shirt with a turquoise bolo tie.

It turned out that these were his artifacts, and we spent the next five minute or so discussing the artifacts in front of us, and how he'd managed to acquire most of them.

He then introduced himself to me: as John Josesp Redcorn (This name has been changed).

"Nice to meet you," I said. "My name is Winston. Winston P. Custer." I gave special emphasis on that last name, and then I leaned back and touched the left side of my nose with my index finger, as if to tell him, "I know that you know..."

He gave me a glance that was filled with fear. Fear or confusion, it's funny how those two blend together.

So I took it to the next level.

I told him I had to run, and I reached over, and gave him a Michael Corleone-to-Fredo-style peck on the cheek. I then leaned up close to his right ear, and whispered,

"I've been waiting 132 years to make you Injuns pay for what you did to my great-grandpappy. And tonight, Mr. Redcorn, you're going to pay."

Was I too cruel, playing on cheap, historical stereotypes? From the wide-eyed look he gave me, he believed me?

So did I ease his fear with a hearty-belly laugh? Of course. Except instead of a belly laugh, a tied a mock-noose wth my hands, and gave him the hangman gesture.

As he trembled in fear (its a good thing he had that walker to support him) I walked away and headed back to the bar.

Four bourbons (lost interest in the coke about three drinks ago) later, I sat in my seat with a glorious feeling of superiority to watch some traditional Native American dances.

Three men in bright suits adorned with "cones" (that's the too-good-for-the-white-man-Indian way of saying "bells") jingled their way to a large drum on the floor, surrounded by metal folding chairs.

"Metal folding chairs? HA! Where's your Hahgwehdiyu now?"

Now, here's the thing. I could've sworn I said that in the confines of my own head. But given that everyone on front of me turned around as soon as that sentence was complete, I guess I was wrong.

Luckily, I have learned little tips to keep myself out of awkward situations. Unfortunately, many of these techniques are more like stays of execution, if I have to use one this early, it won't make any difference in the end.

But use it I did.

As soon as everyone turned around, I turned around. Because, clearly, the person who said it would have no need to turn around and see who had said such a thing, right? Genius.

So I looked back, and I'm pretty sure the crowd thought that the guys behind me had said it.

"Stupid faggots fell for it, hook, line and sinker."

Okay, I'm sure I said that under my breath. But sure enough, two ushers came up to me, and asked me to leave.

I started to protest, but I'm sure all I did was unleash a torrent of hot, boozy breath into the usher's face.

"Sir, I'm sorry you need to leave," the usher said.

"Oh, I'm sorry, you're telling me that there's no place for an alcoholic on Native American Appreciation Day? Pardon my fucking sarong. "

They started to drag me out while I tried my best to imitate the sound of a slot machine, because, you know, that's the secret shame of this once honorable people.

It didn't seem to have any effect (and by effect, I meant that one of the Indian dancers would come and rescue me, because I had pushed all of his buttons).

So I pulled out the trump.

"There will be beaver pelts and glass beads aplenty for any man who helps me!!"

They must not have heard me, because surely, no Native American can turn down glass beads. And when I added beaver pelts in, that only sweetened the deal.

But alas, nothing. So I simply screamed, "I will smallpax your fucking face off!" to anyone who was listening as a was dragged out.

Funny afterthought: As I was being escorted to the door through the lobby, the old Indian limped out of the bathroom.

I gave him a quick throat-slashing gesture with my thumb, and winked at him.

I hope he had those security walk him to his car. Because then they would have been killed when the bomb I put under his car detonated.

Vivat Custer.

Electile Dysfunction

Well, it's finally here. Election Day. Voter intimidation, hanging chads (which is my name as a porno actor, by the way), exit polls and the like.

After an incredibly long primary season, and all the pre-election mumbo jumbo, I'm just ready for it all to stop.

This is indeed a historic day. Not because the candidates say so though. I mean seriously, when has an election ever not been historic? If just once, a candidate said, "You know, this election isn't all that historically significant," I would vote for them in a heartbeat.

