Musings on Pornography

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A Shitty Conversationalist

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

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

But let's start at the beginning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck was I thinking?

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

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

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

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

I have no choice but to pick it up.

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

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

And I couldn't make it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday Hate: 7/31

This week marks glorious return to Friday Hate

Wedding rings.

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

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

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

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

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

That shit is fucking infuriating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But there was no wedding ring.

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

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

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

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

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

First Contact

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Monday Links: 6/15

Happy Mondee!

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

Expansion Is A Bitch

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

Take a look see won't you?

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

Here's that site again:

http://popeofchilitown.posterous.com

Thank you, and good night.

Your Guide to Summer Fancy

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

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

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

Obnoxious Sunglasses

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

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

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




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

Behold, the Ray Ban RB4112

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

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



Cigars

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

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

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

Wait, what? Never mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Music

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunroof

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

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

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

Sandals

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

Take a look at these historic examples:


Fucking right God loves sandals.



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

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

Monday Links: 6/8

• I've had just about enough of Obama negotiating with those pirates!
• Whenever you think you're unlucky, at least you're not these people.
• Possibly the greatest invention ever?
• Ah, movie nerd-dom, you never get old.
• That Craigslist. It'll get ya.
  

Just Another Fail

Speaking of sucking at life, get a load of this one.

I was on my way to work Tuesday, and it was a fantastic morning. The sun was up, it was warm, and I had my sunroof open listening to tunes loudly.

Add that to the fact that I was wearing my new favorite pair of obnoxious sunglasses, and I'm feeling good.

As I pull up to the gate of the base where I work, I'm blasting Pantera's "Domination," which makes me want to run through a fucking brick wall. So I'm fired up, ready to kick ass and take fucking names at work.

I get to the gate, hand the guard my ID card, and he looks at it, looks at me, and hands the card back. As I'm about to pull away, he says, "hey man, you got something on your face."

I look at myself in the rearview mirror, and I get a shock.

For breakfast that morning, I made myself some yogurt with blueberries and granola, and I mixed them up in a solo cup and ate them on the road, as I usually do.

Well, apparently, some yogurt had missed my mouth, and gotten in my beard, around the chin.

So, looking at myself in the mirror, I appeared to have a fresh cumshot across my face.

If that doesn't ruin your day, I don't know what will.

Now do you get why I said "load" at the beginning of this?

Monday Links: 6/1

Well, we're now in the sixth month of 2009, and what better way to start it off with some Monday Links?

• I love the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles more than anybody, but this is a little ridiculous.
• This is a fascinating long-exposure photo of the path taken by one of those room-vacuuming robots.
• So many levels of fail.
• A collection of Joker art. Some are interesting, some are funny, and some will haunt your deepest, darkest nightmares. That's sort of how I feel about this blog.

• Have you ever read Amazing Superpowers? If not, here are a few comics to get you started. I suggest you check out the whole lot.

• Meddling Kids
• Happy Breakfast
• Open Heart Surgery
• A Game of Catch
  

Weekend Video: 5/31

Here we are with another in what's proving to be a non-consistent feature here.

The three best lines from The Departed, which is easily one of the best movies of all time.

Friday Hate: 5/29

This week's edition isn't really about hate, more about disgust. But, to be honest, "Friday Disgust just doesn't have the same ring to it, so here we are.

I am on Twitter. I don't post a whole lot, if ever, but I follow a select group of people. And when I say select, I mean three groups of people. NBA players/writers/bloggers, comedians and porn stars.

And when I say porn stars, I don't mean a ton of them, only a few that I've seen have interesting/funny stuff to say, not just pics and links.

Well, some of them post pics on TwitPic, and occasionally its of themselves before they shoot. Generally, they're shot on cell phone cameras, so they don't look great, but it's sort of interesting to see them without makeup and without dicks in their face.

On TwitPic, people can comment, and that's where the disgust comes in. There's a certain group of people who are only on Twitter so they can tweet porn stars.

They're usualloy guys with ethnic names, e.g., Juan, Mario, T-Dawg, and it looks like all they do is flirt with porn stars through twitter. On the pics, they lay on the sleaziest pickup lines.

For example, Sandee Westgate, a hot porn star (duh) tweeted a pic of herself. Here's a comment:

robstaintonboss: ill bet god had u in mind when he created eve!!!!!!!!!

Really? How many times have you used that in a car and gotten laid?

Go to some of the guys pages, and all they do is tweet at pornstars telling them how hot they are?

Do these weirdos think that this will secretly lead to a meeting and fucking?

And here's the scary part: I think they do. After all, we've all seen pornstars just attack a pool boy, mechanic or cable guy, so what's to say they won't run into each other, remember to tweet in question that they just won't bang it out?

A man can dream, can't he?

