A Communist Christmas

Sometimes I just have a way with words. Not necessarily a good way. But a way none-the-less. For example, a few weeks ago a girl asked me when the last time I had sex was. Without blinking I replied, “Wait—consensual, or non? Because I may have never had consensual sex in my life.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, more than a little shocked.

“All my sex is nonconsensual. Even masturbation. Just last night I molested myself. I said I wasn’t in the mood, but deep down, I knew I wanted it.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Maybe I should buy my cock a rape-whistle.”

On that note, with the holidays fast approaching, I was thinking of potential gifts to buy for people. Maybe that’s what I should buy for the various women in my life. Nothing says “I love you” like a rape-whistle. It’s thoughtful, practical, and the over-powering smell of their own fear will remind them of me.

Then again, I have been wrong before. I learned some valuable lessons about giving pepper-spray to women last year.

1. One squirt does not send my refried beans “South of The Boarder.” “Incapacitating” does not equal “delicious.”
2. Don’t give a girl a weapon she can use on you when you break up. Stupid poetic justice.

It’s not that I don’t care about my friends—I just don’t care enough to buy them individualized gifts. I mean, the Death Star mall near my house is absolutely unapproachable this time of year. I’m praying that I’ll be able to take one day off of work and get all my shopping done in one fell swoop—but deep down I know that’s not realistic. I’m going to forget someone and then they’ll send me a card and a gift, meaning my only recourse is to go to the mall AGAIN. And each time I enter that place, I die a little inside.

Last year, I made a New Year’s resolution to be less charming so I’d have fewer friends to buy gifts for this Christmas. A quick scan of my list suggests that I’ve failed miserably. I almost had a nervous breakdown last year: I’m not even joking. I flipped out and wrote a Kwanza Card rant against White Jesus…Christ, what the fuck is wrong with me? The good news is that in retrospect I realize that it was a bit immature. This year I've composed a much better card for coping with my Holiday stress. It’ll just be a blank, white postcard with no pictures or return address. Instead, typed in simple black letters, this heart-warming holiday greeting will appear:

Someone you slept with has been diagnosed with AIDS.

Festive.

Seriously, the only chance I have of avoiding a holiday rampage of biblical proportions is to mass-shop. In that vein, it occurs to me that I should make it a themed holiday: A Communist Christmas. “All people are equal brother! Only capitalist dogs buy individual gifts.”

So my ideas for “mass gifting” are currently:

• Soviet berets
• Vodka
• Life-Size wax replicas of Lenin’s corpse
• Iron Curtains
• A card redeemable for one KGB style “disappearing” of a family member, co-worker, or ex of your choice.
• Temporary Gorbichav “head-stain” tattoos
• Vacations to a Siberian “camp.” Said get-away features “enthusiastic instructors,” “lots of outdoor activity,” mass-graves, and free gruel! Participation is mandatory.

Texting

An episode of the Boondocks refers to text messaging as “Nigga Technology.”

"And you don't start trippin and shit callin me a racist cuz I don't mean 'nigga' in a disrespectful way. I'm mean it as a general term for ignorant motherfuckas'."
-G. Rummy (Season 1, Episode 11. 02/12/2006)

The gist of the conversation being that texting is Nigga Technology because

1. It doesn’t hook up to a printer
2. Nothing important has ever been typed by someone's thumbs.

This brings me to my current point. When I bought my current Cell phone plan I got zero stipulation for text messages. Why? Because it’s IN-FUCKING-SANE to spend 15 minutes typing out a message that would take two seconds to convey by calling. I’ve got THOUSANDS of minutes. Literally.

Thanks to rollover I currently have 5,670 unused minutes. Some people might take this as a sign that I’ve got no life. I disagree. See, most of those minutes have accumulated since my last break-up. So while you might see a guy with no social-life, I see 5,670 minutes of sweet, sweet, freedom. That’s 94 hours and 30 minutes I didn’t have to spend talking about feelings. That’s almost 4 whole days of not pretending to care about “my friend’s cousin’s boyfriend’s mom.” So don’t look on my unused minutes as an ode to pariah-ism. Look at it as a monument to my independence.

With all these anytime minutes, you’d think that someone would just pick up the phone. Nope. Last month I was charged an extra $70 for messages. $70. That’s roughly seven twelve packs of Rolling Rock. And when shit starts dipping into my drinking money it grabs my attention.

I’ve noticed that overwhelmingly, it seems to be females who enjoy sending me text messages. So either I have to learn to love cock, or start befriending women who’ve mastered the touchtone.

I have a couple theories why it’s the fair sex that predominantly dabbles in this Nigga Technology.

The first theory is that, in keeping with their nature, if given the choice, women overwhelmingly prefer to use their hands rather than their mouths. Which accounts for the dearth in quality blowjobs.

