The Louisville Slugger

Everyone has a type. Short, tall, loud, funny, mysterious, smart, cocky, douche canoes--guys come in all shapes and flavors.

I’m attracted to the alpha male, hands down. I’m not into any of that pussy-ass, romantic shit. Make me feel like a woman. Have a little hair on your chest, for chrissakes. Enjoy football. Make fun of people who are less attractive than you. When you get drunk, revert into the Geico caveman and drag me back to your cave. It’s safe to say that I’m more into the loud, "Hey everybody, look how obnoxious I am!" kind of guy. Just a personal preference. Some girls like guys who groom themselves like chicks. To those girls, I say, take em all. You can have all the eyebrow waxing, gelled hair, Affliction wearing douche bags.

All I ask is that you shower, do minor, bi weekly manscaping so that I’m not plucking ball hair from my teeth, watch your mouth in front of my mother, and have a (functioning) weiner.

I felt the need to preface this blog entry with all of that before I introduced you to Will. When I was in the Navy, he was a face in a sea of thousands of seaman. He blended in. Plain and simple. Even though Will and I were in the same (weapons) department, I didn’t notice him because being out to sea on an aircraft carrier is like being in the middle of Alpha Male Heaven (where I can only dream of going when I die). When Will and I were stuck working together during a weapons on load , I decided within the first 6 seconds that I did NOT want to sleep with him. He was really cute, but so quiet and boring. Not my style. At least, not my style sober. For eighteen hours straight we did our job until we weren’t needed anymore and that was that. I never gave him a second thought. Until...

One night at “Brewski’s.” It was the bar off base that was only busy when we came back from out to sea. Being the closest bar to base, and since all of us in the Navy were paid alcoholics, we went there in hordes.
Any other time when we had time to plan out our binging, we went elsewhere because truthfully, the bar sucked. But at times like these--when you’d been without alcohol for months, Brewski’s was like a fucking pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, filled with unicorns and rainbows.

I had been sitting at a table with about ten people from my division when I had to go to the bathroom. When I got back, Will was sitting at our table, in my seat.

Me: Hey twat, you’re going to have to go ahead and get up now.
Will: I think you’re just going to have to find another seat right here. (He starts patting his lap, and is being cheered on drunkenly by the other dudes at the table)

Whoa, I’m thinking. This little quiet guy is showing a little bit of assertiveness, and I’m kind of drunk, and this is kind of hot. As I’m sitting there contemplating my next move, one of the guys yells out, “Tucker, you look constipated!” (Apparently when I’m thinking too hard about something, I look like I’m trying to drop a deuce.)
Instead of facing this situation, I head off to the bar, defeated.

“Double Rumplemintz and Jaegermeister!” I tell the bartender. A voice from behind me says, “Make it two!”
It’s Will. He takes a seat beside me. “You look good out of your uniform, Tucker,” he says directly to my tits.
I am completely perplexed at this point. I try hard to not look constipated as I contemplate my next move.
“Thanks,” I say. He continues to passive aggressive-sexually harass me and I continue to like it. Soon, my “I’m probably going to get some weiner” radar starts going off and by then we are on a one way street to Fucksville. He whispers in my ear that he has a surprise for me. I know almost immediately that this “surprise” he speaks of will be his weiner being introduced to my vagina. I’m down. Let’s do this thing. I lean in to whisper and put my hand on his thigh, only to come in contact with what has to be, no. No that can’t be his dick, man. That has to be, like, a nightstick or something. In my drunken, horny stupor, I actually convinced myself it was a flashlight.

Back in his room, we are making out and pulling clothes off. We fall onto the bed and start the whole eighth grade dry humping bit. At this point we are both wearing just our underwear. Something hard grinds into my hip. In at attempt at humor, I pull a Jim Carey and say, “Your gun is digging into my hip.”

He laughs and slides out of his underwear.
It is at this moment I realize that he did not actually transfer that flashlight from the bar into his boxer briefs. What I was working with was A BIG FUCKING BONER. Don’t get me wrong, big wieners are cool and all, but this was TOO FUCKING BIG. I am immediately awestricken.
“Holy sheep shit, batman! Get out of my face with that thing! Is that a cock implant! You look like John Holmes, holmes!” He laughs away my amazement and continues trying to point his light saber in the direction of my face.
I start shaking my head.

“No sir. No SIR. You really can’t expect me to do ANYTHING with that except maybe use it as a cane. SERIOUSLY!!! You would cause irreversible damage to my vaj! If I ever got pregnant, the baby would literally, just freefall out of my vah-jeen! Think about how traumatizing that would be for the child! And for any other man who sees my vagina again!”

He starts heading downtown on me. I immediately forget about his Louisville slugger sized ween

and get lost in the best thing in the world.
When he (and me) are finished, he has convinced me into ATTEMPTING to try to return the favor.
I hate to be graphic, but I seriously can’t even do it. I can’t even get it in my mouth. I give up with a defeated slurp. I feel like a failure.
I look up at him. “I’m sorry. I really am. I CAN’T DO IT.”
He settles for a half hearted hand job. I feel completely retarded doing those. I never feel like I’m doing it right and my hand always gets tired.
Afterwards, we are lying in his bed.

Me: Seriously, Will. I’m sorry.

Will: Don’t be. Alls well that ends well, right?

Me: Yeah, but… I feel like I ended uh, better than you.
Will: You are not the first girl who was too afraid to take the dick, Tucker.

I feel better knowing other girls valued their nu-nu’s as much as I did.

As soon as I got into work the next day I told everyone about it. My guy friends who had seen me leave with him had actually made bets on how bowlegged I would be walking that morning. Apparently everyone knew about this Louisville Slugger except me.

Which leads me to my “Big Dick” Theory.
The bigger the dick, the quieter they are. A guy with a big dick won’t ever actually feel the need to discuss the size or tell you how he’s going to harm your vaj. I’ve actually had guys tell me they are going to “Beat the pussy up”, “Tear the pussy up,” and other phrases like that that DO NOT EVER TURN GIRLS ON AND ACTUALLY SOUND QUITE TRAUMATIZING, only to pull down their pants and reveal the some of the most pathetic dicks I’ve ever seen.

So, in my own humble opinion, and experience, the bigger the dick, the quieter they are. They don’t need to impress you with their alpha male behavior. They have a fucking baseball bat in their pants.
Kind of like the guy who drives a super nice car. What exactly are you compensating for, man?

Will and I are still good friends today.
A couple of times after that night, I would see him at the bar and say, “Tonight’s the night. I’m gonna conquer my fears and we’re gonna bone,” only to go home with him and chicken out every time.

After this happened about three times he would call me on my bullshit and put my hand on his weiner at the bar to remind me of what dangers lurked underneath the denim. “Oh right,” I would say. “Nevermind.”

Garbagemen and disposable cameras

The first day I got to Washington state for the Navy, I was put in a barracks because the ship was out to sea and wouldn't be back for another two weeks.

During the day we had to wake up, report to muster, and basically go back to sleep until 7 am the next day, where we would do it all again.

It was me and about 12 other kids --and if you've ever been in the military or know someone who has, basically that means a fucking bingefestival. You don't know anyone, you have this mildly retarded haircut thats still growing out from bootcamp, and you actually have a little money in your pocket.

The agonizing question of what to buy with said money is really not agonizing at all. Alcohol! We had two weeks of freek-dom and we were going to party hardy.

The first night at the "gazebo" (where all the cool kids smoked) I met B the garbageman. That wasn't really his title. All I know is that months later when we were out to sea, he was the ships fucking garbageman. His job everyday was sorting 5000 peoples trash to make sure nothing that didnt belong in the ocean got dumped. If that is not a FML, I dont know what is. But, back to the story.
B and I hit it off and *surprise, wait for it* ......

we slept together. A lot.