People Staring At Me WIth Hate in Their Eyes

We're going to introduce a new feature here at Fists With Your Toes, people who stare at me with hate as I take photos.

When I cover events, I usually take my own photos. Sometimes when I'm going through them later, I catch someone in the background, staring at me with unadulterated hatred in their eyes.

I'm going to start it out with one from a few weeks ago, when I was covering the Air Show. I was originally going to do a whole recap as Part II of my weekend in the trenches, but this was the only funny part about the afternoon, so I'll just add it.

I'm on the Andrews Air Force Base tarmac, where there are dozens of planes, and some speech going on. As I take some photos of the speakers, I snap a photo, the one you see below.


The gentleman in the front row is Gen. Norton Schwartz, Chief of Staff of the Air Force. I snapped this photo, because I thought it was a nice photo of him and his wife interacting with that little kid with the headphones.

But let's take a closer look at the women sitting next to Gen. Schwartz, his wife, Suzie. They were both at the event I'd covered the previous night, and both seem to be very pleasant people.

But Mrs. Schwartz apparently isn't very happy with me, as shown in this blown-up shot of her.


She does not look very happy with me. In the photo before this shot, she was all smiles looking at this kid, and now she's looking at some prick reporter take a picture, she isn't having any of it.

After the speech, I wander around, and snap a few photos, including this one:


Seems pretty ordinary, right?

Look closer at the man in the background:


He looks like he is about to rape me. In the face.

What the fuck is the deal? Was my dick hanging out or something? Was I mistakenly wearing my Nazi hat? Why are these random people glaring at me while I take photos?

Fast forward to yesterday afternoon. I was covering a burial service at Arlington National Cemetery, where a Medal of Honor winnder was being buried there. I snapped this photo of the soldiers folding an American flag.


Looks pretty normal, a solemn moment, featuring The Old Guard, who are the ceremonial unit for the Army. They are well disciplined, and represent the height of discipline of the U.S. military.

So why is the guy in the center of the picture staring at me with such rancor in the middle of the burial service? Take a closer look:


Ouch. He looks like he is about five seconds away from jumping across the grave and beating the everloving shit out of me.

I hope you enjoy this new feature, I'll try to post them as they come up.

I Digust Myself

I am a filthy, disgusting human being. A vile, repulsive individual that is just a waste of oxygen and precious resources.

It wasn't always like this. I think at one point in the not-too-distant past, I was a productive member of society. I don't know where I went wrong.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Two things happened today that made me really question my place in this world we live in.

The first? Well, I'm glad you asked.

Last weekend, I went to a friend's river house, and got the living shit sunburned out of me. I mean, I've been a fucking lobster for the last few days. My shoulders, arms and chest were bright red.

I'm been trying to keep it properly moisturized, but some peeling is inevitable.

So this afternoon, I decide to wander back onto the hardwood. I haven't played hoops since the weather got colder, and our indoor gym has been taken up with intramural basketball.

So it's time to work on my baby hook, elbow jumper and trizzles. And I must admit, it was feeling good. I was hitting my stuff and feeling good, got a good sweat working.

So I'm in my car, sitting in mile after mile of fucking traffic, and I do what I normally do, start examining myself. I start with the ol' nutsack (can't be too careful with testicular cancer these days) and work my way up to my shoulders.

And that's when I see it. On my shoulders, it looks like a lot of tiny blisters. Weird.

I get home, and I get ready to jump in the shower. And when I take my shirt off, I'm covered in tiny blisters. What the fuck?

And then it hits me. I had all this dried up skin where I got burned, and when I sweated, it filled the space.

So I'm covered in sweat-filled blisters. I can't imagine anything more disgusting.

What's worse is that they're very thin, so when I run my hands across them, they burst, sending foul sweat all over myself.

I won't lie, if I had a bathtub instead of a standup shower, I might have filled it with warm water and slit my wrists, just to make my failure at life complete.

So I jumped in the shower, and tried my best to pop them all, making my skin normal again, or so I though.

I start rinsing off the soap from my chest, and as I step away from the water, I notice there still seems to be droplets on me, and they're not moving.

Except it wasn't just drops. The shower water was filling up the popped blisters. Gross.

I am hideous.

So I start trying to just take all the skin off, and pretty soon, I had a lot of dead skin on my hands.

Now it's going to get real real.


You see that thing on the left that looks like old chewing gum, the thing that's almost as big as the penny?

That's the ball of skin I took off of myself. I think I just threw up in my mouth as I typed that.

Now that I've thoroughly disgusted you with my physical maladies, let me tell you about the second thing that makes me disgusting. This one is mental.

I was walking down the sidewalk today, on my way to meet someone, when about a quarter-mile in front of me, standing on the corner, are two chicks.

Now, as a single guy in his sexual prime, a guy that always takes a second look when I see an ass in tight pants, no matter how ugly the chick is.