The second is that women are all but incapable of direct conversation. They don’t like calling up their friends, asking a question and then hanging up. If they’re going to commit to calling someone just to find out what they’re up to tonight, they first have to ask about their day, then their family, find out what they thought about the last episode of Desperate Housewives, bitch about that hot guy from the club who never called…then, 50 minutes later, they can finally find out that their friend has a full night of planned of watching Brad Pit movies and throwing up.

Texting is less confrontational than phone calls, so they have less guilt about just getting to the fucking point and moving on with their day.

Guess how many text messages I received last month from men: zero. And I know a whole lot of “ignorant motherfuckas.” Which makes me suspect, that as much as I enjoy the Boondocks, that they got it wrong: It’s not Nigga Technology at all. Texting is clearly the gadget of girls, the paraphernalia of pussies, and the belongings of bitches.

Foreign Flicks And Xian Hicks

Something about movies has been bothering me for years. Besides Brendan Frasier, I mean. Why is it that actors in films that take place in foreign countries all speak with British accents? It bugs the hell out of me.

Like in just about every single World War II move: the only people with German accents are the Nazis, who bark evilly. All the Jews and sympathizers have British accents. Even the French dudes speak like Michael Caine. When did that become a cinema standard? That’s my question. Who was the first asshole director to say, “What Jim? You can’t do a Russian Accent? Fuck it! Just talk like that Laurence Olivier cock-sucker. He’s from one of those ‘disputed-zone countries,’ right?”?

I’ll grant you, it’s hard to sound sexy, noble, or attractive through a thick German accent. The German language is a pretty powerful birth-control in its own right. I’ve been around Germans before: no matter what they’re talking about, it always sounds like they’re angry. Seriously, it’s a miracle those blue-eyed fucks get laid at all. “Did you ask me to take your bra off or to gas some Jews? Either way, I’m fully aroused.”


Enough about my movie rage though. Now it’s time for me to prepare for my HOLIDAY rage. With the end the annual gluttony celebration that is Thanksgiving, it’s time for our entire country to start driving ourselves into a frenzy in anticipation of Christmas. One of my favorite moments off all time came last year, as I watched a grown man of about 40 elbow a mom carrying a two year-old out of his way to grab a shopping cart. She flipped him off as the kid started to cry. Both were weighed down by bags that read “Happy Holidays” and “Seasons Greetings.” Ah, sweet irony.

Sometime last year, I became aware that Christians all over America were enraged at the contraction “Xmas” and the use of such multicultural colloquialisms as the ones listed on the shopping bags in the story above. Apparently they used it as proof that Christians were being discriminated against.

Look, we’re not being sacrilegious. Maybe we’re just lazy, ok?

I think they make a good point, though. I mean, honestly, what opportunity for advancement have White American Christians ever had? This is their Holocuast. Except, you know--not being rounded up into camps, gassed, or inconvenienced in anyway.

Fucktards. You're not Anne Frank, ok? You are to descrimination what JFK was to bullet-dodging. Do what you do best and find another culture to rub out. It’s early in the season, and I’m already sensing a sequel to last year’s nonsense. However, rather than flip out and threaten to desecrate a church like I did last year, I’ve devised a much more constructive outlet for my anger this time around.

Christians, as long as you continue to get your child-molesting, inbred, panty-wearing undies in a twist over supposed “religious insensitivity,” I will insist on referring to you as “Xians.” I don’t care whether you’re Baptist, Protestant, Catholic, Lutheran, Methodist, Presbyterian, or Headupyourassians. Until you call off your dogs, you’re all just Xians gathering around the Xmas tree singing "We Wish You A Merry Xmas" while watching "Back to the Future" starring Xopher Lloyd and swapping Xina Agulara albums, Xian Slater films and bouquets of xanthemums in the name of your savior, Jesus X.

Happy Holidays, motherfuckers.

Thanksgiving or International Pimp Ehren Day

Today I overheard a number of young ladies gabbing excitedly about their evening plans. Boyfriends to see, boyfriends to cheat on, liquor to drink, girlfriends to stab in the back—the usual.

“So all of you are going out tonight?” I asked.

“Oh of course!” they responded. “It’s the biggest party night of the year!”

Honestly, I’m not sure I agree with that title. I mean, it’s going to take some serious debauchery to steal the belt away from New Year’s Eve. I don’t think we’re there yet.

Really though, when did this happen? It’s only in the last few years that “The Wednesday before Thanksgiving” really entered into my consciousness as a drinking holiday. And this is from a dude who keeps Southern Comfort in his trunk to celebrate flat tires.

“Why is tonight such a big deal?” I asked. “I don’t even like my family when I’m sober. The thought of facing them all while completely hung-over might be grounds for suicide.”

It was about four years ago that I first realized how fucking brilliant my grandfather was. Because he came in made a bee-line for the bar and parked himself behind a glass of Scotch for the remainder of the day, taking breaks only for Turkey. Genius. I’ve been celebrating the same way ever since and I’ve never looked back.

