New Year's Eves of Yore

Ah, the end of a year. A chance to end each calendar year in the same way you began it, shitfaced.

For the modern-day functioning alcoholic, New Year's Eve, along with St. Patrick's Day and Monday, represents an epic night to get drunk.

It is your choice, nay, your duty to get historically drunk, and fuck or fight someone that you've always wanted to.

While my plans for this evening are still up in the air, I was reflecting on some of the New Year's I've had in the past.

Pardon the gaps between years. Either they weren't memorable enough, or I was so black out drunk that the night doesn't have any memory for me.

Without further ado:

Dec. 31, 1999- Jan. 1, 2000:

The first time I ever got drunk in my life. Sure, I was a mere lad of 16, and I think I only had some champagne, maybe a rum and coke, and a few beers, but it was the first time I was introduced to the sweet, sweet feeling of being drunk.

Looking back on what my life has become, it seems oddly appropriate that this is how I entered the millennium.

Actually, I entered the new millennium with my first ever hangover. And I haven't learned to this day.

Dec. 31, 2002- Jan. 1, 2003:

After a two year hiatus from memorable New Years, I returned with a vengance. Now a seasoned college man (after all, I had just completed my first semester of freshman year), me and some friends gathered at someone's house, at a party hosted by his parents.

We got wasted on the expensive champagne his parents had bought, and then we moved to our own cheap booze, which, as I recall, was a few bottle of Boone's Farm, and maybe a fifth of bourbon.

We got wasted, then proceeded to wander around my friend's neighborhood, "fucking shit up" as I believe the quote was. Our wanderings ended with my friend puking all over the entrace sign the the neighborhood.

Later, back at the house, me and the same friend decided to smoke some pot, which neither if us had. Knowing that a passed out friend had bragged of some, we jimmied his car door open with a coat hangar, and proceeded to steal his shit.

We passed out, high as kites, in my buddy's car, with the engine running.

I woke up to the friend whose car we had broken into yelling at me, since in our drunken haste to get stoned, we had knocked a bunch of his shit out of the car, which had been ruined by the resulting downpour of the evening.

To boot, it was 8 a.m. when I woke up, and I had to work until 5 p.m. at the record store at which I was then employed. Let's just say it was a looooong shift.

Dec. 31, 2003- Jan. 1, 2004:

Ah yes, my sophomore year in college. This year, I decided to drive from my parent's house in Northern Virginia to my place in Blacksburg, where I met a few friends that were still in town at a party.

My drink of choice this particular evening was a fifth of Gordon's London Dry Gin, which I had filched from my parents. Gin and ginger was my drink of choice back then, which is why I can barely drink gin right now.

All I remember is playing beer pong in someone's basement, finishing the fifth, and then stealing six or seven 24 oz. cans of Bud Light from a fridge at the house we were at.

It was also the first time I had to be driven home in my own car. I remember marveling at how it felt to be sitting shotgun in a car that had only been driven my me for the last few months.

I woke up the next morning feeling awful (surprise surprise) but a lunch at a greasy Chinese buffet (the food, not the wait staff) made it all alright.

Dec. 31, 2005- Jan. 1, 2006:

I think I had people over to my house. I know I got drunk. I'm sure I threw up. That's about all I can say for sure.

Dec. 31, 2006- Jan. 1, 2007:

Ah, this was a good one. I was in Jacksonille, Fla., for the Gator Bowl, which pitted WVU against Georgia Tech on New Year's Day.

Our flight arrived at about 6:00, with me, my cousin, my uncle, and my uncle's friend. We checked into the hotel, didn't eat dinner, and caught a cab to the waterfront.

It was a scene that I have rarely seen before in my life. A band was playing right on the water, a good band, playing soul and R&B hits that were familiar, yet I didn't know the words.

Every cheap souvenir stand and bookstore had been transformed into a bar, with some serving liquor, and some with giant coolers of beer.

After drinking several beers, I switched to Jack. Since the bartender at the Jack Daniel's stand was hot, I tipped her very well. Which turned out to hurt me in the end.

Because, after the ball had dropped, the fireworks shot, the Jack Daniel's ran out. But milady, flush with all the good tips I had dropped (and probably my sloppy, slurring charm) began to give me Jack Daniel's Single Barrel and Cokes, which are much stronger, but also much smoother.

Next thing I remember, me and my cousin were standing next to a skyscraper waiting for a cab, my uncle and his friend at the street trying to hail one.

I proceeded to piss on the building, and encouraged my cousin (who had informed me that he was on probation from several Drunk in Publics) to do the same.

After a brief argument, he agreed, and we got away scot-free.

The only other thing I remember is getting the cab. The cabdriver was a grossly overwieght black woman, who had a child riding, and also her grossly overweight white female friend in the front seat.

So that left the back seat for all four of us (none of whom are under 6'1 and 200 lbs) to fit in the back seat.

At least I didn't piss on myself. At least, I think I didn't.

Dec. 31, 2007- Jan. 1, 2008:

Ah, last year. Last year featured another bowl game, except it was Virginia Tech vs. Kansas at the Orange Bowl in Miami.

I was actually in Blacksburg, meeting the friends with which I was going to go to the game with.

We went to a new bar, one that wasn't there when I was in school, and got wasted there.

I met the Ace of Hearts in the Official 2009 Hooter's Girls deck of playing cards, who happened to be a friend of the girl I was going to the game with.

Let me just say: she had the best pair of titties that money could buy. And I mean that. They cost her close to $9,000.

I also found out that one can drive close to 15 miles, even when one's car says that it only has enough gas to go zero miles.

This is sort of how it went down, except much more slurring.



So maybe I'll make some magic again this year. Who can say? But I hope you enjoyed this retrospective as much as I enjoyed remembering it.

Jack Daniels, Jersey Girls, and Russian Strippers: A Weekend in Manhattan, Day 2

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Jack Daniels, Jersey Girls, and Russian Strippers: A Weekend in Manhattan, Day 1

I hope you all had a happy holiday weekend. The keg cooler that I got for Christmas will soon ensure that my future weekends will be equally as happy, and filled with plenty of drunken revelry to write about in this here blog.

But I have a story to tell. This past weekend, I went to Manhattan for a weekend of drunkeness in a different section of the eastern seaboard.

I drank a lot, received several lapdances, and possibly made an ass out of myself more times than I think.

I had only been to Manhattan once before in my life, a day trip with my dad. It was a rainy day, and it also happened to be the day that Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston announced they were separating, which was in January 2005.

I was 21 at the time, but didn't drink while there, and being as I was only there for a day, didn't do too much in the way of revelry.

But let us start at the beginning.

Our story begins at 7 a.m. on Friday, December 26. I am up earlier than I would normally be to go to work, and I am on the way to Union Station, where a train will take me and my party to the Big Apple.

We got to NYC at about 12:30, and headed to our hotel, the Westin at Times Square. Top notch facility, even though they charge you $15 a day to use their wireless network, which is utter hog shit.

From there, we headed out to a bar called "Smith's Restaurant," which happened to be in my range of site from my hotel room window.

A quick lunch and a few beers later, and it was time to head to ground zero. We were going to meet several people at the church right across from ground zero, which was built in the early 1700's, and also happened to suffer no damage on 9/11.