So as I get closer, I see at least one of the chicks is very...uh...how do you say.....ample in the bosom?

So I'm walking, I'm leering, just trying to get a close look at their faces. And all of a sudden, they both start looking at me as I walk on the sidewalk towards them.

Just as I'm starting to wonder how fast I can book a hotel room for a hot threesome, a school bus rides past me, stops at their corner, and both girls get on.

Apparently I didn't notice that they were wearing backpacks.

Now, there aren't many things certain in this topsy-turvy world of ours, but odds are, a chick getting on a school bus isn't anywhere close to 18, especially a hot one.

I am a monster.

The school bus rule is pretty much the same as the cigarette rule, except the opposite. If you see a chick smoking a cigarette, chances are she's 18, if she's getting on a school bus, she's probably not.

The odds in both instances are worth betting your cornhole on, especially if she's hot.

So there you have it, I'm covered with filth, and I was leering at a girl that can't be over 16.

And you wonder why I loathe myself.

Monday Links: 5/18

• I know what to get Michael Vick for Christmas...
• A study in awkward, which I am always in favor of.
• Not good news. I think I'm in the fever stage.
• One of the more interesting movie theories I've seen in a while. Now I really want to watch the movie again.
• Bart Simpson: prophet, clown, felon?
  

Another Weekend in the Trenches: Part I, A Sweaty, Formal Friday

Sometimes my job requires me to work odd hours, which can include evening and weekends. I don't mind most of the time, because I get time off later, I have no life, and most of the time it's for interesting stuff.

So I found myself heading into last weekend with assignments as follows: Friday, 5/15, 6:30 a.m. and 6:30 p.m., and Saturday 10 a.m. Not the most productive hours, since all time in between is rendered useless.

But because I take many of my life lessons from 80's band Scandal, I am the warrior. So I sucked it up. And what ensued I hope is funny shit for you, because it sure was for me.

Friday night, 5:30 p.m. I am sitting in my office, waiting to head to a certain National Cemetery in a few minutes for some fancy reception. Now, since I came to work at 6:30 a.m. in the morning, I didn't get up early to shower, so my hair was a disaster (not to sound like a chick, but if you know me in real life, you'll get the clue), and I had a dirty pair of jeans on.

I was able to go home at noon and shower and change into a clean shirt, so I'm looking pretty sharp at 5:30.

I head over to the cemetery, park my car a few hundred yards from the building, which doesn't seem to me much of a big deal. I pop in a stick of gum to make my breath extra fresh, and I head over to the building.

Here's what I didn't count on. The late afternoon is a crisp 85 humid degrees, and I am in a heavy collared shirt and pants. The walk to the building is up several steep sets of stairs.

Can you see where this is going?

I start to sweat. I'm not a big sweater, I think my lack of excessive body hair helps me in that regard. I don't even buy anti-perspirant for my under-arms, just plain deodorant. But when it's humid out, the aforementioned mop of hair I have acts like a fucking ski cap.

So I start to sweat a bit, which presents two problems.

1) White people (myself included) do not look good when they sweat, unless their hair is very short. Watch any NBA game. The white guys look like losers when they sweat.

Black people get all shiny and smooth, and their hair carries the sweat well. White people, the bottom layer of hair gets all wet, so it starts sneaking underneath your hairline, and greasy tendrils of hair get plastered all over your forehead and neck. It's disgusting.

Us whiteys might have gotten the swimming ability and the grammar advantage, but I would trade those things to be able to sink 20-footers at a 60 percent clip and look good doing it.

and;

2) The B.O. conundrum. I am absolutely paranoid that I smell at all times. I don't think I do, but no one thinks that they smell.

I know a lot of people, friends, bosses, co-workers who smell and it makes me subliminally think less of them. I know they probably can't help it, nor are they aware of it, but if someone comes up to me to ask a question, part of me wants to answer, "Oh, I'm sorry, all I heard was 'blah blah blah, I smell like a taint in summertime.'"

So I'm always afraid that I secretly smell and people are thinking the same about me. Because no one respects a smelly fucker, that's just science.

At this event, I my media contact is a very attractive young lady (saying that makes me feel like I'm a 45-year-old kid toucher, but I don't know any other way to say it), who I don't really want to think I smell.

So I'm sitting there shooting some shit, and all I can think is, "Holy Santa Claus shit, am I washing over her with a wave of pure stank right now?"

I kept trying to get covert whiffs of my pits in the middle of conversation, which is probably even worse than smelling. I think I was okay though, either that or she was a damn good actress.

Since this thing is being held in a cemetery, naturally death is a focal theme of the evening, meaning respect must be at the top of every attendee's priority list. The music was soft, slow guitar music, which I didn't recognize immediately.

Then I hear the familiar verse, "Would you know my name, if I saw you in heaven?"