Because there’s really no way to coast through this holiday sober. I’ll be asked the five questions below at least 15 times tomorrow. Guaranteed:

• So, are you seeing anyone?
• When are you going to find a nice Jewish girl and settle down?
• Did you hear that your cousin/nephew/dog's friend's owner's landlord just got married?
• Just so you know: I don’t have any problem with gay people. Is there something you’d like to tell me?
• You know, there’s a very nice girl who works in my office. Would you like me to call her for you?

My family’s entire focus seems to be to expand until they dominate the globe. Which is strange, given what a weird bunch of dysfunctional fucks we are. See, I date plenty of women…but there’s a reason that none of them ever get invited to Thanksgiving. Nipple tassels don’t fit in with the dress code.

In all seriousness, I’ll probably have to turn down at least 10 blind dates tomorrow. Because if my family thinks they’re datable, I can be sure they’re no one I’d let within ten feet of me. Why? I’m related to the losers these people have married.

The last time my family tried to set me up with someone, the conversation went like this:

Dad: Hey, Ehren. There’s a girl I’d like you to meet. She’s the daughter of this guy I know from work.
Me: Ummmm…yeah, I’m kinda busy.
Dad: Look, I told her about you and she gave me her number.
Me: She gave YOU her number? What kind of social pariah is she?
Dad: She’s great. She’s into sports, movies, and hamburgers.
Me: So she’s fat?

At least my immediate family knows better now. Tomorrow, maybe I can educate my extended family with the help of the only person I’ll honestly be pleased to see: Mr. Johnny Walker.

Happy Anniversary, Bitches!

As a rule, I’m not a sentimental dude. I skipped my university’s commencement ceremony and I don’t do anything for my birthday. Hell, I would have skipped High School graduation and the Prom, too if I’d had a choice.

None-the-less today is my blogging anniversary, and while I don’t plan on getting all mushy on you, I thought it’d be nice to reflect a bit on the past year.

Over the last 356 days I posted 239 times, had sex with 7 different girls and destroyed 2 different transmissions. I’ve been single and desperate, single and pursued, and happily dating. My writing has gone from woefully rusty, to slightly less rusty, and occationally insightful or, at least, amusing. Honestly, the act of scribbling out my thoughts once a day (even if they’re not profound, well focused, or coherent) has been a wonderfully inspiring process.

I never really considered whether other people would actually read or enjoy the stuff I posted here. I started because I hadn’t done any creative writing in about two years, and when I began putting my thoughts onto paper, I realized how much I missed it. A year later, sitting down to write is still one of the most rewarding portions of my day.

The last thing I ever considered was what people would think of me, based on my blog. What you have to understand is that the things that I write about are the most crazy, depraved, or rage-filled thoughts or moments of my day. As a result, I think I sometimes get mistaken for being a complete fucking dick. The truth is I'm only a dick about 80-85% of the time, tops.

My audience has been wonderful. I used to be ecstatic when I got 100 hits in a month. Last month my blog was loaded 1,625 times. I’m on pace for 2,000 in November. My favorite part of this whole process has been watching this go from a monologue to a conversation. Thanks to every one who read, posted a comment, or passed my link to someone else over the past year. You people rock.

OK, I’m done being sentimental. There’s plenty more hate for the year to come. In the meantime, however, below is a list of my top ten favorite posts from the last year. Enjoy.

10. World Cee U Pee: Some of my favorite posts have come when I go off on random tangents and work myself up into a rage. It’s a classic rant that, to this day, I’m completely lost as to where it came from. Still...fuck the World Cup.

9. Nascar: Why Not Stay Home And Molest Your Sister Instead: There’s nothing like an ignorant northerner lashing out against a “sport” he doesn’t understand. And while he’s at it, why not take a few completely unnecessary swipes at people in states he's never visited?

8. International Fuck Men And Buy A Vibrator Day: For a while, my friend was grading my writing on a “Hate-o-meter,” spurring me to crazier and crazier rants. This post was off the scale. The Hate-o-meter never recovered.

7. What Would Jesus Drink? Religion has long been one of my favorite punching bags. Mostly because fanatics are the easiest to provoke and provide the most hilarious when they explode. Borat is based on this concept.

6. DVD Extras: Hollywood, look out. God knows what was going on in my life to get me this riled up.

5. Palisades Mall: Death Star of Suburbia: This post will always have a fond place in my heart. God, I hate that fucking mall. Also, fun (and totally uncalled for) swipes at teenagers, consumerism, and Barbra Bush.

4. Jerking Off For Jesus: I love this post because I had no idea what I was going to write about when I sat down. The whole thing developed as I went on with almost no effort involved. All the jokes came to me one after another, without any effort. I was crying with laughter while I wrote this.

3. Exlympics: This is a compilation of tales that happened to my friends, concerning their ex-boyfriends. If anyone ever doubts the craziness of my friends, they really need go no further than this post.