It actually turned into about a 2 month long gettingiton-ship. It could not be called a relationship. No dates, and the only time we talked about "us" and "feelings" was when we were schwasted.
One night, a bunch of us decided to go out to Seattle, just a 20 minute ferry ride away. B, two of his friends (one named BUCK) and one of my friends make the trek. Before leaving, B and I had gone in Albertsons and bought a 2 pack of those disposable Kodaks. (Yes, it was 2004, but digi cams were (and still are) a liability for me)

(side note: The word FUN should be removed from this packaging. And replaced with "Life Ruining")

We were going to see who could take the funniest, weirdest, most fucked up pictures. In hindsight, maybe an identifying mark on the camera would have saved each of us a lot of humiliation. Maybe if I had scratched a small S on the corner of mine, or a B on his, for when they were both tossed into my purse later. Maybe some precautionary measures. The beauty of hindsight.

What was supposed to be a promising night of $2 dollar you-call-its and meaningless sex with my fuck buddy turned super lame, super fast. Have you ever had one of those nights where you just can't get there, and when you're not drunk, all the people around you look incredibly retarded and you know if you dont get out of there and into your bed you're going to start punching babies and killing unicorns? Thats how I was feeling. My girlfriend, B's friend Dusty and I got into a cab.

B asked me if I would be waiting for him when he got back.

I looked up at him, with his gelled hair, damp shirt, (dancing machines sweat a lot) and one silver loop earring in his ear that he had to take off back on base because it was against the rules (rebel), and the finishing touch, his B tat slightly visible from his partially unbuttoned shirt. Let me elaborate on the tat. His name started with a B (duh). Everyone called him B. Thats it. Like Madonna kind of, but not one name, just one letter. This tattoo was the very same BEE from the Mickeys 40 oz brand. The fucking bumblebee or whatever the shit it is. How clever dude. A fucking bee on your tit.
(ps. I CANT BELIEVE I FOUND THIS PICTURE! Its not actually him, but to know that some other dumb toolbag in the world has this shit on their body... It amazes me. But yes. Aforementioned tattoo on the tit.)

me: "No. Not tonight. Sorry."

B and I fizzle out a couple of weeks after that.

******Fast forward to 3 months later

I am at a keg party in Silverdale, WA with the guy I actually ended up in a "relationship" with for almost 3 years. It is one of our first dates. My cell rings and it is Albertsons letting me know I have a roll of film waiting to be picked up. It had been there for months and i'd forgotten about it.
I ask Mr. O to accompany me to the store and pick them up. (It seemed like a good idea at the time)
When we get there its about 9 pm and there arent many people in the store. There are 5 employees behind the photo counter looking at pictures when we walk in. When they spot me and O striding over, the scatter like cockroaches.

"I'm here to pick up some photos? You guys called me?" I give them my last name. The employees who scattered are still watching us like hawks.
Photo lady: Oh YES! WE HAVE YOUR PICTURES!

I dont know what to think about her enthusiasm. I mean, the camera was filled up with shots of me and the people from the Seattle night. At the bar. Yes, the goal from the night we got the cameras was "crazy pictures", but I dipped early. Nothing crazy happened. I decide that this bitch was pissing me off.

me: Well, that is fantastic. Can I look at them first please?
She shoves them over to me. O is standing behind me trying to get a look because everyone's reactions have him more than a little curious.
The first 15 or 20 are "normal." Shots of us before the bar, shots of us taking shots at the bar, etc. It is when I get to shot 21 things start looking fucking weird. Its B and Buck posing with a black man who is trying very hard to look like a woman. They are in a parking deck. Weird, I think. Must have happened after we left them that night.

But I keep browsing. The next one is just B and the black dude.

The next one is... HOLY SANTA CLAUS SHIT! B's D is in that guys M! WTF!

He is seriously being fellated by this black dude... and Buck, fucking BUCK IS TAKING PICTURES OF IT! Pictures 23-27 were B getting head. From this black dude. With Buck taking pictures of it. My face is burning hot. I start stammering. O is behind me still, but slowly backing away.

Me: These are not mine!
Lady: Oh honey, we get that all the time! Its okay what you do in private!
Me: No shit, they are not mine. I realize it looks bad that i'm in most of these pictures, but this guy had the same camera as me, and they must have gotten switc---
I realize my story looks very bull-shitty. The lady is giving me this smile that is pissing me off because for some reason she thinks I look like the type of girl who photographs gay interracial dick sucking in my spare time.

I pay for the pictures and leave.

I explain the whole situation to O, who actually knows B, and we head back to the party. I could not just sit on this information. It was like someone had told me where Hoffa's body was found. I HAD TO SCREAM IT FROM THE HILLTOPS!

When we got back, O and I were like little highschool girls showing everyone who would look the pictures. People were even taking pictures OF THE PICTURES with their cell phones. It got out of control.

That Monday, back on the ship, O and I are in the smoke pit when fucking B walks in. B and I were not really friendly but we didnt hate each other. He walks over to me and bums a lighter. I'm looking incredibly smug. I'm trying to read his face to see if he's heard yet. Nothing.

I want to bust out in song about his gaycapades but instead I remain calm.

"I think we got our cameras mixed up."

It takes him a minute to remember, but I see the flash of recognition in his eyes.
B: I still have yours. We can trade back.
Me: Yeah, about that. I developed yours.

O chimes in at this point: EVERYONE SAW DUDE!
B glares at me for what seemed like an eternity. O is laughing. B never spoke another word to me after that. But, seriously, what could he say?

"Sorry, S, I was going to sleep with you that night, but since you shot me down, I went to the next best thing, a black man dressed like a woman in a parking deck."
I ruined B's chances of ever getting any pussy on or near that ship for years to come.

Sorry dude. Maybe next time give it a little thought before you decide to photo-document your gay black prostitute experience.

A couple of questions remain unanswered to this day:
1. What the fuck.

2. Was money exchanged?

3. WHY WAS BUCK TAKING PICTURES OF IT! (Kiddies, if you're going to do something illegal, offensive, foul or nasty, dont take fucking pictures of it. Seriously. Someone like me will find them. Thats just how the universe works.)

4. and lastly, What the fuck?

Mushroom sex, Corky, and the Homeless Dude

Seattle. I had some really awesome times when I lived there.

Some of the best people I know still live there, and I try to visit about twice a year. On my last visit, I was crashing with some friends. It was my last night there and we were planning to get all kinds of fucked up. We had started drinking at about 2 in the afternoon.

I was puking by 6 pm, but my motto is, puke it up so you can drink more. I adhere to a strict drinking code. I don't play.

We hit up Club Medusas around 11. Its kind of got a Vegas club feel. The lights and smoke were kind of interferring with the 4 or 5 ritalins i'd just snorted, I was actually feeling a little tweeked out, but I decided to go with it anyway because hey, it was my last night. I was treating it like a bachlorette party or something, like this was my last "hoorah."

Around closing time, I feel someone standing behind me. A creepy presence. In hindsight, Should I have gone with my gut and walked away? Absofuckinglutely.

But who am I to turn down some potential ding dong? There are starving kids in Africa, for godssake!!!I decide to turn around and give this guy the once over.

I am NOT dissapointed. He is not sporting gelled hair, which, most of the time, is an immediate disqualifier. He has on decent clothes. I do a quick croc check. Okay, we're good in that department too. He starts turning on the charm. I'm using his name as I have no clever nickname for him.

Josh: What's up.
Me: You tell me.
Josh: When I saw you walk in, I got a boner.