Tears in fucking heaven? At a cemetery? How cliche can you get?

Then I started to thing, maybe this is just their "Death Mix" I spent a lot f time figuring out what else it could contain, I'm looking for slow, mournful songs about a tragic death.

• Neil Diamond - Morningside
  
• Bob Dylan - Knockin' on Heaven's Door (possibly more cliche than Tears in Heaven)
• Elton John - Candle in the Wind
• Gordon Lightfoot - The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald (if you don't weep openly at this song you are not human)
• Cannibal Corpse - Scattered Remains, Splattered Brains

But it was moot, because it wasn't "Death Mix 2009" they were playing (but tell me that doesn't sound like an awesome Jason Statham flick). No, it was Eric Clapton's "Unplugged."

Weird choice. Made even weirder by the fact that they skipped the unplugged version of Layla, which is a fucking travesty in and of itself. But how weird is that? Let's look closer.

• Someone made the choice to put Eric Clapton Unplugged into the CD player, or queue it up in their iPod.
  
• That same someone made sure that Layla would be skipped, or it was deleted from the album.
  
• Layla is the most uptempo song on the album, so apparently someone thought that it needed to be skipped lest the atmosphere of a solemn occasion be besmirched.

The conclusion: Whoever selected the music was willing to have Tears in Heaven played at all costs. It's no coincidence that it was playing as soon as we all walked in. I'm surprised it wasn't on a continuous loop, but that probably would have been too much.

I'm working this event, and right away, there are no prospects in the female department. I'm trying to spend a Friday hunting stink, but there's little to be found.

The only person in the building I would nail (namely, the only person not collecting Social Security) was one of the caterers. I had a moment with her at one point. She walked by me with hands full of dishes, and a fork dropped in front of me.

Here's my chance, I told myself, if this goes well, you could be smashing some hot caterer ass in a bathroom stall within the hour.

I picked up the fork as slowly as I could, searching my brain for a good line.

"Well, well, well, stick a fork in you, you're done."

Not great, but not an abortion either. She gave a quick smile, so I had laid the foundation. Which promptly came crumbling down, as I laid the fork back on the plate, and it fell off again.

It's times like this that the men are separated from the boys. Can I come top my own mediocre zinger with one that's sure to make the panties drop, or will I fly to close to the clam on wings of bad metaphor?

"Of course, that's not all I'd stick in you."



Hint: I'm the plane.

So that was a no go.

But alas, the night had other options in laid out for me.

In this case, it was a blonde that was at least two inches taller than me, in just a knockout of a cocktail dress.

I don't remember if I've mentioned it before, but I loooove tall chicks. Maybe it's the subconscious knowledge that only by impregnating a giraffe and/or black chick will I be able to sire an NBA Finals MVP, or maybe it's just because I like long legs, but here we are.

So I started hovering creepily around this tall chick. She was with a chick that had the exact same dress on, only she was 6 feet wide. Yecccch.

I caught her in some pictures, which I would post, but I am currently touching myself to, and you can't upload an open file. I'll upload them when I'm done, so around Halloween. Look for them then.

But much to my chagrin, the delicious elixir that allows me to go up and get rejected by chicks I wouldn't even make eye contact with, alcohol, was nowhere to be found. The bar? Serving water, iced tea and canned soda.

Are you fucking kidding me?

So I went up to the bartender, and I asked for a coke, in a glass with ice, "and, hey buddy, why don't you only fill 'er up halfway with coke, wink wink."

My first mistake was saying the words "wink wink" instead of actually winking. Bad start.

He didn't know what I meant.

"I mean, why don't you fill it half full of coke, and fill the other half with some Crown Royal?"

That fucker acted like he didn't have a stash behind the counter. You're telling me that these people are this fucking stupid without booze. I had just eavesdropped on some general's wife's conversation, the bitch had to be hammered, she was slurring like a mug.

Either that or she was a stroke victim, which, now that I think about it, would explain the wheelchair...

The rest of the night was pretty uneventful, I did my shit, and spent the rest of the evening trying to insert myself into as many family photos as possible. With a nut hanging out. My khaki pants made it pretty easy, and I hope they aren't discovered until those photos are ten feet high on a projector screen.

Later, I'll get into Saturday, part II of this weekend in the trenches.

Sorry for this being so long. I would apologize, but I never apologize. I'm sorry, but that's just the way I am.

Weekend Video: 5/16

Alright, back with another weekend of hilarious/interesting video.

We'll be going with a musical flavor today. First, Steve Porter's Rap Chop remix of the Slap Chop commercial. If ol' Vince Offer hadn't have beaten the shit out of a hooker, this could be a no. 1 hit.



Next, Guyz Nite's song about Die Hard, with a verse for each movie.

Me Fail English? That's Unpossible!