We had dinner reservations at p.m., so we headed to a bar to kill time. The bartenders at the place we went (the name escapes me) happened to have two of the finest asses I have ever come across in my quarter-decade on this planet.

Two asses that, in the words of Champion Kind (the sportscaster in Anchorman), "I'd like to slap some barbecue sauce on that big ol' butt and just uh burr burr burr burr burrrr. OOwwwwooooo!!!!"

Those kind of asses.

So we had a few beers, played some touchscreen Photo Hunt (which I officially have lost my touch (pardon the pun) for, I couldn't even beat the high score of 249,000. There were times when I left 249,00 points for Photo Hunt in the toilet every morning), and killed some time.

Dinner was at a place called Fraunces Tavern, and this is where things get interesting. The building itself is very historical, it's actually a museum, and the restaurant leases the ground floor.

It's also the site of the first domestic terrorist bombing, in 1975, when some Puerto Ricans left a suitcase bomb in the dining room.

I start out by ordering a local beer, called Blue Point Toasted Lager. Very tasy, but as my dining companions began to put down martinis and Long Island Ice Teas like it was their job, I realized that I needed to step the fuck up.

So I ordered my old standard, Jack and Coke. Very few things in life are as consistently good as a Jack and Coke, and that's why it is a drink of choice for me.

I got my first one, and it tasted kind of funny. Kind of like.......scotch.

Now, I've only had scotch once in my life, and it was I was in Boston in the summer of 2005. Some people were buying drinks for everyone, only they were buying nothing but Scotch and Sprite.

I only had a few sips of that drink, and I had many more in the course of the evening, but all I tasted the next day was scotch, so I think I had a pretty good idea what cheap scotch tastes like.

But I wasn't drunk enough to cause a scene, plus the Scotch and Coke wasn't half bad (okay, yes it was, I was trying to take my second train trip of the day, this one toe drunkville, so I ignored it), and quickly finished the drink.

I ordered another one, made sure I clearly enunciated the syllables for "Jack and Coke" and waited for the drink to come.

It did and.....scotch. What the fuck?

I would like to tell you a made a scene, and it ended up with me maybe destroying a priceless artifact of American history, but alas, I took the pussy route, and kept my mouth shut.

Well, kind of. About three-quarters down the drink, I asked the person sitting next to me to taste my drink. He replied that it definitely was Scotch. I asked the female on my other side, and she replied that it was definitly Jack.

So now we had a dilly of a pickle on our hands.

I called the waiter over, asked him to taste it, and he immediately knew it was scotch. He said he had been telling the bartender Jack, and he had even written Jack down.

I was in the process of wondering if there was some shitty Scotch that I didn't know about called Jack McFuckstick's or something like that, but I couldn't think of anything.

Needless to say, the Jack and Coke came, and I polished off several of them to cleanse the palate.

It is not approximately 7:45, everyone I am with, ncluding myself, it drunk, and we decided to take the party back to the vicinity of our hotel.

We get to the hotel bar, and there is an Irishman and a Chinese (Korean? Vietnamese? Filipino?) guy tending bar. The Asian comes over to the three of us and asks for our drink order.

I order a Jack and Coke, one guy orders a Long Island, one guy orders a Martini.

Well, apparently I had the only drink that the guy knew how to make. Because instead of the Long Island, he made a mixture of Captain Morgan, sake, and Southern Comfort, all in a Martini glass. What the fuck? It tasted like what I imagine molasses and rat poison might taste like.

Instead of the dirty Martini, the guy made some red-ass fruity drink which would probably cause a uterus to sprout immediately inside of you after one drink, and put a fetus in that uterus after the second.

So we leave the hotel bar and head down the street, where Irish Car Bombs and shots of Patron abound. We soon decide to go to a strip club.

And here is where trouble starts. Knowing that the trip was coming up, I had gotten plenty of cash. And when cash meets a strip club, you end up leaving most of the former inside of the latter.

This night was no exception.

Usually, I am content to order $9 beers and leave a couple bucks in a G-String, reducing the financial damage, but given the amount of hard liquor that was already in me, that wasn't in the cards.

The first chick that comes and sits on my lap asking if I want a dance ends up getting an affirmative, and within thirty seconds, her thonged ass is grinding up and down on my shit.

Silly me, I had forgotten how much fun it is to have attractive women clothed in nothing but dental floss grope me.

I ended up getting three lap dances that night, each of which had their own subtle differences, which are noted below:

Stipper 1:

• A petite latina with dark hair, about 5'6".
  
• Good technique. She was good at using my genitals as a fulcrum to switch from grinding on my junk, to the straddling me with her tits in my face.
  
• She also went the extra mile, and ran her hands underneath my shirt, which earned some bonus points. And by bonus points, I mean stains in my underpants.
  

Stripper 2:

• She was probably my favorite. A wiry, raven-haired girl with a knack for conversation in a mild Russian accent. She was tall, 5'10" (I love tall chicks).
  
• While the dance wasn't the best, she added the crucial element that none of the other girls did: sound. She was moaning like crazy, and it definitely earned her some extra tip.
  

Stripper 3;

• She was more of the classic stripper. Tall, blonde, emotionally dead inside. But she was hot, I was drunk, and she definitely had the best set of breasts out of the three.
  
• She gave a good dance, her talent was running her hands through my hair and hideous beard, which was pretty sexy.
  

My one regret? All three of the strippers were white. I am very fond of black chicks, and I realized after I left that I should have taken advantage of some flava.

So I drank a few more $9 beers, turned down chances to go into the Champagne Room (after all, there is no sex in the Champagne Room), and decided that I was shitfaced at about 1:30 a.m.

I stumbled back to my hotel room, reeking of cheap stripper cologne, and having failed to "save" any strippers from that tragic life they were leading.

Oh well, you can't win 'em all.

Tomorrow: Day 2, in which our hero meets two jersey girls, and tries his damnedest to drain Manhattan of all its Jack Daniels.

How's that for a tease?

A Christmas Gift For Thee

Wrapper's delight

I did it again.

I tell myself every fucking year that I'll change, and every fucking year I do the same thing.

I go Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve.

Why? I knew what gifts I needed to get as early as Dec. 1. Hell, I would have been able to order them online and have them delivered to my goddam doorstep if I didn't suck so bad. Some gift ideas were impossible, since they required time to actually manufacture.

I suck.

So I pushed it back to Christmas Eve, where I had to fight 1,000 other fuckers who are just as lazy as me, plus visit some family, plus find time to wrap this shit.

But I do my shopping fighting a crowd at every parking lot, entrance and checkout line as I go.

My last stop: Border's books, for a book for my mom and my dad. Sounds simple enough, right?

Wrong-o, fuckface.

As soon as I get into the store, I see a line that stretches to the back of the store, and almost to the front again, a full store-length of douchebags, all of whom will be out of this God-forsaken hell-hole before me.

I fight the masses of the great unwashed to find the books in question, and any thought about buying myself a glorious present (because, after all, only I know what I truly need), I get in line.

In front of me: an old lady with a cane, who was buying a bunch of shit from that Twilight movie, pewter bracelets and other baubles for the discerning poser/vampire teenager.