Wow. I didnt mean for him to LITERALLY tell me what was up, but he took it there. And thats just the kind of romantic shit I love. Swept right off my feet with the boner comment. I tell my friends I will be accompanying Josh to his apartment a couple of blocks over.

Josh and I are having trouble keeping our clothes on on the short walk back to his pad. We've been doing the sloppy gross make out thing. Its time.to.bone.yo. We proceed to have some pretty amazing sex. I can't say a bad word about it. During the sex Josh tells me he's been eating mushrooms. He is saying some crazy shit, for example, he keeps screaming, FRESH!! which I overlook, because if eating mushrooms make you fuck like that then I am highly recommending a mushroom diet to any guy i've ever slept with. And I will overlook any verbal faux pas. I'm sweaty at the end of it. And its fucking COLD in Seattle. We both pass out pretty naked in his bed.
Like I said, I had snorted some ritalin earlier because of the whole puking incident, and I wasn't really sleeping very soundly, even after the punishment Josh had just unleashed on my vah-jean.
Plus, I dont ever sleep as well as I would in my own bed, and seeing how it was 3600 miles away, I was making due. I again awoke to the creepy feeling of someone being in the room. Josh was behind me, with one delicious tattooed arm thrown over me. But this was a feeling of someone else being in the room. I look over Josh's shoulder. Oh.Shit.

There is someoene else in the room. Sitting in a computer chair. I'm flashing back, trying to remember surveying my surroundings when I walked, or tumbled into the room, but I can't. I start poking Josh. He is OUT. I call out to the "dude."

Hey, dude. DUDE.
The dude thing is so stoic, I'm almost thinking, maybe it's like, a statue or something.

He is not answering me. I am actually scared shitless at this point. Like, Okay. Did Josh transfer some mushrooms, into me or something? Is this real? He finally starts coming to.

Josh: What? Hmm? Wha?
Me: (in a whisper) There is someone in your computer chair!
Josh sits straight up and starts screaming at the guy. "What the fuck Bob!??? How many times do I have to tell you that shit isn't fucking cool????" The dude, who I now know to be, Bob, starts making some familar sounds. Like, I dont know how else to say it, but um, down syndrome sounds. Josh flicks on the lamp and the dude runs out like, fucking QUICK.

My eyes are wide as hell at this point. I look at Josh.
Josh: That was my uncle. He's retarded. Not in the mean way, like, he really is.
Me: What the fuck was he doing in here!
Josh: He likes to watch people sleep.
Me: That's not retard behavior. That's serial killer behavior.
Josh: He can't help it.
I'm having overall issues on a couple of things. 1. How many times has this happened. 2. Why does his uncle live there, when it was pretty clear from his general demeanor, that he should probably be in a home, and 3. HOW LONG WAS HE IN THERE.

Josh is like, totally cool about this whole thing. I am not cool with it, because I don't know HOW LONG he was actually in there. Like, did Corky from Life Goes On just watch me get dealt with?

I am suddenly stone cold sober and I need to get the fuck out of there. I'm pulling on my clothes almost faster than Josh got them off. I know where the ferry station is, only I am so flustered at the time that I fail to remember they don't run after 12 am. I reach into my back pocket. Cell phone. Check. FUCK. No purse. All my cash, debit card, everything I needed was in there. On my walk there, after trying my friends about 30 times, I remember from living in Seattle that the Ferry station would be my safest bet, as there were other people there and it was already 4 am, I wouldnt have to wait long for it to resume service. I take a seat near the stairs. It's fucking cold out. I decide to start acting crazy, as its very obvious to me all of the other people who are inhabiting this fucking ferry station have lost their fucking minds, or are well on the way there, at least.

I am mumbling to myself. Mostly cuss words. I start trying to throw in some chinese so I can use that excuse if anyone tries to talk to me. That sounded like a good idea at the time to me. You know, because I am chinese and all.

About an hour into it, 2 fucking wanna be gangsters walk up to me. Seriously, I want you to know, they were probably 15. I was not even scared of being approached by them.

"Hey girl. You wanna get a hotel room or something? We got cash." (really, just like that.)
"Jing ching xu habla english." (Who says I couldnt be like, spanish and chinese ya know?)

One of them tells me, "Hey you're American, girl. Speak American."

I tell them I have AIDS.
Although it does make them walk away, one of them hesitates, which leads me to believe, okay, the straggler probably DOES have AIDS. Maybe he was hoping we could create some kind of super strand together.

I am resting my head on my knees when the black gentleman sitting beside me starts shoving newspaper in my direction. I look at him like he is shoveling shit at me. He is obviously not a resident of a home. Aka homeless.

"If you stuff it in your jacket, you will stay a little warmer." I am guessing he noticed me shivering.

This was just, the last thing I wanted to hear. None of my friends could answer their goddamed cell phones, I had just done a walk of shame before it was even daylight, and OH THATS RIGHT, fucking Forrest Gump had just spied on me for I dont know how long.

"Are you trying to give me some fucking handy homeless tips, man??? I'm not homeless, motherfucker! Do you see this jacket??? It's ESCADA. I have a cell phone! And a debit card! Don't fucking talk to me!" He looked at me for about 6 seconds before saying,

"You still cold aintcha... bitch."

And yes. I was cold.

About 10 minutes later I got a call from Josh who asked me if I was fucking retarded for walking to the ferry station by myself. I shit you not, he used those words.

The irony of that statement was not lost on me.

Cuddles and the Bloody Shirt

Anc-whores away!

I did a stint in the UNITED STATES NAVY. Some of my best misadventures come from The good old Carl Vinson, CVN-70.. the aircraft carrier I was stationed on. Or, "Cell Block 70 as we so lovingly called it.
I'll be blogging all my navy/drunken misadventures following this. I've tapped a pretty good resource with the navy stories. Moving along..

There are a couple of things that change for a woman when she enters the military. You are automatically elevated at LEAST three points. If you are a 5 in real life, in the Navy, you're an 8. The pickings are slim. I'm not kidding. On the ship, I used to rack next to a bitch that made old Gollum here look like Megan Fox. It was like this, If I said, "Hey, would you rather do Gollum or the bitch that I racked next to, it would be SO easy for you to pick Gollum. No hesitation.










I'm not conceited in the least, but when I was in the Navy I had a fucking EGO problem. I could have any guy I wanted! It was only when we'd go out to "real" bars i'd get shot down, and taken back to reality.. (unless the civilian hottie was really drunk... in that case, well, you know the rest.)

Okay, the three point rule.. well multiply that shit by 5 when you're out to sea. Case in point:

I deployed with Cuddles in August. I was repulsed by Cuddles. It was well known that Cuddles had a crush on me. I was NOT having that shit. In September, I was laughing at Cuddles jokes. By October, me and Cuddles decided that when we hit port in December, we'd grab a beer. In December, we hit said port, and Cuddles hit it.




When you're walking off the brow of the ship, it's pretty ridiculous. Guys you've been out to sea with are seeing you for the first time out of your utilities or coveralls and without grease on your face. You're basically a boner magnet.

Me and Cuddles and a couple of other guys in my division hit up some bars in Thailand. We're throwing ridiculous amounts of liquor back. (Wait, thats not really different, so I'll just say, "We we're drinking like I normally do.)
Being a minority (a woman) in the military, these guys were like my brothers. Well, brothers that I occasionally got drunk and boned. So, sometimes, I was forced to go to titty bars. This wasn't exactly a titty bar. It was more like a, "We are all hookers here. Everyone knows it, everyone is cool with it. Buy me drinks and rets go fuck, you pay me, me ruv roo rong time" kind of a bar.