2. No-Doze: Legal Angel Dust: Despite what you probably think of me at this point, I really am very conservative when it comes to mind-altering substances. I’ve never even smoked weed. I figure I’m crazy enough without anything extra. However, if you’re looking for my one dabbling into the realm of drugs that left me absolutely, bat-shit insane, this is it.

1. Six Words That Instantly Command The Attention Of Any Man: It really wasn’t close as to what was going to be my favorite post of the last year. Lots of people have commented to me that they enjoy the way I tell little stories from my life. This is definitely up there in the weirdest events ever to happen to me over the course of my very strange life. The funny thing is it almost never made it to print. I sat on this story for about two months before finally just writing it down when I couldn’t think of anything else to post. My pain is your gain, so enjoy!

Thanks again to everyone. It’s been a crazy year. Here’s to many more.

Karma's Broken Condom

Halfway through my fourth pint glass of Vodka and Soda on Friday night, I looked up to see an unbelievably attractive redhead strut into the bar, along with a posse of friends. Freckles, button nose, and an enormous pair of perfect…eyes. If liquor equals courage, she was the reason that Irish men drink. Because she was hot enough to scare off any mere mortal.

Now, at this point, I’m sure you, the reader, think you have an idea about where this story is going. I mean, I’ve been drinking, I have little if any regard for tact or common decency, so it’s natural to think you have an inkling. I tell you now: you have no clue.

She was surrounded by a group, predominantly male, whom she seemed extremely friendly with. I did a head count, which, considering the amount of liquor I’d absorbed, took far longer than it should have: five guys in her group, two, plus my little sister in mine. Now while my sister is tough, she can’t weight more than 90 pounds soaking wet. So I concluded that incurring the wrath of this girl’s posse was simply not worth the potential blood shed, not to mention the tragic waste of alcohol. So I filed the girl away for future masturbatory reference, and went back to telling jokes.

Perhaps 5 minutes later, I glanced up to see the very same Irish goddess descending on me. When we made eye-contact she smiled and waved. I looked lost. In other words, my normal operating mode.

“Hi Ehren!” She said brightly, throwing her arms around me.

Now, I may not be great with names, but I rarely forget a pair of breasts. However, in this case I was completely lost. This girl was hot enough to be close to impossible to forget. Yet here I was: completely cluesly about the name of the girl wrapping her arms around me. In other words, the usual situation upon regaining consciousness every Sunday morning.

“Umm…Hi!” I said. Under normal circumstances, I’d be deft enough to introduce my friends so she’d drop her name…but I was still in shock from being approached by a girl I had already marked as a lost cause. And completely non-plused that I'd failed to remember meeting this highly fuck-able girl.

“How’ve you been?” she beamed.

“Good…”

“You don’t remember me?”

“Did I make an insensitive comment to you at a bar?”

“You dated a friend of mine, remember!”

And suddenly it all came rushing back. A few weeks ago, I wrote about a girl who decided to stop seeing me so she could re-up things with her ex-boyfriend…who just happened to be a compulsive cheater hooked on coke. The friend failed to be registered on my potential lay radar because:

1. The girl I was seeing was a hotty in her own right
2. The vision of Irish beauty standing before me was married, with a kid.

One doesn't get far with a girl by hitting on her married best friend.

"Of course!” I exclaimed, where-upon I went about introducing her around the table. “Doesn’t she look great?” I asked my friend. “You’d never know that she had two kids.”

“Actually, I’ve only got one” she corrected me.

“Well, he’s fat enough to count for two.” Honestly, I don’t know where this came from. Except I was suddenly ready to take out some of my unresolved feelings of rejection regarding my ex.

“So” I went on. “Is she still seeing that cokehead?”

“Uh…yeah. You didn’t hear?”

“I haven’t heard anything from her in quite some time.”

“She’s pregnant.”

“Jack,” I asked turning to my friend. “I know they have crack babies, do they have coke babies, too?”

It’s somewhat comforting to have an unmistakably confirmation that I was obviously a better choice than her “baby’s daddy.” I mean, I’m not hooked on blow AND I know how to operate a condom. Compared to this loser, I’m the catch of the fucking century. I’m Lenny Kravitz, Derek Jeter, and George Clooney rolled into one.

Not to beat a dead horse, but I’d like to once more go over the choices presented to this young lady a few weeks ago:

Ehren: funny, smart, educated, and holding down a steady job.
Ex boyfriend: high school grad, working various “part-time, and one-time jobs.” Cheated multiple times, lied constantly, and was hooked on coke.

Now she’s knocked up and relying on said addict. Goodbye, degree. Goodbye, freedom.

On the other hand, I guess I’m not that big a prize. I mean…I snore...sometimes. Also, there’s no added excitement of wondering if I had sex with anyone else that day.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s just coincidence. Then again, maybe it’s karma in the form of a dude who forgot to pull-out.