Four people on front of me: a family, that grows from two people, to four people, to SEVEN FUCKING people in the space of five minutes.

Now, by just sitting in line, I have already gone backwards, all because these fucks are breaking the social contract that defines long-line etiquette.

But I keep my mouth shut. Mostly because Yahtzee on my cell phone is stemming the tide of insanity that threatens to break forth in the unsuspecting populace.

The closest I came was when the lady in front of me dropped a bracelet, and was struggling with her weight distribution on her cane while trying to pick it up. I wanted to kick the cane out from under her, just to take her spot and save myself maybe thirty seconds. That's how pissed I was.

But I made it. I bought the books, was calmed down by the saccharine sweetness of the cashier (who also happened to have a great rack), and I made my way to the exit. Next stop: A place to buy a gift bag.

Brief side note: Whoever invented wrapping paper should burn in hell. I consider myself to be a pretty smart guy. I'm good at math, my spatial reasoning skills are a little above average, and I made a B in high-school honors Geometry. But I cannot wrap a gift to save my life.

The last attempt I made was two years ago for my mom's birthday (since she usually wraps for me), and I went through a roll and a half of tape, almost an entire roll of wrapping paper, and it still looked like something that was filled with anthrax at a senator's office.

Back to the now.

As I was walking out, I saw a table of girls that seemed to be heaven sent. No, not for the reason you think, it was a table filled with girl scouts. Okay, now get your mind out of the gutter. I've never statutory raped anyone in my life. Those records are sealed.

No, they were wrapping gifts for people, for free, but donations were welcome. What a great idea.

I dropped off my two books with them, and since I didn't have any cash, I told them I would run to the ATM to get their donation.

It wasn't until I got outside of the store, and was walking to the nearby supermarket to the ATM when a conundrum presented itself to me.

Namely, the minimum amount to withdraw is $20. I'll be damned if I was going to give these adolescent cockteases in their seductive brown aprons twenty of my hard-earned dollars to wrap my gifts.

I had two choices: A) Buy something, like a pack of gum, which would give me several ones and a five, which I could then donate; or B) Just ask the Girl Scouts if they had change, creating a potentially awkward situation with them and their chaperon.

Due to my previously stated love of awkward moments, I decided on option B.

I went back, grabbed my presents, thanked them, and started rooting through their donation jar for change.

"Uh, excuse me sir? What are you doing?" The chaperon asked.

"Don't worry about it cunt, I'm just looking for change," I replied. Okay, not really, but I was at my tipping point, pardon the pun.

"I need change for this twenty," I said.

"Oh! Well, don't you think these girls could use that twenty more than you?"

I almost slapped her in the face. I work hard for my money, and these little bitches deserve my fucking twenty dollars?

"Uh, unless I get to deflower each and every one of these girls before their wedding day, ma'am, there is no fucking way they are getting my twenty dollars."

"Sir! You need to watch your mouth!"

"HOW ABOUT YOU WATCH YOUR FUCKING MOUTH, WHORE"

"Please, keep your voice down, you're making a scene."

"YOU AND YOUR LITTLE STABLE OF SLUTS ARE TRYING TO DUPE ME OUT OF MY FUCKING MONEY, AND I'M THE ONE OUT OF LINE? DREAM ON, CUNT!!!"

Not, very Christmas-y, I know, but it had been a long day.

But, I'm happy to report, I was able to compose myself and leave, causing minimal damage.

Read: I picked up their donation jar, and flung it across the store, leaving a trail of quarters and ones all the way back to the Manga section, creating quite a scene.

Luckily, I was able to escape in my car, and avoided any potential repercussions from "The Man."

And with this, I leave you to your own personal yuletide celebrations:



Merry Christmas you filthy animals.

Sierra Mist Cranberry Splash: Hallowed be thy name

If God invented anything better, he saved it for himself.

You've heard that (at least I have) when referring to a multitude of things: heroin, vagina, seeing your favorite team win it all.

For me, it's simply Sierra Mist Cranberry Splash, the greatest soda (and liquid in the physical universe we occupy) ever invented.

I still remember the day I heard about it. It was late 2006, and I heard a radio ad while at home from my holiday break in grad school.

I've always loved cranberry flavored things, which also goes hand in hand with my intense dislike of yeast infections. Cranberry juice, cranberry sauce.....well, I guess that's about it.

I'm not a big soda guy either. Sure, Dr. Pepper is like heaven in a can, but besides a brief love affair with Vanilla coke my senior year of high school, I don't drink too much.

Unless I'm using cola as a mixer for rum and/or bourbon, soda doesn't play a large part in my life.

But then again, I've always been a sucker for specialty sodas. Maybe it's the fact that I can't walk into a 7-11 365 days a year and get a Mountain Dew Baja Blast, which is only at Taco Bell, that makes it so appealing.

I remember my brief fling with Pepsi Holiday Spice. I was a junior in college, and had turned 21 the previous August.

Since I was always broke as shit (after all, pot costs money), my main alcohol consumption came in the form of cheap fifths of dark rum:

• Ron Virgin. Dark as the night and twice as long. This was almost black, and mixed well with any cola or ginger ale. Hell, it probably was good taken in shot form as well. At $7.90 a fifth, it was the equivalent of The Glen Livet for me.
  
• Sir Francis Drake. The cheapest piss-colored rum available in a handle form. For those of you who don't know what a handle is: A) kill yourself; and B) it's a 1.75 liter bottle. The big boy. The only problem? After a night of drinking it, you're insides feel like they have been rinsed with dirty dishwater. If you can't afford the $11.40 handle, then the fifth was $6.85 or something like that, and $7.43 with tax. Not that I remember or anything.
  
• The crown jewel of the cheap fifth, Mr. Boston. Mr. Boston and I go way back. At 5.90 a fifth, you can do no wrong with that gentleman. Sure, it was as bitter as swill. But it mixed well with coke. And the hangover was slightly less dirty than Sir Francis Drake.
  

The reason I digressed about glorious cheap rums was because Mr. Boston mixed very well with Pepsi Holiday Spice. So well, in fact, that I will probably never be able to drink Pepsi Holiday Spice (should it ever come back) again without tasting that fine, impure distillation of Mr. Boston's finest.

But now I have Cranberry Splash. And it is an enticing lover. She beckons me from grocery store shelves and convenience store coolers.

"Come. Taste me. I won't be around forever you know. Would you like me to put on my 2-liter dress for mixing? Or how about you and me take a car ride in my 20 oz. suit? Or we could spent an evening together, me in my 12 oz. cans and you drinking six or seven of me."

I could tell you that I'm flaccid now, but I would be lying.

My current favorite cocktail is Tito's Handmade Vodka mixed with Cranberry Splash. The last time I got rip-roaring drunk was a few Sundays ago while watching football.

I drank a fifth of Tito's along with a 2-liter of Cranberry Splash throughout the day. I remember the first half of the 1:00 games, and the bitter end of the night game.

And I did not piss all over myself. As far as you know.

So if you're in the Northern Virginia area, and you see that your local supermarket has been cleansed of all Cranberry Splash, I might have been there.

And if you slip on something that smells vaguely of bleach, then you know I have been there.

I apologize for nothing.

Hot chicks with foreign accents

It's time I let you people in on a little secret of mine. Though it fills me with great shame, I don't think my flaw is all that unique.