A story of failure that doesn't involve alcohol? I'm becoming everything I've ever hated.

I spent four years in college studying English, my native tongue. I took classes in literature, composition, grammar, linguistics and many more. So I like to think I have a good grasp of this language.

I read a lot, and I think I have a decent vocabulary. I'm no David Foster Wallace, but I think I do okay.

So when I find out that I've been wrong about words for my whole life, it really sends me into a tailspin.

A similar thing happened to me about ten years ago. Up until that point, I had been pronouncing the word 'unison' as 'un-shun.' Because I suck, no doubt.

I thought 'you-ni-son' was just some crazy word that I didn't know, but when I learned it, I felt like an ass.

But it's excusable, after all, I was 15. I was an asshole, like all 15-year-olds.

But now I'm 25, with a lifetime of vocabulatory experience. So I didn't expect this to happen again.

This comes from an English nerd who get the steaming undies when I learn a new word. John Fowles is great when it comes to that, I learn a new word every 20 pages or so.

My favorite word I learned from him is 'eleemosynary,' meaning, 'tending towards charitable acts.' I dropped that shit like it was hot for most of my senior year, because I'm just that fucking awesome.

So I was on life tilt the other day, because I felt like a complete and utter horse's ass.

How would you pronounce the word 'segue?'

For 25 years, I was pronouncing it 'seeg.' I wouldn't use it often, but I can recall at least three distinct occasions where I used it in conversation.

Apparently, it's pronounced 'seg-way,' like the vehicle. I thought segway was spelled 'segway', because that's how they spell that thing.

Well, I couldn't have been more wronger.

How could this have happened? How could I have gone so long, gotten a college education and working in a job that requires me to know the English language without knowing that simple fact.

I'm not going to lie to you people. I went home that night from work, and strongly considered downing a bottle of Tylenol and a 5th of vodka, followed by a warm bath and a razor blade bracelet.

I was on complete and utter life tilt.

So the next day was Friday, and as is my usual custom on Friday's I get a fucking awesome burrito from Moe's Southwest Grill, which is your two-seed when it comes to fresh-mex as I believe it's called.

So I get there, and I order my burrito, which I get with steak and black beans, then cheese, salsa, cucumbers and jalapenos, because its fucking delicious.

The guy puts the cheese on, and asks, "pico de gallo?" And I say no. So he puts everything else on, except the salsa.

I say, "and the salsa, that will be it," and the guy (who clearly doesn't speak English very well, though he probably knows how to pronounce 'segue') says, "pico de gallo?"

"No, just salsa" I reply, and he says "pico de gallo" again.

Because apparently pico de gallo is salsa, or something very similar. For 25 goddam years, I thought it was the melted cheese, a.k.a. 'queso'

But I find that they're not the same thing, and I am in a full on questioning-every-facet-of-my-existence mode.

How the FUCK did I not know that? I love Mexican food.

I was at a party that very evening, and I went around polling people in random conversation about how to pronounce 'segue' and what pico de gallo was.

Surprisingly, I couldn't get a girl to let me touch her where she pees. I guess chicks don't dig vocab questions during parties.

It took me a while to recover from all of this, but eventually I did. After all, I had only been mistaken on three words in 25 years, plus I feel I still have a good sense of grammar.

Three words, 25 years. That ain't not bad.

Monday Links: 5/11

My office lost power Monday, and I've been playing catch up all week. We'll have to wait until next week for the extended Monday Links.

• A fascinating insight about movie stars and their movie deaths.
• Finally, one of life's great questions is answered.
• Continuing with our movie theme, there's not a single movie on this list that I wouldn't see.
• More Monday Movie Madness! We can all learn from Predator.
• Stupidity. It's recession proof.
  

Weekend Video: 5/9

And here we are. We'll start Weekend Video with a double edition:

First, an outtake from Strange Wilderness, a movie which isn't great, but has some funny people and scenes in it. This is one of them.




And I will leave you with a scene from The Wire, possibly the greatest show ever. The scene below is the greatest scene in the series, therefore, you are about to watch one of the greatest scenes in the history of television. Enjoy.

Now With 45% More Drunken Photos!

Couple of announcements for all of you fans out there. All eight of you.

We will be adding a new feature to Fists With Your Toes: Posterous!

If you haven't heard of Posterous, get with the now. Blogs are so 2008. Posterous basically is like a twitter, only it's much easier to post, since you just e-mail it in. I will mainly use it for short text notes, some funny pictures with commentary (possibly drunken), and other assorted shenanigans.

Check it out here, or bookmark http://popeofchilitown.posterous.com.

I'm gonna level with you, I'm probably going to do most updates while wasted.

What does this mean for this blog? Nothing, except more content. I'll still be writing longer pieces, but I will use the ol' posterous more a more live experience.