Man vs. Machine

As I lay in bed this morning, alternately flipping through bad movies and good poetry, I found myself reading Yeats’ “The Circus Animals Destruction” just as the movie “Stealth” came on. Maybe it was just coincidence. See, the poem is about the process of writing and how most ideas, including the good ones, were trash, at least at the start. Unlike, “Stealth” which was ALWAYS an enormous load of shit.

"Stealth" is about a super advanced airplane with artificial intelligence that becomes sentient. Naturally, it goes on a killing rampage and only a team of plucky pilots, whose ability to maintain perfect hair in the face of inconceivable G-forces is truly breath-taking, can bring it down. So basically, it’s every single movie ever made about scientifically altered creatures, or advanced governmentally funded killing machines. It’s “Jurassic Park” sans the special effects or watchability. It’s “Frankenstein” minus the originality.

Which brings me to my thought of the morning: why is it that when genetically perfect killing machines break free, they always go on a rampage? Why don’t they ever become unreliable drunks who crash kids’ birthday parties and have sex with the cake? Or start unsuccessful sex-toy franchises and spend the rest of their lives bitter, husks of their former selves, telling everyone, “Don’t talk to me like that! I was the greatest plane ever built, once.”? Or manufacture meth and hang out in swanky, Hollywood parties?

Seems like any of those ideas would be far more interesting. I guess I just wonder why things that are brought to life in movies are always evil. Right now, the one thing in my house I’m most frightened of coming to life and going on a rampage: my alarm clock. I mean, I already suspect that it’s malevolent. Especially mornings after Yeager shots. Think about it, it’d start waking me up at random times and making me late for work. I hear sleep deprivation is an especially cruel and effective variety of torture. Or, if it were a SUPER evil being, it could just start subliminally programming me while I sleep. Like one day, I’d just wake up and want to wear pink shirts with the collars up and listen to Lindsay Lohan albums. Now that’s evil. Sure, I could probably throw it out, but it would still be an incredibly weird and disconcerting couple of days.

I’ve decided that if (or in my case, when) I next make embarrassing phone calls to women while drunk, I’m going to use that as an excuse should I be confronted on it the next day.

“Ehren, you called me at 4:30 in the morning to ask if I would ‘dress like Janet Reno and punish you like you were big tobacco.’”

“I swear it wasn’t me. Listen, I’m pretty sure my cell phone has come to life and is trying to destroy my reputation through evil, underhanded plots in its attempt for world domination.”

The Nuremburg Break-up Defense

Sometimes, you just have to go. Everyone’s got their limit, and sooner or later we all come to a point in our existence when we have to say, “Fuck this. I’m out.” It doesn’t really matter whether it’s a job, a scarring sexual encounter, or a relationship: regardless of the consequences, we’ve reached our limit and there is nothing on earth that can make you stick it out for another second. This is a story about such an occasion.

I had been dating a girl for around a month and things were just not working out…for me, anyway. She was as happy as could be. I was contemplating suicide. Love is seeing someone’s faults and caring for them anyway. I saw her faults and wanted to strangle her with my shoelaces and leave her for dead in the trunk of a car at the airport.

She came from money, and, in the way that people who’ve been humored their whole lives do, tended to assume that anyone who disagreed from her was wrong.

“My friend is dating this guy who treats her poorly” I said one night. “It’s driving me nuts.”
“Well, that’s her mistake. There’s nothing you can do. You shouldn’t feel bad.” She said.
“Of course I should. She’s my friend. It’s my job to look out for her.”
“Well, you already told her how you feel. Fuck her. Cut her off.”
"She's my friend! I care about her."
"No. It's wrong to care about someone who won't listen to you."
“Well unlike you,” I retorted, “I know what it’s like to actually have friends.”

This was the pattern of all our arguments. I’d say something that was irrefutable: something about how I felt or what I liked, and she say, “Well, you shouldn’t. You’re wrong.”

After one such battle where she insisted that I liked punk music, I’d had it. I’d reached my limit. No more.

Now, there’s a certain ruthlessness involved in any break-up, particularly when you’re ending things with someone who has no idea that it’s coming. You have to completely repress all pity, look the cute, adoring, trusting puppy right in the eyes, and shoot it in the head when she trots up to lick your hand. It’s not the kind of thing I enjoy doing.

So I spent a day listening to angry music and looking at pictures of girls I hadn’t slept with. I wound myself up, preparing for the worst. I was the terminator. Pity wasn’t even in my vocabulary.

I met “Dead Girl Walking” at a local bar. “Don’t shoot until you see the whites of her eyes,” I reminded myself.

“I’m so glad you could see me,” She said. “I really need to talk to you.”

Suddenly, my day was picking up. Maybe she’d end things and spare me all the work.

“What’s up?” I asked, playing the part of the oblivious boyfriend. I’d been preparing to kill a puppy all day. If she wanted to take a shot at me, I was ready to act the part to the hilt. I began preparing to cry on cue.