Hot chicks with foreign accents can make me do anything.

She could come up to me and say, "How about ve firebomb zat orphanage, yes?" and I would be mixing molotov cocktails so fast your head would spin.

So the following should come as no surprise.

I went to the mall the other day, the Saturday before Christmas. If you haven't done that before, you should just save yourself some time and give yourself a frontal lobotomy with a butter knife. It would probably be less painful.

The people that piss me off the most are the fuckers who poach parking spots. They follow you as you're walking out of the mall. They're trailing 50 feet behind you at all times, just waiting for you to click your keychain, and reveal to them the spot you are about to vacate.

God forbid that you would sit in your car for a second and go over your purchases, or put a CD in the player or anything like that. These pieces of shit are hovering, and some of them even have the nerve to honk at you to hurry up.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but there's no limit to the amount of time you can park in a mall, as long as it's not overnight.

Once I find my vacant spot and pull in, an unwritten social contract is now in effect that states that I may have that spot until I want to leave, regardless of whether or not I am actually in the vehicle.

Say I'm wandering through Macy's doing my Christmas shopping (like I would ever do that, that place is expensive as balls), and as I'm passing through, I catch a lingerie poster.

Now I'm all hot and bothered, so I retreat back to my car to rub one out, so I can finish my shopping with a clear head. I should be able to do that in peace without a poacher sitting on my ass honking.

Believe you me, it's awful hard to climax when a horn is honking. I've done it, but the chafing lasted more than a week or two, I don't mind telling you.

Glorious masturbation aside, I hate going to the mall around this time of year. But I did it because I'm an idiot, and I haven't finished my shopping.

So I'm wandering through the mall, trying to make it to the bookstore and maybe the cigar shop for my brother (and myself), when this gorgeous chick with a foreign accent approaches me.

My first thought is that maybe she needs my help, maybe someone (Jason Bourne?) is after her? My second thought is, will she still bang me if I get severely beaten by whoever is chasing her?

Luckily it never came to that.

She asks me if I've got my Christmas shopping left. I reply in the affirmative.

Now, if she wasn't extremely gorgeous, rest assured I would have not responded politely, but probably something like, "No, I'm just in the mall because I hate myself, you skull-faced cunt!"

But she wasn't skull-faced in the least, and thought she probably was a cunt to some degree (they all are), she hadn't shown me that side of herself.

She asks me if I've got any ladies on the list left to shop for, and I reply with, "Oh yeah, lots of ladies. Lots of ladies to give presents to."

Idiot! I thought to myself. She's not going to take you in the stall of the men's room and have unprotected monkey sex with you if she thinks you're involved somehow.

So I mention something about needing to get my mom a gift.

And she immediately starts extolling the benefits of her hand lotion (yyyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeaaaaahhh) and some stupid nail file that has three sides to make your nails the shiniest.

She even uses a sample nail thing to buff my right thumbnail. And no, she didn't notice my spontaneous orgasm. At least, she was professional enough to pretend not to notice.

Now, throughout this whole thing, I'm thinking: A) I wonder if the men's room stall would give us enough privacy; and B) How am I going to get out of this without money on anything but condoms and lube?

So she continues her spiel, and I find myself becoming increasingly horny and late, but she won't shut the fuck up. Granted, she still is gorgeous and still speaking in that hot accent, but it's slowly wearing off.

Finally a manage to get away from her, while only buying one nail lotion/file pack for $50. God, I hate myself.

I at least talked myself into the fact that I could give it to my mom, before I found out that my mom gets her nails done every few weeks, so she doesn't need that shit.

God damn you hot chicks with foreign accents. You'd think a pity blowjob in the bathroom would be in order once every now and again.

And if you're wondering if I have a public bathroom monkey sex fetish, you are correct.

So now my nails are always impeccably shiny, I am out $50, and I hate myself even more than usual.

Pretty standard pre-Christmas weekend actually.

Monday Links: 12/22

Back with your second helping on Monday Links!

And yes, I still haven't thought of a wittier title. Fuck my life.

• If you've done your holiday shopping, and didn't know about this then I hope you saved your receipts. All of them.
• It's a few years old, but this beer review is spot on. See links at the bottom of the page for even more beer-related skullduggery. (I'm not going to lie, I don't know what that word means. And I'll be damned if I'm going to look it up.)
• I don't think Michael Bay could get away with this in a movie. Just goes to show, reality is stranger than......something.
• Men. We are awesome, and we often say things that are awesome. Here is a list of awesome things great men have said in the past.
• Finally, with all the hubbub about global warming, this should at least get your attention that it might not be all it's cracked up to be.

A run in with charity

It's the holiday season, and you know what that means.

Those Salvation Army people incessantly ringing their bells are in front of the grocery stores, standing next to a red bucket filled with change.

I'm not opposed to donating to charitable paramilitary organizations, but as a twenty-something in the twenty-first century, I rarely have cash on me. So I usually do a despicable thing when I pass these people, I avoid eye-contact, and pretend to be talking on my cell phone. God, I hate myself.

But I was at the store today, and I found myself with six dollars (a five and a one) and several receipts in my wallet, and I figured I would toss a buck in the bucket.

At the very least, it would make me feel less guilty about masturbating later that night.

So I grab a bill, and walk to the front door of the supermarket. It's not until I'm about three steps away, that I realize that I've got the five in my hands. So I slow my pace, and have to dig through all of the old receipts to find my crumpled up one-dollar bill.

The guy with the bell was a small (as opposed to large?) Asian man. He was watching me the whole time, and probably knew exactly what I was doing. That I wasn't willing to give four extra valuable dollars to people less fortunate.

As I found the one and dropped it in, he gave me the most sarcastic, "Well, thank you" that I've ever heard.

But it doesn't end there, ladies and germs. No, this rollercoaster is just beginning. Well, not really. I'd say a little more than 40% done.

So I get my groceries, and I must have come to the store at an odd hour, because apparently there was a shift change, and a wiry bearded man wearing a Santa Claus hat was working the ol' bucket when I came out of the store.

I'll be god-damned if I was going to donate twice. But this guy looked at me even more condescendingly than the other guy as I walked out.

I still had the five, but if I wasn't going to give them five, I wasn't going to give them six dollars.

For some reason, I felt the need to explain my apparent selfishness.

"You know," I said, "I gave to the guy before you."

"Oh, I understand sir," the guy said.

I didn't like the tone in his voice. All condescending and shit. If I wanted to be lectured by some homo with a bell, I'd head to the annual "Faggots and the Bells They Ring" lecture series at Villanova.

"Seriously man, I gave twenty bucks (!) to the guy before you, it was all I had."

"It's no problem sir, you have a happy holiday."

So I decided a different tack. I decided to crack a joke, so maybe he wouldn't think I was scum. Maybe it's just a personality flaw I have, I don't like random bell-ringing homos to think I am scum. Weird.

"OK, I didn't donate before. I'm sorry, it's just that I want to make sure that my hard earned money won't go towards helping any dirty jews."

Well, that didn't go over as planned. Instead of the vacant, uncaring stare he had given me before, suddenly he stood six inches taller, and had a real fire in his eyes.

"Excuse me SIR, but I happen to be Jewish," he informed me.