Secondly, we will be adding a new weekly feature that I can neglect and not do for weeks, just like Monday Links and Friday Hate. Weekend Video!

I will post a video of two every weekend of funny shit that I enjoy, all for your viewing pleasure.

We've got a big week next week, with the return of Monday links.

Friday Hate: 5/8

Back with another edition of Friday Hate! I know it's been a lonely few weeks, but I've been around the world and back again (okay, only to Texas), so I haven't had much time to update.

But I'm back with a fresh slab of Friday Hate for ye.

I enjoy Dos Equis. It's a step above Corona in my opinion, but not quite as good as Pacifico. What I don't enjoy is their latest ad campaign, "The Most Interesting Man in the World."

First of all, it's clearly a blatant rip-off of the whole Chuck Norris joke thing, and that stopped being funny two years ago.

But it's a good concept, except for one thing: HOW ABOUT YOU MAKE UP A FUCKING NAME?

I mean, seriously. They probably spent millions on this ad campaign, and it comes off like at the last minute, they had their whole story down, and just didn't feel like coming up with a name.

How about, Don Diego, the most interesting man in the world. How about Sergio De Fiere? How about Inigo Montoya? Wait, I think that's taken.

Still, you can't go the extra three feet to the finish line and come up with an exotic sounding name? I came up with two in 30 seconds, and I don't even get paid for this shit.

With the extent they're going all out with this, I find it lazy and insulting that they don't come up with a name for this fucker.

Speaking of the extent they've gone with this guy, I lost a lot of respect when the ads migrated from radio to television.

On the radio, you hear his gravelly, slightly accented voice, and someone like Antonio Banderas comes to mind. A smooth, young latin man that gets the panties dropping.

Then I started seeing this mug on my television:



Who is this old fucker?

It doesn't necessarily have to be some young stud with washboard abs whose half naked all the time, but this dude isn't interesting at all. In fact, I'd be surprised if he could still BM regularly.

And they try to sell him like a James Bond rip off, hanging with mustachioed Fez-wearing people, riding a rubber dinghy with beautiful women and playing jai alai.

All this is supposed to make me forget that this guy probably has a prostate the size of a grapefruit? No thank you.

The last thing that makes me really hate this guy is the quote he uses, "I don't always drink beer, but when I do, I prefer Dos Equis."

Great salesmanship guys. He doesn't only drink Dos Equis, he just prefers it. If there's a Keyston Light in there, he might drink that as well.

Also, way to start out you catchphrase with, "I don't always drink beer," it's not like you're SELLING BEER! Idiots.

Luckily for the folks at Dos Equis, Corona has taken their image a step deeper in the shit with that stupid contrived Kenny Chesney commercial.

He's sitting by himself singing, while everyone else is chasing trim, like they should be, and we're supposed to believe that he's the guy we should buy beer from.

Mexican beer isn't that great anyways, they sell more bottles because of the image they sell rather than the quality, and if they keep up these shitty commercials, they won't even have that going for them.

4/20's Of Yore

If you and I have anything in common, then you know the significance of April 20. No not the yearly neo-Nazi meetings, but the other thing.

The weed smoking.

I was in college when I first discovered the joys of 4/20. My freshman year, it was Easter sunday. Not many people were in town, but I found myself at a friend's house at 4:20 a.m., smoking out of a gas mask. Good times.

But it wasn't until the next year when I really made it count. Sure, I was awake at 4:20 a.m., as usual, although I think I had class at 4:20 in the afternoon. I'm pretty sure I didn't skip it, which boggles the mind, even now.

But I made up for it later. I ended up buying a quarter ounce of some okay stuff, not great, but good for rolling J's. I rolled it into about six joints.

Me and a buddy drove over to someone else's house in my 1999 White Jetta, an efficient German four-door sedan.

Two other people get in the car, we park behind their house so we can't be seen, seal all doors and windows, and we go to fucking town.

We start off with a joint for the front seat and a joint for the back seat. That is a nice start, and it gets pretty smoky in there.

The remaining four J's? Each person got one. By the time we were finished, I couldn't see the person sitting next to me. Literally.

You could hear people, the the music, but for all I knew, I was in a scene from "The Mist."

That's what it was like. It felt like every breath was like taking a bong hit. Good times, good times.

It's the first and only time I have blacked out while smoking when alcohol wasn't also involved.

I remember opening up my sunroof, and watching the smoke pour out. That's about all I remember. I don't remember leaving or going to sleep.

I was hungover the next morning. The smell was on my car for literally weeks. But it's the price you have to pay.

A Sleeping Bag Filled With Soiled Panties and Other Chicanery: Buffett Day 2009

Back again with you all, after almost a two week absence. Of course, due to the glory of timestamping, it will appear that this went up in a timely manner. Because if there's anything I stand for, it's falsehoods for the sake of appearance.