“It’s my best friend.” She sobbed. “He was hit by a truck. Right now he’s in the hospital. They’re saying they aren’t sure if he’ll make it.”

Imagine for a second that you’re a turkey. The week before thanksgiving, you’re hanging out…gobbling, or whatever the fuck turkeys do, when suddenly the door to your pen swings open. You run to freedom. For the first time in your life, you breathe free air, feel un-caged wind on your feathers. It’s the single most glorious moment of your existence as, for an instant, you feel at one with creation. Then, the farmer lops your head off with a machete.

That was me. In an instant I was higher than a hippie at Burning Man, then in a twinkly of an eye, I was brought lower than a raver coming off a night on E.

“He was one of the only people who really understood me.” She went on, now holding me tight. “I just don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost him. Thank God I have you to support me.”

Now, this is where I realized I had two options:

1. Take one for the team, hold her tight, and try to salvage a relationship based on honesty, passion, and lots of hot sex.
2. Shoot Old Yeller in the head when he needed me most.

So I hugged her, ran my fingers through her hair, and then held her at arms length so I could look deep into her eyes. She wiped the tears away and managed a heroic smile as she looked at the one soul in this world she could count on for unquestioning affection, loyalty and support.

“I think we should see other people.” I said.

What the whole experience really taught me was this: I am far more ruthless than I give myself credit for. "I gotta do what I gotta do" was my rationale. Of course, that was also the Nazis said. It’s comforting to know that there will always be an opening for me in the “Ethnic Cleansing” business. Obviously, if I even have a soul it’s long since been condemned to Hell.

On the other hand, what else was I supposed to do? I mean, how long was I expected to date a girl I wanted to strangle? It was probably best to get out then. There’s really no good time to get dumped…although I’ll grant you that this was a worse time than most. Still, imagine how bad it would have been if her friend had died. I would have been forced to marry her.

Victory Is Mine...For The Moment

Do you know what that is? That is irrefutable proof that I am a sick, sick man. Since my recent defeat at the hands of a generously proportioned bartender, I’ve been plotting a way to ride victoriously through my next bar crawl. Mission accomplished. I’m breaking it in tonight.

Vodka in a sippy cup. I fully expect to be struck down by God after the first taste.

I think the only way to do it, is wait until three or four drinks in before I switch over. You know, give the bar an opportunity to adjust to my…”unique” personality. Then, I’ll order a round for a group of the hottest girls in the place, and slide over with my sippy cup. Check mate.

Really, in terms of conversation starters, it really doesn’t get much better than that. It’s pure gold.

Girls: Why are you drinking from a sippy cup?
Me: I’m up past my bed time. Will you tuck me in, mommy?

Or

Me: Because you haven’t offered to breast-feed me yet.

Or

Me: I stole it from my ex girlfriend. That’s the last time I date a girl in preschool.

You get the idea. Feel free to post up any other funny responses you come up with.

In other interesting news, my dear friend Jack Saddle who’s mentioned in the same story was invited to my company Christmas party—as my boss’ date. Meaning that there’s a good chance that my holiday bonus this year will come in the form of a pink slip.

Seriously, between my sippy cup, my boss’s potential evening with the sexual predator that is my friend, and my own propensity for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, this party could very well be the death-knell of my career. I guess that means I better go out in a spectacular blaze of failure. Sort of like Dale Earnhardt, only without being a dumb, inbred redneck.

And on that note, I must away. Time to take my sippy cup for a test spin.

Ehren: Parking Garage Vigilante

My office parking garage is officially on my shit list, joining such illustrious members as:

• My Space
• Paris Hilton
• Crabs
• Oil (the kind you put in your car, not the kind you rub on strippers)
• The rap music
• Men who wear body glitter
• Pants

The reasons for adding my garage are numerous. First, it reeks of urine. I don’t mean that it has a vaguely piss-tinged aroma, I mean if you breathe through your mouth you'll taste it for the next 20 minutes of your life. 5,000 bums, subsiding on nothing but asparagus, must be pissing in round-the-clock shifts to maintain that sort of scent saturation. I expect an outbreak of Botulism or the Hanta Virus any day now.

Next, because I rank somewhere between rancid milk and a fungal outbreak in importance to my company, I do not have a designated parking space. Instead, I’m left to fend for myself in a world of rich people who have no idea about common decency or basic physics. Allow me to explain.

Because I am retarded, I can only park in certain spots of the garage or I will literally spend 40 minutes wandering the urine doused caves, looking for my car. Don’t laugh, it’s happened before. My parking garage has "half floors," (2 1/2, 3 1/2, etc.) and not all the stairs or elevators go to every floor. This means that I am constantly fighting to get a spot in the “compact only” spaces directly across from the exit. Now, I drive an accord. Like all things Japanese, it’s a compact. Which is a nice way of saying, “Tiny enough to make a Jew laugh.” The douche bags in my building however, have absolutely no qualms about parking Escalades and Range Rovers in the compact spaces.