I was absolutely stunned. Why didn't I pick up on this? He was a wiry, bearded man, like a stereotypical Jew. He was wearing corduroys and a brown sweater, and a.............Santa hat.

A Santa hat?

"You're not Jewish! Why are you wearing a Santa hat?" I yelled in his face, dismayed that he caused me a brief moment of shame.

"Well, the Salvation Army is associated with Christmas, so I wear it to help the cause," he told me, still visibly steamed.

"Oh, surprise, surprise! A Jew lying to get money! Way to not be a stereotype." I don't know where I lost control of the situation, but I think it was somewhere around here.

We argued for a few more minutes, him calling me rascist, and me saying that I thought he was just going to steal the money for himself, and quite a crowd had gathered around us.

My legal counsel has advised me to end this story here. Merry Christmas.

First date awkwardness

There isn't anything in this world more awkward that a first date.

I believe it was Jerry Seinfeld who once said,

"What is a date, really, but a job interview that lasts all night? The only difference between a date and a job interview is that in not many job interviews is there a chance you'll end up naked at the end of it"

Good stuff.

But what you may or may not know about me, is that I take a sick pleasure in awkward moments of all kinds.

Like most people, I used to be embarrassed and weird when confronted with an awkward situation. Whether it was a couple fighting near me, or even being called out on a white lie I had told, it was awful.

But lately I have learned to absolutely savor awkwardness, and the moments when it hangs in the air so thick I can almost taste it.

I experienced the most awkward night of my life a mere two and a half months ago, which I will delve into at a later date.

Back to the topic of first dates.

I went out with a young lady recently, and things seemed to go smoothly.
We went for dinner and drinks, and I was throwing out zingers like my life depended on it.

After a pleasant meal, and a trip to a local watering hole for a few cocktails, we came to the most awkward part of the first date: the goodbye.

If the first date is the most awkward thing in the world, and the goodbye is the most awkward part of the first date, then it must hold true that the first date goodbye is the most awkward thing in the world.

And it is the one awkward moment that I take no pleasure in, because I almost always get it wrong.

I trust my instincts on many things: in my job, writing, comedy, music, but women are not one of those things.

I don't know if it is because I can't detach myself and look at it objectively (at least, until it is far too late), but it is what it is.

And that comes into play at the end of any first date.

My imagination is such that I can imagine scenarios from her wanting to take a detour to Vegas to get married before I drop her off, to her typing in '911' on her cell phone and waiting for the right moment to hit send.

So I never get it right.

We're on our way back from the bar, and since I am driving, I am wearing my glasses. An extraneous detail, you think? Well, go fuck yourself! Who's telling this story for God's sake? You or me?

Sorry, but these people....they just get my goat.

Anyways, I'm driving, and I pull up to her place, which happens to be a townhouse with several shared parking spots in front.

Being that one of them is open, I pull right in, and we are at go time.

After the obligatory, "I had a great time tonight," "Yeah, me too" (both of those said by me, sometimes I talk to myself when I'm nervous), I go for it.

I lean in, hopefully for a peck, and get the full tongue on tongue action, followed by the extended hand hold, which usually indicates that it's not over yet.

So I pull back, and unfortunately, I've still got my glasses on, and they got a little smudged. Next to me, milady is doing the thing that chicks usually do after an impromptu make-out session, she smooths her hair, and takes a deep breath.

She notices my glasses askew on face face, and mumbles a weak apology.

And that, my friends, is where it all goes south.

Because I made a grab to clean off my glasses, with these special glasses moist towelettes to clean it off, and when I grabbed the package, I told milady, "looks like I'll need one of these then."

Seems innocent enough, right?

Here's is what a glasses cleaning wipe looks like:


Look familar? Maybe like a.....


Yeah. They look similar especially at night, in the dark.

So to her, I was so satisfied with the way the kiss went, that I had immediately assumed a prophylactic was in order.

Needless to say, the date ended rather quickly. My phone calls, text messages, e-mails, and occasional visits at 3 a.m. have been met with silence and the occasional call to the police.

Oh, well. You live, you learn.

Funny epilogue:

When sending the picture of the condom to myself, I accidentally sent it to the wrong e-mail address, and it wasn't returned as and invalid e-mail.

Which means someone got a random message with a picture of a condom.

I hope it's a chick.

Grocery store awkwardness, and memory lane

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Monday Links

We're going to start a new feature on this blog. Every Monday, I will present you will several links to things I find particularly funny and/or interesting on the web to start your week off right.

I'm still trying to think of a witty title, so "Monday Links" will have to do for now.

Enjoy:

• A web browser for black people. It's about damn time the white man stopped controlling my TCP/IP settings.
  
• A Ricky Gervais skit come to life. You know those Australians, they hate themed parties.
  
• Mad Fold-ins enter the digital age. Good stuff.
  
• With Tom Cruise's Valkyrie coming to theaters soon, a reminder why we can't go back in time to kill the Furher.
• Quite a statement on British housing. It's a shame he wasn't more headstrong. He really does have a head for realty. And I'm spent.
  

Friday night faggatronics, and a hidden treasure

Tonight is (was?) Friday. How did I spent the first night of what is supposed to be two days off?

Was I out, banging hotties from ear to ear (don't try to visualize the mechanics of that)? Or pounding shots with famous people?

No. I was at Kohl's. Before you condemn me (rightfully so), I did work for 14 hours on Friday. And when I say "work," I don't mean pretending to scratch my crotch when I'm really masturbating (to pictures of chicks doing yoga) in the stealthiest manner possible, which is my usual MO.

No, I was working. I was out of the office doing shit, and in the office doing shit.

So I was tired. Plus, since my life is so awesome, I had to wake up early Saturday to cover shit.

So I finished doing my thang (not to be confused with "thing"), covering a hoops tournament, and then I decided to head over to Kohl's.

I needed a few sweaters, and possibly some bulge-enhancing slacks.

So I get to Kohl's, only to find it awash in the scum of humanity. Why are these people at Kohl's on a Friday night? I suck at life, so what's their excuse?

I'm browsing, looking for some cool stuff, and I see a rack of shirts from afar that look interesting, so I meander over.

As I get closer, I see that they are the pointy-collared, vertically striped shirts with sparkly silver stripes, the kind favored by people I despise. So, I move on, thinking to myself, "Only a faggot would wear these shirts."

"Excuse me?"

I turn around to see a smooth latin man, holding up one of the very same shirts I had just condemned, measuring to see if the sleeves would cover his slender arm.

Apparently I did that thing again. You know, that thing where you think something to yourself, but in reality you muttered it under your breath. That thing where you think you muttered it under your breath, but in reality you said it in a normal conversation voice. That thing.

"What do you mean only a faggot would wear this shirt, ese? I like this shirt? You calling me a faggot, mang?" (I might have subconsciously remembered the 'ese' and the 'mang.' Memory is a funny thing.

Me: "Uhhh....look, I didn't call you a faggot. But that's the kind of shirts that faggots or douchebags buy. And to be honest, you don't look intelligent enough to be a douchebag."

Now that he had been served with the cold, cool hand of logic, he realized that I was right, and he skulked away. Either that or spit at me, I forget these things.