Me and a friend drove to Blacksburg, and got there around 1100. We immediately head to a bar for some drinking. We have some beers and some shots, listen to a band play, and then decide to head to an apartment party, complete with kegs and the chance for glory.

We get there, and hard drinking ensues. In my fraternity, we have a tradition where if you go up to someone and say "to the old lady" anyone within earshot who is holding an alcoholic beverage of some sort must chug it, posthaste.

One hour and about eight "to the old lady"s later, everyone is feeling good. I found myself occupied by a fella with a Chris Paul jersey, and we spent some time drunkenly talking NBA, which has becomes among my favorite non-vagina related things to do at parties.

During my hardwood-related conversation, I managed to miss a fight upstairs, which included someone dropping an n-bomb in a crowd of Afro-Americans.

Taking that as a cue to leave, I got a ride back to the fraternity house, and proceeded to get back to what my degree should say I majored in: foosball.

A brief side note: there is no greater game on this planet than foosball. I like beer pong, horseshoes, flip cup and all those assorted shenanigans, but foosball is you number one seed.

So we play some foosball, and it soon becomes apparent that it's well after midnight, and there is precious little alcohol in the house. And by precious little, I mean a box of Franzia and a few Keystone Lights.

Let's clear something up. I'm 25, on my first job out of college, in the newspaper industry in a slumping economy. So I'm no alcohol snob. But I always thought the days when I would consume Keystone Light, Natty Light, Southpaw and Beast out of cans were well past me.

Except for Beast, I would happily drink any of those out of a keg, but I draw the line somewhere. Unless some strange set of circumstances arises, the cheapest tier of beer I make my purchases from is the Bud Light/Miller Lite/Coors Lite triumvirate.

But it was that or box wine. Warm box wine, on a night where I am already shitfaced. So pour that sweet, sweet, Keystone.

I don't remember much else. I vaguely remember telling a pledge that he was going to be my own personal rimshot, for whenever I dropped a particularly good zinger, and I know I got a ride home at about 5 a.m., which was helpful.

I woke up still drunk, and deep in the hurt locker. I stumbled my way to the bathroom, and something happened there that has never happened to me before. I took a piss, gave the ol' johnson a quick shake, and then came the point where I would usually zip up and walk out.

But as I turned around, my knees buckles, and I slammed the shit out of my face on the bathroom door.

It took me another few seconds to get my balance, and I walk out of the bathroom, then I hear the dude whose couch I passed out on yell something from his bathroom:

"Dude, did you just fall in there?"

"Uhhhh...no. I head that noise too though. Weird."

I stumbled back to my couch and lay down just in time for a full-fledged wave of sweaty nausea to envelop me for a few minutes.

Then it was over, and I could get back to being hungover as shit.

I walked to find my car (it's always in the last place you look), and grabbed a Gatorade and beer for the day.

We all gather at the house, and the beer starts flowing, the horseshoes are clanging, and the cops are called as least a half dozen times. They were cool, but some cunt kept calling, so they kept coming.

Funny story: We all assumed it was this lady that was out doing gardening, and when the cops came the first time, she came over and talked to them. She was out of earshot, but we all assumed that she was talking shit.

So as she was walking away, these dudes that were even farther away started dropping c-bombs, bitches, and all sorts of things. Which would normally be hysterical.

Except for the fact that this lady came over to defend us. She had been out all day, and we weren't bothering her in the least, furthermore, she has always gotten along very well with the people who live at the house.

The rest of the day progressed as planned. We got wasted, and played a number of outdoor games.

As the sun faded away, we decided to move the party to a local sorority house, where I was promised hot sorority sluts as loose as they come.

We bought some kegs and headed over there and played some beer pong. As I was waiting my turn, another Va Tech alumni and I were talking. We were right next to the door to the stairway leading to the girls' bedrooms, and as a girl comes down the stairs, this guy gives me a look.

A look that says, "panty raid."

So I ended up keeping watch (I was not about to go up there and get caught, that's about the worst possible thing that could happen that doesn't involve death), while this gentlemen looked for a few trophies.

He got them without any issues, and then the curiosity got the better of him. One of the chicks that lived there was playing beer pong, and my friend began gently inquiring as to which room she lived in.

"Big place you got here, I bet you have a nice room."

"Oh yeah, I got the master bedroom," she replied.

"That sounds right, I bet you're the queen of this castle. Is that uh...the big room at the far end of the hall?"

She gives him quizzical look, which he is able to explain away by saying he used to live here. Nice.

So we're sitting there, waiting through the longest beer pong game in the fucking world, and some chick stumbles in, fresh from downtown on her 21st birthday.

Hoping to possibly see some titt-ays, me and the panty theif follow her and her friends in the bathroom.