A couple of us notice that one of our buddies, Airman ILovePussy has been basically all-but-fucking this chick for about an hour. On further inspection, those of us not as wasted as Airman ILP realize that his "chick" has an adam's apple. The guys are laughing. After about five minutes, we come to a decision to tell him. Who knows what he would do if he found a boner, right? ILP had a short fuse.

US: Hey. You should probably quit making out with that dude, and maybe find ....a chick.
ILP: IT IS A CHICK!
(note, he's referring to it as a chick, subconsciously.)
US: Definitely not a chick. Maybe wants to be a chick, but failed to get the "trach-shave." Not a chick.

































Transexual surgery where they can actually shave down the adams apple, to fool even those trained with a "your vagina feels an awful lot like a weiner that has been fashioned to look like a vagina" radar.")

This went on for a while. ILP ignores us.

We all go our seperate ways. Meaning, all of my other guy friends went with the Thailand hookers, Cuddles and I went back to the hotel.
I throw months of pent up frustration sex vibes at Cuddles. He comes over to the bed.

Cuddles: Can I kiss you?
I fucking hate this shit. Be a man. TAKE CHARGE MOTHERFUCKER. Are you kidding me? READ THE SIGNS YOU ASS HAT. If i'm in a hotel room, alone with you, and drunk.... what do you think? Yes. Kiss me. Kiss my va-jean with your boner. NOW.
I am slightly turned off by Cuddles romantic gestures. Brushing hair out of my face. Intertwining his fingers with mine. No. Cuddles wants to make love. I just want to get laid. Making love is for douche canoes, or people in relationships (which i'm currently not in, so I can hate on it as much as I want to!)

Cuddles precedes to sex me into boredom. I've assumed the dead fish position. Meanwhile he is trying to look into my eyes. I think I taste throw up. Cuddles says, "Are you going to.. you know.. soon?"

Seriously? You cant even say 'cum'? While we're boning? Wow! Dirty talk is awesome, and you want to ask me if i'm going to, you know soon?"

me: Nope.
Cuddles: Why? What's wrong?
me: Do you want me to be honest? Or.. do you want me to lie?
Cuddles is still thrusting away while we're having this conversation. I can see him weighing the pros and cons. I was about to straight up kill his self esteem but I decide I can't do it. He was a nice guy.
me: I feel sick. Like, diarrhea sick.

Cuddles' boner shrivles into nothingness. (It wasn't much past 'nothingness' to begin with)

I always use diarrhea as my "plan b." The mere mention of it can end sex just.like.that. I don't recommend it unless you're in a situation as dire as mine, and KNOW without a REASONABLE doubt that you will never ever be sleeping with, or WANT to sleep with this person again.

As we are drifting off, ILP, who was staying in the hotel room with us, busts into the room. He is sweaty and out of breath. Not to mention, hes sporting serious blood stains.

He precedes to tell us this:

"So I go back to this fucking, fuck house, or something with-- that thing. I've felt up everything on her---I mean.. him.. In the bar! You guys saw me! I kept trying to get my hands in the panties, but it wouldn't let me. So i'm thinking.. Ok, this hooker is playing hard to get, kind of.. not what they are supposed to do at all, a little off putting, but its okay. I'm willing to accept what I can get right now you know???"
We are staring at him. He notices we are gazing at the blood stain(s).

"Oh, you're probably wondering why i'm bloody. I'll get to that. Just listen."
Cuddles is pinching my leg really hard. I look at him and see real fear in his eyes. Not surprising for a dude who's just fucking, made love to me like we're celebrating our 50th wedding anniversary.

"So anyway, she takes me back to this fuck house. Or whatever its called when hookers all live in the same house. I have already fingered her ass! My fingers, this finger, and THIS FINGER.. were in her, his, ASS! He punches the wall. Like he's trying to punish his hand. For being in a dudes butt. (He ended up breaking his hand)

"We go up to her room. She goes down on me for a second. I pull her back up because at this point the memories from the bar are flooding back, and i'm thinking.. wait.. what if they are right? What if its a dude? Am I gay right now? So to make a long story short. It was a dude. I'm going to sleep."

He strips off the bloody shirt.

Cuddles: Well, how did you find out, physically that it was a dude?
ILP: I dont know what gave it away. The balls, or holy sheep shit batman! the boner taped to its leg. It was a tough call but in the end, it was definitely the boner that made my mind up.
Cuddles: What the fuck did you do to it? That's a lot of blood!
ILP: Ahh, fuck off. Some of it is mine. That bitch fought back. Apparently not her--his first rodeo. I got some good hits in. You'd be pissed too, you shitstain! I was (he shudders) kind of gay tonight.
Cuddles: Kind of?
ILP: DUDE. Shut the fuck up.

Cuddles left well enough alone. ILP could have broken his ass in two. Which, was kind of hot. ILP had just been gay with a dude, then beat the dude up.

I bet he takes charge in bed, I thought to myself. Unlike the sad sack of shit I was laying next to. I'm now laying beside a guy who thinks I have bubble guts, and i'm fantasizing about the bloody dude next to us that has just beaten up a shemale and has dude-ass funk on his fingers. Fuck my life.

Cuddles and I had major "awkwardness" after the Thailand trip.

ILP beat at least 5 people up in as many months because word got out regarding his gaycapades.

Thongmasters, brakechecks, and miracles of biblical proportions.

So I have a first (and last) date with this guy who i'm gonna call "The Thongmaster."

We met at Oasis.
He & I had talked for about three weeks before actually going on a date, and we got along like it was our job. I'm talking 5, 6 hour long conversations. I was into him. I spent all day getting ready for this date.

Date time comes. He picks me up around 6, and the plan is to head to dinner at Surin. Ok, so he isn't exactly as cute as I remember.. but.. he'll do.

In the car, i'm so nervous. I start making really awkward, rambling conversation. When this fails, I go to plan B.... and I decide to let him hear a mildly racist, possibly offensive ringtone that I had gotten that day from a mildy racist, always offensive friend. (I know how to keep it classy!)

To understand it, you need to see it. He heard the audio of what you are about to watch.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gSVZ3-LRaWU

ps. You have to listen to the audio, or you won't understand the rest of the blog.

We had a good laugh about it. We talked about speech impediments. He made me play it for him three times.
Once we got to the restaurant, I was still feeling those first date jitters and said to myself, "Self, it's time to silence these jitters FOR GOOD. Down the hatch!" I popped a xanax and I started to drink. A LOT of wine. He drank two glasses. We had three bottles. That put me at about... oh, I dont know.. drunk.

Needless to say, I was shithoused and it wasnt even 8 p.m. But, the date was actually going well (I thought). We were laughing (in hindsight, I was laughing.. a lot.. loudly) and making good conversation. He noticed the bracelet I was wearing. Its just a plain old orange and brown wooded bracelet that I love more than a human baby. No big deal.
I had told him earlier in the week that said bracelet was broken.

Thongmaster: "Ahhh, you got your bracelet fixed!"

Me: "Yeah! My grandmother restrung it for me!"

TM: "Oh, so you're telling me she "wiggle-rigged" it."

At this, I laugh. What a clever, snarky date I have. I get it. He's going with the ringtone... he's substituting wiggle for.... something else.. hardee har har.
Ok, all I wanted to do here, was simply--repeat what he said. But apparently, large amounts of wine and and a prescription anti anxiety pill do NOTHING to stop mouth diarrhea. NOTHING. my attempt at "repeating" went something like this:

Me: "Yeah, she NIGGER WIGGLED it!"

I don't know about you, but when I drink, my internal default volume goes up. A lot. I often get asked, "Why are you screaming?" even when I did not, in fact, think I was screaming. So I had just screamed Niggerwiggle in a restaurant. A crowded restaurant. With our black waiter. And the nice black patrons sitting beside me (on the bench seat, mind you).
Every head in the place jerks our way. Its like the moment in the movie where the loser/bad boy/people who were banned from the prom walk into the party and the record scratches to a stop.