This is where a fundamental knowledge of physics comes into play. A compact space is roughly four feet wide. An Escalade is, conservatively, about 6,982 feet wide. You don't need a degree in astrophysics to work out a formula for parking. It goes something like this: move your over-privelidged ass down the line, P-Diddy. When you decide to come to grips with your whiteness and buy a real car, you can park in a compact spot. Until then, shut the fuck up, resume sucking Big Oil's taint and take one of the full size spaces.

How big a dick do you have to be to take up three spots with hideous fucking ride? We get it: you’re insecure about your penis size. Maybe you could start taking the handicap spaces too.

So today, after finding a Hummer occupying four spots, I began wondering: is there any reason I couldn’t just start cracking windshields? I mean, from the overpowering urine stench, I’m betting that the “security” is far from thorough. In fact, I may need to bring my own brand of vigilante justice to the garage, in the form of ten pounds of sugar, a key, and a sack of potatoes.

I know what you’re all thinking: why the fuck don’t you just get up earlier so you can get the good spaces before the rich douche bags do? Answer: What do I look like? Someone capable of rational planning and thought?

No, but because I don’t really want to be brought up on vandalism charges...again...I’m thinking that the REAL solution to this problem is to head down to Kinko’s and make a sign that reads: “Reserved for Ehren, Head of Grenade Launcher Development” then place it in the parking space closest to the door. I’d love to see the asshole that “accidentally” parks in that spot.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to wander around my parking garage until 10 o’clock tonight, in the vain hopes of stumbling across my car.

Why I Obey Nurses...Even Male Nurses

I was in the hospital yesterday because something was wrong with my throat. And by that I mean I was unable to swallow. This was a big deal for someone who spends as much time sucking as I do.

Among the more amusing experiences the day brought was the constant question, “How are you?” Everyone in the place asked me that at least once, sometimes twice. It’s not the most encouraging thing in the world to be treated by people who fail to deduce that your presence, by definition, means that you are NOT doing well.

Typical exchange:

Orderly: So how are you today?
Me: Well, if I was good, I wouldn’t be spending 4 hours in a waiting room watching Mexican soap-operas, surrounded by disease-ridden immigrants. In fact, even if I was great when I walked in, I’d be feeling suicidal right about now.
Orderly: Someone will be right with you.

I find it amusing that you can tell how important a person is at a hospital based on their clothing. It’s like only the doctors rank high enough not to be forced into wearing pajamas. Everyone else is required to dress like a tool. This is why, if you’re admitted for any length of time, the first thing they do is make you wear the rape-gown that doesn’t cover your ass. They want to make it clear that you don't even rank high enough to get superman underoos or those God-awful plastic sandal-things. It's an excellent way to subjugate someone, by the way. Because it’s impossible to be insubordinate when you’re not wearing pants. Think about it. Two people are arguing: one in pants, one without. It doesn't even matter what the argument is about. Who do YOU think is winning? Exactly.

Generally I try to be as nice as possible to hospital folks. Not because I think that they’d try harder to save my life if they liked me, but because I know that they can, on a whim, opt to put a catheter in me. Combine the threat of a catheter along with the confiscation of my pants and I’m a pussy-cat. Seriously. In fact, I’m lower than that. I’m almost into SLAVE territory.

“How are you today?”
“Ise be greats, massah. Is yuse wantin’ some mo’ o’ my sweet, sweet insurance money?”

After four hours and 18 different queries about “how I was doing” they finally got down to business and diagnosed me with a viral infection. Then they did what the American medical profession is best at: shovel pills down my throat.

“Here you go. Swallow this,” said a man entirely too cheerful and enthusiastic for anyone who owned a penis and spent 6 years in medical school to get the title of "nurse." He held out a pill that was, conservatively, the size of my fist.

“Um…are you kidding?” I asked.
“It’ll make you feel better.”
“What part of ‘I can’t swallow anything’ do you not understand? I’m having difficulty getting down water. How am I going to swallow something the size of my cell phone?”

Mr. Nurse was not in least put off by my heavy dose of reality. In fact, if anything, he seemed even more cheerful. This did not bode well for me. I sensed I was about to become the brunt for 6 years of merciless teasing.

“Would you like me to crush it up and mix it with some water for you?”
“Yes, and maybe you could crush up the remainder of my manhood along with it.”

I should have known it was a losing cause to argue one's manhood to a dude with a nursing degree.

“Hmmm…maybe we should keep you overnight for observation. I’ll be right back with a gown and a catheter.”

I closed my eyes, aimed for the back of my throat and tried desperately to repress the gag reflex. It was of little solace to reflect that they were actions that Mr. Nurse would no doubt be repeating later that night in the company of his life-partner, Jim.

God, I hate hospitals.

Messing With Law Enforcement

At lunch today, I sat in the company break room and watched portions of President Bush’s press conference. Then I switched the channel to a different car-wreck: The Most Amazing Police Chases.