She is talking about how wasted she is with two of her friends, and gradually the suggestion comes in that no 21st birthday is complete with out a good old fashioned titty-flashing.

Which she agrees too. As she is putting down her glass, another friend of mine stumbles into the kitchen like a goddam hurricane, slams into the refrigerator, knocking a stack of cups off of the top of it, and then regains his balance.

He looks around, sees this drunk chick and lets loose with a classic, "SHOW US YOUR TITS, BITCH!!!"

Needless to say, the mood was killed, and no titties were seen. Fucker.

So the night continues, people get drunker, fights break out and fizzle, and me and the panty thief are outside. We're talking about his theft, and I'm trying to convince him to give his wife those panties as a present.

He's trying to convince me that he needs to make a second run, since the two pairs he got (!!) were clean, and he wanted to head to the hamper to get a "less fresh" pair.

Eventually this leads to him confessing that his dream is to be in a zipped up sleeping bag filled with soiled panties. The next morning, we have a long running joke about holding a fun run for Panty Thief (I've made it a proper name now), where chicks could run a 5K, on Phoenix, in August, and then donate their panties they wore during the run to his sleeping bag.

Good times.

Sooner or later we all crash at various places, waking up even more hungover than the day before. I head to my friend's place where three more people are crashing, and we're sitting there, recalling the night before, and bullshitting.

One of my friend's decides the needs to take a shower. Well, we here the shower go on, and immediately spring to action looking for something to throw on him. A box of powdered NesQuik mix does the trick.

That about does it for this year's edition of Buffett Day. Not the most embarrassing for me personally, but hey, I think it provided some good laughs.

Until next time.

I Cry Your Pardon

Apologies for the lack of regular updates, I lost a lot (and I mean A LOT) of brain cells last weekend, which is good news for you once I get to writing.

What isn't good is that I'm in the midst of a hellacious week, so I'm not sure when they will get down.

What is good is that I've got a big trip coming up next weekend, with plenty of drunken shenanigans sure to ensue.

Until then...

Nobody Told Me...

Fill in the blank from the title above.

If you said, "there'd be days like these, strange days indeed." Then you are a fine American (which is ironic because it's from a John Lennon song).

If you said, "that you had a boyfriend that looks like a girlfriend, that I had in February of last year." Then you're slightly less of a fine citizen, but it's still a good tune.

Brilliant musical references aside, the first answer is more appropriate to today's post. What a shitty day. And it's only 10:56 a.m. as I write this.

You ever have one of those days when everything goes wrong from the get go?

I woke up this morning, slightly hungover, and more importantly, late as shit. I didn't set my alarm the night before, so I woke up too late to take a shower.

I don't mind not taking a shower all that much. Sometimes I sleep a little late, or my morning masturbation session runs longer than expected, so I just throw a hat on and roll.

I only wear a hat when I haven't showered and/or hungover.

So that didn't immediately ruin my day. I go to check my phone for missed calls/e-mails, and it's not working. The phone I've had for NINE FUCKING DAYS isn't working.

The touchscreen isn't responding. Super. Don't have time to go to the fucking Verizon store, until maybe this afternoon, if I'm lucky.

I head out to work, and traffic in conspiring against me right away. Look, I live in the D.C. area, I know traffic is supposed to be shitty. But it's one thing when every single slow moving vehicle finds its way in front of my car, while I'm trying to get to work, and stop for breakfast somewhere.

As I'm driving my phone start ringing. It's my boss. Since I'm supposed to be in the office in a mere 15 minutes, I figure its something pretty important, something that can't wait.

But fuck me in the ass, it's not working. I poke my fingers at the screen like a madman, but it won't pick up.

And that's when I get the feeling. That horrible feeling that it's going to just be one of those days. Then that stupid Limp Bizkit song popped in my head, and I wanted to blow my brains out, for the first, but not last time of the day.

Then, while stopped at a traffic light, I try to pour water from this gigantic gallon jug into a smaller bottle that I can take to my office. Of course, I miss, and the water puddles around my groin, making it look like I pissed myself.

If I was anywhere near a goddam bridge abutment, I would have swerved into it.

I finally get to work (late, of course), no breakfast, and we have an early meeting. We lay out the paper, and my stories are getting killed like its a fucking massacre, which I HATE. I like writing, I like my job, but I hate it when my stories get killed. Just a waste of my fucking time. Kind of like this blog.

Anyways, we have our meeting, then its back to work. I'm putting some photos on a CD for somebody, and once it's finished, I take the CD out and prepare to label it.

I reach for my trusty Sharpie, and I left the fucking cap off, and it's all dried out.

That was the last straw. My day officially blows.

I went out to 7-11, got some coffee and something greasy, put a 50 ML bottle of sweet, sweet Kentucky bourbon on the coffee cups, and let pure deliciousness take me away.

Those alcoholics, sometimes they really know the score.