Near-confrontations aside, I found a sweater or two, as well as some pants to try on, so I headed to the fitting room.

Let me tell you something about myself. I like to make things better for the little guy. In this case, the little guy was the poor fella who is stuck monitoring the fitting room cameras.

You might be thinking, "wait a minute, this guy gets to spy on chicks changing into stuff ona regular basis."

If this were Nordstrom's, Macy's, hell, even Sears, that might be true.

Have you ever been to a Kohl's? In the words of Jerry Seinfeld, "it's a leper colony down there."

I like to do my part to liven up their day.

When I try on clothes, especially pants, I like to make sure that they can handle the rigors of my daily routine.

So I'm in the dressing room, practicing my hip thrusts and other staples of my life, just to make sure the pants hold up. Lo and behold, they did. You're welcome, guys watching the dressing room on the monitor.

Oh, and I also spent a good five minutes doing naked lunges. Merry Christmas fellas, double you're welcome.

I left the dressing room, figuring that my night was over. Little did I know what destiny had in store for me.

I was headed to the checkout when It called to me.

Like a beacon of light in this cold, dark, grey world, it showed Itself to me.

In the clearance racks right near the register, I saw It, and I knew It had to be mine.

The unequivocally, undoubtedly, unquestionably: The Most Hideous Shirt In The World.

I spotted it in the middle of a rack of clothes, and once my eyes fell upon it, I knew it had to be mine.

The cost: a mere $7, a low price to pay for the gift of immortality.

Avert your gaze, mere mortal!

I picked it out, and destiny had my number: just my size.

I held the shirt up, and I savored it, the way a sommelier would a fine chianti. I decided to take a victory lap around the store, to show the other shoppers what kind of man they were dealing with.

As I walked around the store, Hideous Shirt out front for all the world to see, the look on the faces I encountered were priceless.

Revulsion, disgust, insane jealously. This was the melange of emotions I encountered from the humanity that had encountered my purchase.

I ran into the guy who had been trying on the faggy shirt from before, he took one look at the shirt, and he literally exploded in a giant ball of green flame, a la the drummer from Spinal Tap.

Victory lap complete, I proceeded to the register. I got the stink eye from the cashier, as he loaded the shirt into the bag, and wouldn't you know it, the shirt sleeve rose up and slapped him for his insolence.

I don't know where I can wear my newfound treasure. A funeral, a wedding, the birth of my first born? All seem much too trivial.

All I know is that the shirt is sitting in my closet now, waiting, watching. Encased in an onnocent looking white plastic bag it lies, dormant until mankind needs it most.

When the world is most ready to see the shirt, I know it will make its presence known.

And I, it's humble, chosen messenger, will be there to parade it around in all its glory.

Amen.

Blast From the Past: Charlottesville Job Fair trip

The other day, I was going through the archives for an old website of mine, and found some gems that I would like to share with you, the loyal reader. What follows is a tale from early 2007, when I was looking for a job after graduating from college. Enjoy.

The account that follows is fictional. Except for the events that actually happened.

Being that I am in need of a job, I happened upon a job fair. Not jut any job fair, but one located in Charlottesville, Va. Thats right, the land of the wahoos. So after carefully considering my options, I figured that I could use this opportunity to have some boozy fun, as well as get some promising job leads. I decided to keep track of my three days, two nights in Charlottesville. The words that follow are the account of my odyssey into the depths and back out again.

Wednesday, February 7, 2007.

2:00 p.m. - After being up until about five in the morning, I finally rise to greet the morning. Uh, I mean mid-afternoon. It's a hard life. A list of things to do, then its off to Charlottesville.

4:45 - Burned some CD's (Cee-Lo's Cee-Lo Green is the Soul Machine and a mix to fire me up before the job fair, including Queen's 'I Want it All', in case you were wondering), and now I am going to walk over to the the bar near my house to grab some stuff I left there yesterday.

4:49 - While at the pub, I run into a friend of mine working on a happy hour pitcher of Amber Bock. I grab my stuff and on my way out, it happens. He asks if I want a beer. After a small (read: no) moment of hesitation, I accept. Can't let him go it alone on a pitcher.

4:53 - First glass done, still beer in the pitcher. I guess another won't hurt. I still have plenty of time to get to the hotel.

5:12 - Somewhere in between pitchers, a pinball game and a couple of pool games have taken place, and another pitcher of Amber Bock gets ordered. Uh-oh, this could be trouble.

6:21 - Still at the bar, working on who knows what number pitcher. I am feeling pretty good, and not even packed.

6:48 - Feeling no pain, I finally leave the place. I grab my suit and all of its accouterments, hoping I don't forget anything expensive, and toss it into the car.

I start to leave, then stop. I pull back into my driveway and grab my black dress shoes. That was close.

7:07 - Luckily I remembered to stop and get gas, since I was close to empty. Grabbed a few Red Bulls for the trip. Something tells me that I am going to need them.

9:29 - I pull into the hotel parking lot. I realize that I picked the wrong Comfort Inn. Instead of the one that is literally two blocks from the place I need to be, I'm five exits away. Shit.

10:12 - Relaxed for a bit, no its time to go out. Something tells me that there's trouble a-brewin', and its up to me to either join in or start up

10:54 - After a brief practice run to the job fair site (who knows how many brain cells I could lose tonight), I find a local bar.

10:56 - Decide to start out slow. Order a fatty of Newcastle and sit at the bar, watching some ESPN. I slowly look around to get a sense of my surroundings.

A table in the corner has a couple sitting and minding their own business. Next.

Two guys sit at a center table, toasting and doing shots all around. They are loud, they are decked out in UVA apparel, and most importantly, none of them are over 5'10". We've got a live one.

11:14 - A few beers down, that buzz I had while driving is coming back and I'm energized again. A Red Bull and vodka makes it official, and its time for the liquor.

Jack Daniels makes its first tasty appearance upon my palate, accompanied by his longtime companion, Mr. Coca-Cola.

11:58 - I notice that two of the guys have greek letters, one with a hat, one with a T-Shirt. It's kind of funny: one has a fraternity hat with a UVA Shirt, the other a lettered shirt with a UVA hat. Did they plan this?

Thursday, February 8

12:07 a.m. - I go and bum a smoke and start some small talk. Shots and beers ensue.

12:?? - I am drunk.

1:45 - I am assuming this is when I left because this is he typical time of last call in Virginia. But then again, you know what happens when you assume.

8:45 - Some really annoying song starts coming from my phone. Good thing I set the alarm before I went out. Once I reach for the phone, I quickly realize that it is a very bad thing.

I am sleeping in all of my clothes, and since my shoes are with me in bed, I assume they were on at some point too. I stumble to the bathroom of my room, and my lack of balance tells me that I'm still pretty drunk.

I crave the nectar, ice-cold water. It cuts through the dryness that is my mouth and tastes sweeter than any candy.

8:47 - My head is pounding like a jackhammer, and I wonder why I am shivering. turns out the reason is twofold.

One: I (I hope it was me) turned off the heat last night. Also, my body is getting ready to purge itself of some toxins. I head to the toilet.

8:51 - Toxins purged. I have nothing solid inside of my body. The cold tile of the bathroom floor is the greatest thing I have ever felt. Five more minutes, then I'll shower.