But it is a historic day. This is the first presidential election I have voted in. I was under 18 in 2000, and away at college in 2004.

Now, I'm not going to get all partisan on you, and I'm not going to preach to you about which candidate is better (because to be honest, the Slavery party hasn't fielded a viable candidate in years), but I will share with you the story of my voting for president.

The place where I am registered is a small town, so I wasn't too worried about the massive crowds. I voted at a small Episcopal church, where I waited in line for only about five minutes.

But since it was my first time voting, I couldn't help but notice the people giving me on odd look as I wallked into the polling place. Maybe they could sense my newness at this whole thing. Maybe they knew my pro-slavery stance, and were wondering who that would translate into.

So I went to wait in line, and since my last name (O'Boogie) starts with M-Z, I had to wait in the longer line.

I got to the front, and handed the nice gentleman my ID. He gave it a glance, looked back at me, looked at the ID again, and then looked back at me. He repeated this several times, which made me increasingly nervous that I had done something wrong.

Finally, he said in a low voice, "I'm sorry sir, but you can't come in here with blackface, you'll need to wash that off."

I wasn't amused. Did he know that I spent hours the night before carefully applying brown shoe polish to my face, just so I could make a statement. That doesn't even count the ruined pillowcases, or the painful eye burns.

But he insisted, and so I retreated to the bathroom to scrub my face.

After, he gave me a card, which I was to plug into the voting booth, make my choices, then give it to the lady standing next to me.

After carefully writing Dirk Nowitzki in for president, congress and the house, and voting against any measure to give schools more money, I gave the card to the lady.

She responded with a much-too-chipper-at-6-a.m. voice, "Congratulations! You've just voted! Have a great day!" And have me the biggest shit-eating grin, complete with the chicklet teeth.

After letting c-bombs fly like Mussolini from the balcony, the police arrived to escort my off the property, and they warned me that pending the outcome of my trial on Jan. 13th, this could very well be the last time I vote.

So I voted, got hives from the shoe polish, and may or may not be forced to spend the remainder of my life as a registered sex offender. That's Democracy for you.

Racism and creamed coffee: a tasty brew

Race relations are no laughing matter. Well, okay, sometimes they are. Dave Chappelle is funny, Mississippi Burning, not so much.

This story falls somewhere in the middle.

Last weekend, a friend of mine that I hadn't seen since high school was in town, and we decided to go out to a bar. My friend is half black, half asian. Blasian as some would say.

So we went to a bar, had some beers and some shots and some beers, shot some pool, then decided to call it a night. So as we are piling in the car, (I'm not driving, thank goodness), I said:

"Alright niggas, let's roll."

That got a decent laugh from everyone in the car, then my black-asian friend said, "Yeah man, except, how about you don't use that word."

I quickly apologized, and he said he was cool with it, but "it's just not my favorite word."

Understood, and I guess that was the end of it.

But funny things happen as the recycling bin gets full of green bottles. Inhibitions are lowered, and formerly taboo topics become issues that must be hashed out before the night is over.

So, as we were talking, a lull came upon the conversation, which I then filled with,

"Hey man, sorry about dropping the n-bomb earlier, but you know, I have a hard time thinking of you as a black guy."

Wow. Talk about awkward. As the eye around the circle got wider, my friend laughed and asked why that is.

And that's when I told him. I said, "Well, you see, you're not darker than creamed coffee, so it's hard to think of you as a black dude."

See? The creamed coffee test.

Then he was like, "I am so darker than creamed coffee." He so isn't.

We then got into a large discussion that may or may not have evolved into me actually making a pot of coffee, and putting my normal amount of creamer into it. After holding it next to his face, and then helping him put ointment on the burns, we finally came to a conclusion.

It turns out that he likes to put milk and creamer into his coffee, while I am usually satisfied with mere Vanilla Caramel flavored Coffeemate.

So let that be a lesson to you: People are different. They have different skin colors and they like their coffee different ways.

And if you don't like coffee? Then you're a filthy racist, and go fuck yourself.