Thongmaster is horrified. He is from up north. What I had just done (and what i'll later find out) is the DEALBREAKER.
I don't get embarrassed. I just don't have it in me. But I WAS HUMILIATED. So what else to do? I start laughing uncontrollably. I can't stop. I'm crying tears and convulsing. I have my head down on the table.

Thongmaster: "We gotta go. Now."

I don't say anything. I watch him slam some cash down on the table and I grab my purse. He is pulling me by my arm like i'm a disobedient child. I let him.

We move on to part II of the evening. I am in the passenger seat drunk dialing friends (at 8 pm) and saying, "GUESS WHAT JUST FUCKING HAPPENED TO ME? I JUST SAID NIGGER IN FRONT OF A ROOM FULL OF PEOPLE!"
I call my dad to tell him. He is impressed. (Pleasant Grove, google it.)

Thongmaster is not amused. Nonetheless, he is not driving in the direction of my house, but towards Workplay. A friend who worked there had put us on the list. I see my cousin there and am introduced as her, "Big titted, black haired cousin." Funnily enough, the cousin that is introducing me is also big titted, and black haired. But, I digress.

I can see that Thongmaster is experiencing mild culture shock.

We stay for the show, and yes, more wine. Everytime Thongmaster takes a drink, I challenge him to "race me." He looks at me like i'm crazy, but I eventually wear him down.

He finally starts to get on my level. Cabernet Sauvignon is not really made to be chugged, but we chugged like champions. Well, we "raced." Haha. I talk him into going to Martys.

We sit at the end of the bar. I end up sitting next to a guy with a wheelchair with more controls on in than the Star Trek Enterprise. I want to touch one of those buttons so bad. Everytime Thongmaster gets up to go to the bathroom, the crip hits on me relentlessly. I try to be nice at first, I really do. I fail.

Crip: You know, not all of me is paralyzed.

Me: DUDE. No. Are you trying to tell me your dick still works?

Crip: No, but my tongue does!

He sticks out his tongue, through the v of this middle and pointer finger, and wiggles it from side to side. I throw up in my mouth a little bit.











Everytime Thongmaster comes back, the cripple completely ignores me. I wonder if i'm imagining it. After about 30 minutes, wine and whiskey have made me forget about the man in the wheelchair. That is, until the motherfucker stands up and starts walking towards the bathroom. My mouth diarrhea starts flaring up again. I jump out of my seat.

"WHAT THE FUCK! EITHER THAT GUY IS A FUCKING LYING SACK OF UNPARALYZED SHIT, OR JESUS JUST PERFORMED A MIRACLE.. in martys!"

Thongmaster pulls me back down into my seat. "Shhhhh." He is petting my hair like i'm a hyperactive kid in church. He's HAMMERED. His hands are wandering (not smoothly) from my hair to my boobs. In public. I know what is on his mind, but I had other things to think about first.

I look over at the empty chair. Why is this guy not doing fucking cartwheels? I have convinced myself no one could be as pathetic as to lie about being in a wheelchair, so i'm pretty sure i've witnesssed a miracle. And the crip is playing it totally cool! Like, "Hey, cool, I can walk. I'm gonna go take a leak." (or a shit, judging on how long he'd been gone. But then again, maybe he was getting used to the walking feeling? Nevertheless, he was kind of, UNexcited about walking.)

I can resist the urge no longer and I start pushing buttons on his starship control pad.





The wheelchair starts bouncing up and down like a fucking mexican's car in Compton. This mother fucker had hydraulics on it or something. It falls over.

The thongmaster and I hightail it out of there. He heads towards his house. Immediately, I'm thinking, YES! I'm about to get.it.on! I look over at him. One of his eyes has gone kind of lazy. And I was okay with it.

Unfortunately, the sexin' was uneventful. It wasn't bad... but it sure as hell wasn't good. I think I fell asleep a couple of times. I just know that I woke up naked and one part of my hair extensions had come out. And I had on one sock. Which is odd, because I didnt have socks on that night. I got up and puked (loudly) in his bathroom.

Thongmaster: Hey hey... wakey wakey!
Me: Gotta get to my house... have to work in 45 minutes..

My mouth tastes like someone rolled some shit logs around in the sand, then dumped them directly onto my tongue.

Thongmaster does not look as good as he did last night. As we're getting dressed, I can't find my phone. He offers to look in the bed for me. I'm standing there at the end of the bed, while he is shaking the sheets out. I'm hit in the face by something he slingshotted in my direction. Some black thongs.

Thongmaster: Hey, you forgot something!

I stick some fingers in my waistband. Hmmm. I have on MY panties. Thongmaster had just shot some panties that did not belong to me, IN MY FACE.

Me: Yeah. Those aren't mine.

He starts trying to make up some excuses (that I actually cared nothing about). I had a hangover that was worse than the childbirth experience. We ride in silence to my house.

On the way home, he brake checks me. Hard. My head hits the dash. He laughs uncontrollably. I start laughing too, because there was nothing else left to do. I let a silent fart before I get out of his car.

Thongmaster: Alright, talk to you later!

He's still chuckling about the brakecheck and my subsequent head injury.
Me: SBD, motherfucker!

He doesnt get my silent but deadly reference at first, but I know that he did, after about 10 seconds because he sent me a text message saying, "ok, I deserved that."

The Manhole & The Vietnam Vet in the Club

I am like a fucking human smuggler when it comes to getting alcohol inside a concert. Seriously, it doesnt matter how big the bottle is, I can either fit it into my pants or shirt. A flask is the preferable size of course, because depending on how tight my jeans are, it usually fits right in front if you know what i'm sayin! However, I often resort to the flask taped to the leg measure, if the situation calls for it.

We all decided we didn't want to pay ridiculous amounts for drinks inside the Boil (or the Crawfish Boil, as we Birminghamians so lovingly refer to it), so we made a stop at the liqour store. I went in. I had been pregaming...pretty hard. My mission was to get a bottle of vodka. I got a bottle of .. clear stuff. I remember looking at it, and saying, Yep, this looks like vodka. Lets roll.

I get in the car. The plan was to take shots on the way there and pour the rest in a flask. I had gotten Gin on accident (hey.. both clear). This should have been an omen that everything was going to go wrong that night, but we manned up and consumed it anyway. It is FUCKING DISGUSTING to shoot gin. If you asked me to shoot a whole bottle in under ten minutes with three other people today, I would laugh in your face. But we did it. And we were HOUSED. For the reason, I can't tell you anything significant happened, because most of the time, we were propped up against each other drooling and yelling what sounded like Korean.

DF's military boyfriend was the worst of us all and we decided he had.to.go. We're walking along the streets of Birmingham to the car. I have a video camera. There is a guy walking in front of us, who, I thought, was worse off. Later, as in, seconds later, I would find out this was not the case. I am taping him, not watching my feet, because I am looking through the viewfinder.

Me: Look at that drunk bastard!

The camera pans to blackness. All you can hear, if you watch the tape today, are voices. Voices that sound a lot like voices laughing. Why? Because the camera has fallen into a manhole. So have I. I fell in tit-deep to this manhole (where was the fucking cover!) with one leg up, cheerleader style. I am not fucking limber. People are stopping. It takes 5 guys to hoist me from this manhole. Meanwhile, i'm losing blood at an alarming rate.

I'm yelling, "Moving along, people! Nothing to see here, you fucking fucks!"

Incredibly, we make it back to the car. I'm sure it was a sight to see. I'm hobbling along leaving a trail of blood like a fucking goonie from the Hills Have Eyes. It's awesome.