9:02 - I'm out of the shower, and now recovery mode has officially begun. What is it about stubble that immediately makes you look ten times more hungover that you actually are? Since I'm hungover as shit, I look like I died about three weeks ago.

9:07 - Eye drops, aftershave, and mouthwash bring me back to the land of the living. Time to get dressed. I hope I didn't puke on anything.

9:08 - Well, I forgot something. Two things actually. Call it two and a half. I forgot under shirts, and the one I have on is a bright green Guinness shirt. That eliminates my white shirt. Also, no belt. Also, I took the wrong suit jacket. Beautiful.

9:17 - I am as together as I'm going to get. I grab my shit, and head to my car.

9:18 - My car seems to be persona non grata. I don't know if thats a good thing or a bad thing. Hopefully, I just didn't drive home. I go back to my room and search my pants.

I find a credit card receipt for a cab, printed at 2:34 in the morning. At least I tipped the guy well. I call the front desk and arrange for a cab. I now have T-minus 42 minutes to find my car and get about fifty copies of my resume printed out. Well, I love a challenge.

9:29 - Cab is here, I direct him to the bar I was at last night. On the way, I ask him if he drove me last night. He seems amused at this, but gives the negative.

I tell him that I might have to get in touch with dispatch if my car isn't at the bar. If there is any justice in this wild and crazy world of ours, it will be there.

9:42 - Found the car. Sitting in the spot I parked at. Awesome. I leave another great tip (If I do say so myself), and get in my car. Step one is complete.

Time to meander across campus to try and find a Kinko's. I think about grabbing some breakfast, but the nausea that ensues knocks that notion off of the board.

10:27 - Found a Kinko's, got the copies of my resume. Time to find the parking garage.

10:46 - Parked, and now I'm ready to find me a job. Maybe.

10:51 - Had to take the stairs three floors to the ballroom. I start coughing like a 3-pack a day smoker, and more bad news, I'm stating to get the greasy hangover sweats. The stench of sour mash is exuding out my pores as I head in.

1:14 p.m. - Despite smelling like a distillery, I manage to land a few interviews. 8:30, 9:00, 9:30 and 2:00. Just about the worst combination ever.

I have to get up really early and stay really late. Considering my checkout time is at eleven, this is not looking good. Ah, fuck it. Job fairs are a strange thing. There are tons of tables in a big room, and first you introduce yourself to an employer, and tell them why you want to work in their county. Then you go to the next one and tell them the exact same thing.

1:35 - I can finally bring myself to have something to eat. Arby's is just the ticket.

1:48 - I am now officially lost on my way home. This day is getting better and better.

2:16 - Found the hotel, I barely make it inside before all the lights go out. Screw doing research for the interviews tomorrow, I'm taking a much needed nap.

6:18 - I wake up for the second time today, and it feels much better than the first.

Jump in an incredibly hit shower, which washes the last vestiges of last night from me. Since I am feeling much better, it's time for some dinner, and of course, drinks.

6:57 - Found a good, old time Charlottesville pub called Applebee's. These local places are great.

After a delightful glass of Amber Bock (seems to be a pattern here), I order a steak and my new favorite drink, Love on the Rocks.

Jack Daniels and myself won't be meeting this evening, he has already worn out his welcome. Love on the Rocks, by the way, is tequila on the rocks. That's how I do.

7:06 - The tequila has given me a lovely warm glow. I watch some college basketball and debate whether or not I want to get into trouble tonight. It could go either way.

7:11 - Another Love on the Rocks arrives. I make it my business to polish it off before my steak comes, I'll need wine for that one.

7:14 - Done. I order a nice Shiraz for the steak.

7:18 - The steak comes, if you can call it that. Sometimes these local pubs don't get the best meat. The wine is delicious though, and another glass quickly makes the steak palatable.

7:42 - That was alright. I pay my check and make my way over to the bar to begin the night for realsies.

I cleanse the palate with a glass of Cutty Sark on the rocks.

7:56 - Pay my tab, head back to my hotel. I have no idea what I am going to do tonight, and its still way to early to go to sleep. At least there are some basketball games on.

8:49 - As I watch another basketball game that I don't really care about, and I am contemplating a hot shower and an early bedtime.

8:50 - No sooner has that thought left my mind, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. It is a friend of mine who happens to be in Richmond, the capital of this great state.

Funny thing, Richmond happens to be about an hour from my present location. The pot is sweetened when he tells me that it is his girlfriend's 21st birthday party and they are going to hit the bars.

If I had any qualms about this at all, they quickly vanish when he reminds me that his girlfriend is one of a set of triplets, and as luck would have it, they were also approaching the very same milestone.

I put my pants back on (ah, the glory of a hotel room to myself) and get ready to head down 64 to Richmond, land of opportunity.

10:03 - I arrive in Richmond and head over to my friend's place.

Upon entering, the gaggle of incredibly hot chicks that makes up our group for the evening makes my jaw literally drop.

I am one of four guys, one being my friend, the other two being the other two triplets' boyfriends. Very nice.

10:08 - We arrive at the first of what figures to be many bars. A round of tequila all around, and we are cooking with gasoline.

I set the alarm on my phone to 6:45. My first interview is at 8:30, followed by ones at 9:00 and 9:30. Then there's one at 2:00, which is fairly problematic being as I have to check out of my hotel at 11:00.

Upon arrival of the next round of shots, those thoughts get put on time-out until 6:45 tomorrow morning.

10:47 - I am feeling sound as a pound as we move on the the second bar. It's about time to see if there's any lady within our party who catches my affection (read: might look good naked), for the night is no longer young.

11:15 - The triplets are on their tenth or eleventh shots, and I am not far behind.

I've also been imbibing in some beer in between, you know, to stay hydrated and all. I start chatting it up with a good-looking chick, and soon I'm not really concerned with how everyone else is doing.

Friday, February 9th

12:16 a.m. - We head to another bar. My lady friend accompanies us, and soon I am faced with the age old question: If things start happening, do I try an go to her place (meanwhile, her two roommates are in our party, creating an 87.3% chance of a cockblock), or do I invite her back to my hotel room (which happens to be an hour away).

12:28 - Well, I don't really know what decision I came to, but I do know it worked. She is all over me in the bar, so we really need some privacy.

Before I know it, we are alone and headed for my car, promenade style. We start making out a bit before she asks if we can go to my place. Drunk as I am, I decided to go with a gradual approach. I say 'sure', and I start the car and head out.

I don't like to drink and drive, but...... I can't think of a way to end that sentence.

12:30 - I tell her that I'm right near the exit for 64 West. I figure I can make a smooth transition from my 'place' to the exit, and by the time she protests, I'll be at Zion Crossroads (a real place by the way, not some sort of new slang).

12:33 - Well, that plan worked for approximately 9 seconds. I pulled onto 64 West, and she was wise to it. Let me act this scene out for you, because a day and a half later, its pretty funny.

Her: Why did you get on 64 West?

Me: Oh, uh..we're just going to my place.

Her: Don't you live in Richmond?

Me: Uh, yeah, I, uh, live right outside Richmond actually. Practically in Richmond.

Her: Where exactly?

Me: Well, uh...., I actually live in...that is to say, I'm from...uh...(quickly)Blacksburg, but I'm staying somewhere close.