We get DFs BF back to the hotel. We wait until he is passed out to leave. For some reason, we thought a commando style crawl, on our elbows and knees, was the only way to escape the hotel room. Looking back, we could have just, i dont know, walked out... but, I digress.

So we're all three drunkenly crawling towards the door, once we reach the threshold, we actually roll out of it, Mission Impossible style. They have rolled into my blood. We are now all three bloody. It doesn't stop us.

(You didn't think we cut into our party time by showering, did you?)

An old couple is walking towards their room. The lady sees me and backs against her husband, mouth agape.
I do a loud screech and skip kind of thing in her direction. We continue walking. There is a good possibility that the lady shit in her linen pants.

We make it to Tiki Bobs. We went there so often, we knew the owner, never paid for a drink, and never waited in line. We pulled the car up to the curb and got out. The owner is standing outside surveying the crowd when he sees us.

Owner: OH MY SHIT! What happened to you girls?
me: We got mugged, man.

I had deduced that instead of owning up to being owned by a fucking manhole, I would go the "hero" route.
The owner stares in stunned silence.
me: Yeah, I dove on top of them when we got shot at, hence, the leg wound.

He doesnt suggest a hospital, which was probably a good idea. Instead, he says, "Come on in, I'll fix you right up." He hands me a plethera of pills and tapes my leg up. But not with first aid supplies, mind you. He makes some gauze out of some prison ply toilet paper and tapes it on with BLUE PAINTERS TAPE. The wound goes from my calf to the top of my leg. I am wearing a mini skirt. Dried blood is all over me, DF, and Firecrotch. I look down at my battle dressing. "Yes, this will do."

I walk out into the crowd. Here are a few things I heard.

"She got bit by a fucking lion or something!"
"I heard she saved her friends lives!"
"Did she get off the plane from Vietnam and come straight here, or what?"

None of this bothers me. I am a drunk, high, hot-mess and I want to get more of that, immediately. The pills he gave me are making me feel all warm and lovey. A guy starts dancing with me. He is oblivious to my wound, I came to find out, but I thought he was just being nice. He's cute. We decide to leave together.

Once we are back at his house, we are both passing out while making out. We decide to go to sleep. (by "decide" I mean, we both passed out simultaneously)

When I wake up in the morning, I feel a warm sensation on my leg. "Oh fuck," I think. "We have a cuddler." As i'm pondering how to get out of this situation without having to chew my arm off, I look down. It is not a cuddler. It's this guys huge bull mastiff dog. Licking my wound!

The toilet paper has disintegrated into these little blood balls, all over his nice, soft, white sheets. There is a ball of blue tape with dried blood on it. I try to manuever my stiff leg away from the dog. He growls and sinks his teeth in a little.

SHIT.
This dog is all about my wound. He is eating that shit out. Do I let the dog keep licking it? What if dude wakes up, and thinks I like it? I figure my only option is to wake him up.

me: Hey. Dude. Wake up. Your dog...

him: himmm (he starts poking me with the ever familar morning boner)

me: GET.YOUR.DOG.OFF.MY.LEG.

him: What's Lucky doing to your le-----

I watch his face register the carnage. The bloody toilet paper balls. The blue tape. The dog, straight up fellating my leg.

him: WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED????? DID MY DOG DO THAT?

He looks terrified. I realize he probably didnt even notice my battle wound last night. I decide to fuck with him.

me: We got mugged.

him: Who?? WE DID?? As in you & me? WHEN?!?!?!

He is checking his wallet now. Pockets, etc.

me: Yep. I dove on top of you when they started shooting at us. That's why my leg is so fucked up.

Needless to say, we do not get it on. He takes me to my house. We sit in awkward silence for a minute.

Him: So, um. Thanks for saving my life.
Me: Anytime. Anytime, really.

I'm a hero.

Gutter Slut and the Stud, a la Beauty & The Beast

So its common knowledge, if you read my blog, that my friend Shine & I joined a website for the sole reason of dating the craziest, narliest guys off the site. So far, i've suceeded. I wanted to share a msg that I just got.



Let me start this off by saying that I’m not looking for my soul mate or the “one”, because that shit doesn’t exist.





The whole “pure truth” and “blinding realization” crap is a myth. It does not exist. Many people search for it and die trying. You will have a better chance at proving Oprah actually stays on a diet plan.

A little about myself…. I’m 27, good looking, in shape, and fun as hell to be around. But, I have a problem. I attract the most psychotic women on the planet. After many trial and error runs I have decided to stick with what I know. Why stray away from what I have already proven? Though, I have been put through the ringer, stepped on, chewed up, spit out, set on fire, and pissed on my ashes, thus damaging my soul and ability to care for someone eternally beyond repair. I have not totally given up hope.

Don’t get me wrong. I am a good person, but bad things happen to good people and I am ok with that. So, I decided that I will do someone a favor and give that lucky down and out gutter slut with bad credit an opportunity to trade up.



I believe that I was put on this planet to give someone a second chance at having a good guy in their life. I know that I will never be happy so I will suck it up and settle for someone going through a midlife crisis and has no direction in life.

Lets just say I’ve had a few rough go arounds with the female species, and maybe just maybe the psychotic spells were partially onset by my actions. So I feel that Karma has placed me on the sh*tend of it’s to-do list.
The person I am looking for must be a true basket case. A real nut job. You must be a few fries short of a happy meal and your carpet cannot run wall to wall, or this will obviously not work out. To get the chance at having a real stud in your life you must meet and are not limited to the following criteria.
You must be able to: Complain a lot, Scare off my friends, harass me at work, brick my car or bleach my clothes because u think I cheat on you, have violent outbursts and have no thought of the consequences, threaten my ex girlfriends, fart in public and blame it on someone else, beat yourself up and tell others that I did it, leave 15 voicemails in 15 minutes on my phone, cause a scene because you are unhappy with how your steak is cooked on the third try, put nair in conditioner bottle, pull a gun on someone, be unpredictable-not like a damn nun’s menstrual cycle, lack rational thought, use the words “the Fuck" in almost every sentence. Example- Where the fuck are you- or - get the fuck off me, you know what the fuck I mean?

First, I want to make this clear. Psychotic tendencies must be out in the open up front. I DO NOT want any surprises three months down the road while we are shopping at the market and you punch me in the face for making a sex comment about a stuffed turkey. Face punching must be taken advantage of from the get go. If you choose to face punch. You also must have a job of some sort. Even if you scrape dollar bills off the floor after the “boots with the fur” song or are lead shopping cart technician at wal-mart.

I don’t care as long as you have something. I’m no sugar daddy.

Next, If you have fucked up kids that get horrible grades and refuse to take their a.d.d. meds that’s cool. I’m no one to judge. I would make a terrible parent, so you just keep on keeping on with the destruction of you kid’s life. Lets have the sex talk. You are going to be in control of when and where it goes down. I’m all for being spontaneous and naughty in public, or even getting it on at your grandmother’s house in the closet during thanksgiving dinner. As far as kinky stuff goes, you’re the crazy one, so I will leave that up to you, but If we are getting it on and I’m banging you an inch from your life and you want me to give you a choker, NOOOO WAY. I do not need an accident to happen and catch a case having a dead hooker on my hands. They are hard to get rid of.

Lastly. Since I’m willingly giving up any chance of happiness and satisfaction in life you must be hot. A pleasant face and a nice body will suffice. You must also carry emotional baggage with your superficial beauty. In that, I mean you must need constant reassuring compliments about your hair/make up/ass/titts/face/shoes and clothes. Also, you must compare yourself to every little hussy that walks by and catches a glimpse by me. You know all the hot ones are crazy anyway.

YES! A guy that calls me a gutter slut, in the first MeSsaGe.. gold.

Second, is he, or is he NOT giving me an open invitation to act batshit crazy? Hmm. There is potential here, but.. ive made the decision to politely (yeah, right) decline this fucking douche canoe.

And finally.. he is NOT good looking. Oh, you're offering me a chance to "tradeup"? I need a real "stud" in my life? If you have to call yourself a STUD, no. No, man!

You are not a fucking stud. Who fucking says that anyway? A stud is an animal used for breeding, a Jackie Collins novel, a poker game, an earring in some cases, but you my friend, YOU.. are most definitely, in NO sense of the word a stud.

In your picture, you're holding a bud light (redneck). Not only that, but its like, the 2004 style bottle. And you have a beanie on, with your lucious locks hanging out. Long hair is for chicks, man.

You know what I wanted to do when I saw your gross face? Punch my computer screen, and THEN take a shit on it.
Alright. I'm off to do guttery, slutty things.

An Open Letter to McDonalds Monopoly

Open Letter to McDonalds Monopoly Game Inventor

Dear Sir or Madam:

Alright, I'll give it to you. You're a fucking marketing genius. Give us, the hardworking American middle class, the chance to win by doing something that is essential to survival (purchasing food) and we turn into some real suckers. I say we pretty liberally here. I mean me, in general.


Before this little game started (on October 2nd, not that I marked my calander), I wasn't really a connoisseur of Mcdonalds. Sure, I'll chow down on it after leaving Marty's and blame the shits on a hangover, but not so much during the day.



I was really on a toasted Italian sub kick for a while there. But you sucked me in.


From collecting little green game pieces that force me into buying shit (that gives me the shits) off of your menu that I'd never EVER buy (Hey, the fucking green shit burger with grease leaking out the sides has a monopoly piece on it! Give me that meal, and make it a fucking biggie size!), to getting to work and entering your little codes on the website, cursing my puny existence when I land on "income tax", or "Park Place" for the 80th time, all the way to the painful trips to the bathroom afterwards..


Yeah, I read the official rules of the game. I know my chances of winning are not too great --1 in 1,345,455,334…a girl can dream right? I mean my fucking Mcdonald's cup has a picture of a fatty on it saying, "Even small town girls can win big—what the fuck is that McDonalds?? But, I digress.


Everyday, I go there for breakfast & lunch thinking: "Today's gonna be the day I get to take a stroll on the fucking boardwalk."


WRONG.


I've even enlisted the help of a friend at work. Krank. She gives me her codes, like a loyal little puppy, makes the daily lunch run to the big golden arches, with my promise of splitting the winnings with her should I—pardon—WHEN I hit it big. So see what you've done, you've made me such a firm believer that I have someone else WHOLEHEARTEDLY believing I'm going to win.


You're fucking up my health Mcdonalds Monopoly. You're fucking up my work (how many shit breaks can you really take during the day on company time before someone starts thinking you've got a coke habit?), but mainly, you're fucking up my life, because I sure as hell can't buy that new bag until I get a Ventor Avenue.


Respectfully Yours,

SLT—Just another Small Town girl

Followup Letter to The Inventor of the McDonalds Monopoly Game:
(The End of an Era)

Dear Sir/Madam:

It's me again, motherfucker!

Yesterday, your stupid little game ended declaring winners all across the United States, hell--the world for that matter.

Unfortunately, I was not included in that group of people, and you know what, that's fine with me McDonalds.


I was like the faithful girlfriend, coming to see you everyday, cutting time out of my busy schedule to make time for YOU, always remaining loyal to you and your nutritious menu.. and what fucking thanks do I get.




It's gonna take weeks for my bowels to return to normal, and I'm sure Krank will attest to that. The other day, you made my butt bleed! Yeah, that's right, Mcdonalds! You bastard! I've had a Bic Pen shoved in there, but you made me BLEED! I sacrificed my health to try to win, even at best, a $250 gift card from Amex, and what do you give me.. a free McFlurry? $1.00 off my purchase from Foot Locker? (Lord knows I need some new Air Jordans, I'm a REGULAR at Foot Locker, and that dollar is really going to help make Christmas this year, you bastard shit)




Good riddance, Monopoly. I hope they don't bring you back next year, because I have no self control, and I REALLY can't afford to do this again.

Mangled Hand & The Sensitive Gamer

Side note: Not going to blog about last night because, honestly, he was such a nice guy. He was cute, and sweet. So, there’s that. However, in keeping with the tradition of updating my blog weekly… ENJOY.

When: Halloween.
Who: Me, Shine, Marktard, Kramer, and Unk.
Where: Some random warehouse party in Birmingham.

I am dressed as kind of like, a dark angel sort of thing. My costume is your gold standard of girl costumes. A slutty black dress, fishnets, hooker boots, and of course, the accessory (otherwise I would have just been a slut): The black halo and wings.

I am pretty lit. Off alcohol and other unnamed substances.

The party is seriously pretty uneventful, except for mangled hand guy.

I’m walking past this guy, and he grabs my arm. Strong-arms me, if you will. And he’s actually really hot! But then I feel his fingers, or lack thereof, on my hand. I am so drunk/high that I say, “What the fuck dude!” And jerk away.

My utter disgust does not deter him.
“Accident when I was a kid.”
Me: “Man, it’s like a little midget hand! You could fist me with that tiny hand!

Mangled hand is clearly taken aback, as most are when I say off the wall shit like this, and proceeds to call me shady.
Me: Shady? I’m not shady.
Mangled Hand: If you aren’t shady, then give me your number.
Me: I’m going to be honest here. Your hand is kind of freaking me out. Is it a costume?MH: NO! No, it’s real, see…” He touches me with it again.I jump back about ten feet. But I give this guy my number.
MH: I’m going to save you as “Sketch.”
Me: Awesome. I’m saving you as Roy Munson.MH: Like the Kingpin dude?
Me: EXACTLY LIKE THAT.
I start laughing out loud because he gets my joke.

If you look in my phone to this day, Roy Munson is listed right there, under the M’s. Nestled between Matos and No! (Still don’t know whose number that is, but for safety reasons keep it programmed in my phone. I was obviously sending a message to my future self at the time I programmed it. Saying, Future self, when this number comes up on the caller ID, should you answer it? No!)

Anyway, after I straight up Ernie McCracken’d all over Munson’s parade, we dipped out. We left with Kramer and Unk and went to Unks apartment. Ole’ Sketch here started feeling like maybe she wanted a little action.

So I started doing the cursory cell phone scan. I found one that I had hung out with a few times at the bar I used to go to after work. I text him, “Heyyyyyyy.” (3 a.m.)

I realize I’ve just given away my drunken texting habits. So, that being said…if you know me, and receive this text from me any time after 12 a.m. CST, IGNORE IT, unless you want to end up on my blog. Because I will definitely make fun of you.

Anyway. Moving along. I’m calling this guy Gay Pac-Man. I walk into his apartment. And it’s worse than the apartment in the 40-Year-Old Virgin. Toys, some kind of futuristic chair that looks like Dr. Evil’s chair mixed with a dentists chair…only gayer (I come to find out this is a gamer chair). It’s bad.

But this doesn’t stop me. I came here for one thing buddy. And that was to drink your beer, and get some.
But no. Gay Pac-Man does not want to get it on (right away). He turns on (what I thought was) his TV. Not a TV, boys and girls. It was a fucking 50 inch COMPUTER SCREEN. He starts playing Warlock or Warcraft, whatever the hell that game is. Meanwhile I’m sitting there in my slutty costume, high as a mutha, wondering if I am hallucinating this or if it is really happening. IT WAS.