She gets that hesitant look in her eyes that to me signifies that she just sobered up a little bit, realized that she just met me tonight, and then I can see all of the headlines about women being raped and murdered in the Richmond area flash before her eyes, so it comes to no surprise that she says:

Her: Oh, okay. (chuckles nervously, like she thinks any direct refusal will set me off) Where, uh, (clears her throat)where......uh...where exactly are you staying?

I can sense exactly what is coming, but I don't really want to end up in jail tonight, so I have to come clean.

Me: I'm staying in..uh...(cough)Charlottesville(cough)

She gives a high pitched laugh that carries no hint of amusement in it, and when she talks, her voice is much more strained and high-pitched than it had been all night.

Her: Oh, uh, okay, uh, can you just, uh, bring me back to my place, I just remembered I have to go to work tomorrow. I can't really go to Charlottesville right now.

Me: Okay, no problem.

At this point I was just trying to convince her that I wasn't going to rape and murder her in a rest stop along the way so she wouldn't bolt from the car screaming at the next traffic light.

She gives me directions to her place, which, thank goodness, is only about ten minutes back don the road. As she gets out of the car, I make one last plea to save face.

Me: Just so you know, I'm, uh, not mental or anything (thought that quoting Wayne's World might soften her up a bit), I am really just visiting a friend, and I was at a job fair.

She stops her quick walk away from the car and slowly turns around. She glances up to the streetlight directly above my car, probably one thing that keeps her here.

Her: Oh, its okay, I just got really tired, you know. I really do have to work in the morning.

Bullllllllll shit.

It's okay though. At least she's not going to get me on a wanted poster in Richmond.

She keeps talking for a bit, and it's actually turning around. I think that maybe she is going to invite me up, until I utter the one line that gets the ladies every time:

Me: That's cool, I just wanted you to know that I wasn't going to make a lamp out of your skin or anything.

The look on her face is priceless.

All trace of amusement, compassion, warmth, and pity leave her face immediately. She bundles up her coat tighter to herself, and just kind of backs away slowly.

Note to self: Quoting Wayne's World: Good. Quoting The Silence of the Lambs: Bad.

I guess you learn something every day. I am in no condition to drive back to Charlottesville, and without a lady's company to inspire me, I ain't gonna do it.

I pull away from her street, and find a spot along another adjacent street.
I'm gonna sleep till my alarm rings.

If you're wondering why there are no times for the last part, its because the time wasn't my primary focus during the last few hours.

As I prepare to sleep in my running car, I look at the clock. 2:49 a.m. Nice.

6:35 - Dammit, I forgot my phone's alarm rings ten minutes before the time I set it to. I have a feeling that I really needed those extra ten minutes.

My car is running, and there is a crowd of African-Americans looking in at me with barely concealed amusement. I quickly pull away and try and find route 64.

6:53 - I am on the road and the hangover hits me. The last bit of intoxication I might have felt is gone.

I slowly begin to recall the order of events from last night. As I remember certain details, I laugh out loud. "Did I say something about a lamp made of human skin?" and "Did that chick think I was a......a serial killer?" are the questions I am pondering.

I am laughing so hard my head hurts, I better stop.

7:14 - I have to stop for some energy drink. I always laughed when I saw the 33 oz 'Big Rig' of Amped. Now I know why it was invented.

I grab two of those and a huge thing of water for the trip. Solid food isn't an option quite yet.

7:42 - I am back at my hotel, feeling a peculiar combination of nausea and energy, kind of like when you pull an all-nighter in college, and are on your way to class.

7:51 - Same old routine: hot shower, eye drops, aftershave, mouthwash.

I now have T-Minus 39 minutes to get to campus, find a spot, and be ten minutes early for my interview.

8:19 - Found a spot and even better, found the elevators. No greasy tequila sweat for this guy during his interview. It will probably be more like slimy gin sweat. So there.

9:28 - Done three out of my four interviews. Apparently I am vastly under qualified for most positions, but its good to know what to work on.

At least I didn't get any comments about my looks and/or smell. I guess I covered up.

9:30 - A new wrinkle has been added. Apparently I used all of my cash last night, and only have three dollars, which was the exact price of parking in the campus parking garage.

I only have one more interview left but its at two. I am going to go back, check out of my hotel, and then kill three hours.

9:36 - Stopped by the ATM to get some cash. Balance: $357.22.

Sounds great doesn't it? I thought so. At least until I remembered the $350 rent check that was supposed to clear by this afternoon. That, plus the fact that you can't take out less then $20 puts me in a pickle.

9:46 - Back at the hotel. Another scalding shower while I still have access to hot water. I spend the next 60 minutes alternating dozing off with staring blankly at a wall and wondering if it would have been better for my job prospects if I had spent this trip sober and doing research.

10:46 - I finally decide that no, it wouldn't have been any better. I check out, and figure that some solid food might not refunded.

11:01 - Stopped by another local Charlottesville watering hole, Ruby Tuesdays. Had a decent meal.

12:24 p.m. - Time to take a nap in my car. I put on some music (Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass- Definitive Hits, in case you are interested), and try and sleep for the next hour.

1:22 - I wake up with a thought: I don't have any cash, and I have to pay for parking.

I dig through my change container and find $0.65 worth of silver coins, and maybe another twenty cents in pennies.

At $1.70 per hour, I can afford .38 hours, or approximately 22.9 minutes. That means if my interview goes over that, I will be trapped.

So now I have a gamble to make.

Say I want to be five minutes early to my interview. It is about a seven minute walk from the parking garage. Seven plus five is twelve minutes that I have to pay for. Add another seven for the walk back. Nineteen minutes. That means I have have an interview of approximately 3.9 minutes.

And that is assuming I can find a spot right away, and previous interviews haven't gone over their time. What choice do I have? I'm going in.

1:43 - Parked. In time on the ticket: 13:42. I head to the interview.

1:54 - I get there hoping that he didn't have an interview before me. No such luck. I sit to wait.

1:58 - Alright, he calls me over. Let's make some magic.

2:14 - Good interview, poor timing. I didn't want to seem like I was anxious to get this over with, so I talked with the guy about a myriad of things, including his current electrical problems (he saw from my resume that I used to be an electrician).

2:17 - I walk out of the room past the registration tables thinking of schemes to get my car out of the garage. It's already been 32 minutes. I'm faced with a Catch-22.

I could go look for some change, but then my time is extended, increasing the amount of money I owe. What? Not a catch-22? Go fuck yourself.

Just as I decide to scrounge some change in any empty lecture hall I can find, I hear the magic word from one of the people doing registration.

This word: 'validate'. Like a fat kid on a cupcake, I am all over the table. A woman informs me that they do in fact, validate. I get the stamp, problem solved.

2:26 - I get to my car and am ready to depart, with my freshly validated ticket as my travel companion. As I pull up to the booth I wonder why there is no line to get out, as there had been one every single other time I had been to the garage.

The lady inside the booth just waves me through. The gate was malfunctioning. Apparently the universe was going to let me out of the garage anyways, it just forgot about validation. Brilliant.

2:29 - I am home free. Time to go home, take a nap, and start the weekend. Whew. No one told me how rough these job fairs can be.