After an hour of watching this douche-nozzle play video games, he gets up from his royal throne of douchery and comes and sits next to me. He starts making out with me, hardcore. And I kind of liked it, because I don’t know where this Alpha Male came from, because he sure as hell wasn’t playing games a minute ago. I tell myself maybe I did hallucinate the gamer, and that yes, this will do.

He asks me if I want to take it to the bedroom. Guess what my answer was?

(FF to 3 minutes later)

He is curled up in a ball next to me.

GPM: I haven’t done that in a while.
(This seems to be the standard excuse for “early ecstasy.” Regardless, it doesn’t change the fact that you just wasted my time. You knew I was coming over. You should have prepared yourself.)
Me: mm-hmm.
GPM: That was nice though. Do you like to cuddle?
Me: NO. I roll over.

He literally rolls me back over. We are now face to face.

GPM: Will you hold me?

I am shocked. Because not only do I NOT like cuddling, I most definitely do not want to cuddle YOU. But, I did. Because it was a weird situation, I did not know how to handle it. He flipped over so his ass was towards me, and I was SPOONING HIM. I’m a CHICK, and I was SPOONING HIM.

I wait till he falls asleep. I’m having trouble getting my arm out from under his head. Every time I move it he makes a weird moaning sound. I finally go with the band-aid approach and just yank it out of there. His neck rolls, he does not wake up. (Gaming and premature ejaculation really take it out of you.) I drive back to Unk’s apartment and pick up Shine.

We are both still drunk. We order $40 worth of Krystal’s and pass out in a sea of cardboard boxes.

Did you just FART, and the bitch-u-crazy theory

So, my date. Let's call him Smelly.


First off, I met this guy for the sake of the experiment.

I only saw one picture of him before we went out. In the photo he was wearing sunglasses. In the online world, this is a BAD SIGN, especially if it's your only picture. If you had like, three or four, then one with sunglasses, I could judge you properly.

Sunglasses leave you guessing. And come on. I fucked a cross eyed guy. I should require an ophthalmic exam before even considering dates. It should be a prerequisite. Unfortunately the Lagoon Creature did not come to mind. (Does lightning really ever strike twice? Hope I never find out!)


So anyway, it's his only picture, and it's kind of from the side, but not really. He has a pretty sweet beard (I love beards I don't know why). I decide, why the fuck not?

We met at a sushi restaurant (my favorite, if you haven't noticed). Smelly was pretty skeptical about it because he'd never tried sushi before. I had to explain to him that there were other things on the menu. (granted, one of them was called, "Fish Mixture")

Right off the bat, I order a glass of wine and multiple sake shots. If i'm going to date losers, i'm going to have to drink EXCESSIVELY.


This guy is having a problem talking to my face. He is actually doing most of the conversating with my two chest pals. Which is just, amazing to me, because those motherfuckers don't talk! And they can't hear! I tell him this. It does not deter him. (note to self: Turtlenecks aren't so bad. Dress appropriately in the future.)


It's pretty awkward during dinner. I actually love awkwardness. It makes for great stories. I start telling him about all my horrible relationships. I am also talking really bad about my exes. I'm testing the bitch-u-crazy theory. (this will be explained later)

me: he probably didn't like me driving by his house, 4, 5 times a day but in order to feel sane I needed to know where he was AT ALL TIMES. Wouldn't want to have to fuck a bitch up you know??? YOU KNOW?

I lean forward excitedly and he is just sitting there in stunned silence, taking it all in.

me: come on, you've never done a little, harmless stalking?

him: I don;t think any stalking is harmless.

me: Well, if you really love the person it's not stalking. It's love. Just like if a guy hits you, it means he really loves you. When I'm with a guy and he isn't hitting me, I'm going to assume hes cheating and its time to have a bitch beat down. It's all part of the game, you know?

him: I guess that kind of makes sense.

dude...SERIOUSLY!?

Towards the end of our lame ass dinner, I talk him into trying some of my sushi. Spicy tuna rolls. Not anything to crazy. He picks one up. Pops it in his cockhole (haha sorry I had to) and chews. Then, to my horror (and the horror of everyone in our section) he starts regurgitating it back up, kind of baby bird style. He was moving his neck back and forth and making the loud gag sound. He then spits this nasty pink shit on his plate. I start gagging because of the sight and smell of it. We are both gagging like this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xr9BYDUKkmY
(ff to 24 seconds in. that's how we looked, and that's how loud we were)


So we're both gagging. LOUD. At one point I was pretty sure I wasn't going to make it to the bathroom to throw up. It resided though, which is fortunate, because that guy would have wasted a lot of money on alcohol had I thrown it up.

Everyone is staring at us; meanwhile, he is poking the pink shit with his fork.



After about 4 sake shots, and 5 glasses of wine, it's time for the movie.
We're going to see I Love You, Man.
I'm thinking, okay, it can't be that terrible because i've heard the movie is hilarious.

I make Smelly make a stop. I make Smelly purchase some wine minis... (six of them).
I'm already pretty lit up, but this oughta do the trick.


When we get in the theater, we're the ONLY ones in there. Which would be awesome if I was interested in the guy. We go to the very top and sit down. I'm enjoying the movie. I finish my first mini. I throw the little tiny top down the rows of chairs. I hear it quietly find a new home somewhere towards the bottom of the theater.
'Not enough,' I childishly think. I chunk the empty bottle. It explodes. Violently. I raise my fists up in victory.

me: YES!
Completely baffled, he hesitates, but finally asks, “What made you do that??”
At this point I’m trying really hard not to lose it and just burst out laughing, “I've just been really angry lately!”


I continue to do this throughout the movie. He says nothing. With all six of my bottles. Everyone of them shattered near the stairs. On the sixth one, I turn to Smelly and say, "watch this."

I stand up and with a Nolan Ryan esq like windup, I pitch that motherfucker as hard as I can. I was hoping for the screen, but, I'm no Kenny fuckin' Powers. It didnt work. But it busted, just as beautifully loud and crazy as the others.

I turn to him. "I don't know about you, but I feel a lot better now. Keeping it all bottled up like that makes ya crazy! Sometimes you have to just bust those bottles! Or that's what my therapist tells me!"
him: he might not have meant that literally.
me: No, I asked him. I said, do you mean that literally? And he said, Yes...literally...go out and bust bottles.
him: oh, well if you asked him..

(WTF? Who would believe that? What kind of doctor does he think I see?)


He is still flirting/being gross. I am pretty sure he is farting, but the only thing I have for proof is something stinky. No solid evidence, if you will. Finally after about 30 minutes of it, I KNOW, without a doubt, that what I am smelling is a fart. And it infuriates me. Seriously?! You think you can just fart in my air and shit? There is no one around for him to blame it on.


me: Did you just fart?
him: YES! I thought it would be silent! You heard it?
me: No, motherfucker, I SMELLED it!


He starts laughing. I get up and move 5 seats away. I can feel him staring at me for the duration of the movie.


Him: Come on, come on back. I won't poot again *he used the word poot.*
me: I'm not coming to sit in your little toot cloud, buddy. Think again.
him: I'll move down there, then.

He moves. We finish the movie. I drunk dial on the way home.

Now, allow me to explain the bitch-u-crazy theory.

The uglier the guy is, the more fucked up you can act.

Hell, you can do any fucking thing you want and get away with it! This date has just helped add credence to my "bitch-u-crazy" theory.

I SHATTERED SIX WINE BOTTLES IN A PUBLIC MOVIE THEATER LAST NIGHT. I TOLD HIM I WAS OKAY WITH DOMESTIC VIOLENCE. I TOLD HIM I WAS A STALKER. Did he ask me out again?

HELL YES, he did.

*Spicy Tuna and me are taking a much-needed break.
*No more guys with sunglasses.