It’s a show that takes absolutely no attention span or sentient intelligence to watch: basically hicks get their pick-up trucks flipped by harassed looking law enforcement for an hour at a time. Still, I guess it shocks me that so many people think that trying to outrun the cops is a good idea. I mean, how inbred do you have to be to turn to Cousin Merle who’s riding shotgun and say, “You know, even though I’ve been drinking all night and we’re being chased by 5 cruisers and a helicopter, I have a really good feeling about how this is going to end.”

But it led me to an interesting hypothetical. Let’s say I was out drinking all night and, while weaving home, a cop pulled me over. If, before he came up to the window, I jumped out of the car and in full view of the headlights, downed a fifth of a bottle of Vodka, and then lay face down on the pavement with my hands up, is there anything the cop could do?

Now, I’m sure he would be none too pleased. In fact, it’d be a miracle if he didn’t drop me with his gun the second I opened the door. But other than searching my vehicle and giving me a ticket for an open container, it seems like he would have to let me off relatively under-prosecuted. After all, it’d be hard to prove that I was drunk before I downed the vodka, right?

Look, it’s not the wisest of decisions. And this is coming from a dude not known for his easy dealings with law-enforcement. I’d probably wind up with a night in jail…but considering that I was probably facing that before my vodka stunt, it doesn’t seem like a bad trade-off. Just something to consider.

One night, a friend and I were driving back from a baseball game. Two of our friends smoked a joint in the back as we drove them home. We dropped them off and proceeded on our way when we saw a cop car coming up behind us. My friend was driving, so he reflexively checked his speed: 50 in a 45. No problem. Needless to say we were both shocked when the cop started riding our tail.

Fuck, we’re getting pulled over.

In my experience there are two different types of cops: cops that are sort of cool, and cops whose entire life is dedicated into compensating for a devastatingly small penis. On this night, we drew the later.

There we were: two white boys, stone cold sober, and, ironically, completely straight-edge when it came to drugs. Neither one of us had ever so much done a puff of weed in the course of our lives. A story that, considering the odor emerging from the back-seat, seemed exceedingly unlikely to the office.

“Look kid” he said after he’d locked my friend in the back of his car. “Just tell me where the drugs are and maybe we can cut a deal where you won’t go to prison.”

This is one of the times where I really love looking so youthful. Even though the cop had my license, he was treating me like an 18 year-old who was pissing his pants. I looked at him like he was out of his mind.

“Sir, there are no drugs in this car. Neither of us smokes.”

“That’s how you want to play it, huh? I’m arresting your friend for driving under the influence of drugs. And I’m impounding this car. We’re going to take the entire thing apart and when we find your stash, you’re going down”

I mean, really. Who the fuck talks like that? Were two 25 year-olds and an alleged joint really worth this much effort? There was zero chance of either one of us seeing the inside of a jail-cell. We both knew that.

“Sir, I don’t believe that you administered a field sobriety test to either me or my friend. I’m sorry if you believe that you smell marijuana. But there’s nothing in this car to give you.”

“Empty your pockets and put your hands behind your head.”

I couldn’t honestly believe that this douche bag was going to haul us down to the holding cell, so I decided to fuck with him. It was a calculated risk. I emptied my pockets for all items—save one.

The dude patted me down while telling me how sorry I was going to be. Then he came to my back pocket.

“What do we have here, hot shot?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, feigning innocence.

“There’s a little bag in your back pocket. Looks like there’s something you didn’t want me to find. You know what this means? You’re going downtown, you little punk. You should have come clean when I gave you the chance.”

His voice dripped with smug self-satisfaction.

“What do we have here?” He crowed triumphantly as he whipped the item out of my pocket and slammed it on the hood of the car in front of me.

His face fell.

“That.” I answered in a calm, level voice. “Appears to be a condom, sir.”

Bluetooth Technology: Advertise Exactly How Insecure You Are With Your Penis Size

I’ve been having a reoccurring fantasy lately. Besides the one featuring Shakira, 14 jars of peanut butter, and a pitching wedge, I mean. Here it goes:

I’m standing on line at a store with 15 porno magazines, a case of condoms, and a jar of Vaseline. There I am, your average, work-a-day pervert (albeit drop-dead gorgeous and hung like a walrus), eye-raping a single mom in line ahead of me, when a dude gets in line behind me. He’s blonde, wearing a tie, carrying a bottle of vitamin water, and is yelling obnoxiously loud into a Bluetooth set.

“Yeah. Bob. She’s such a twat. I can’t believe that JB decided to give her the Bateman account. Fuck her. I swear, next time she comes on to me I’m going to say, ‘Listen whore, I don’t care if your kid DOES have cancer. I’m not going to pity fuck you.’ What a cunt. Hey, did you see the game last night?”

And this is where my fantasy really kicks into gear. Because as he goes on to question the manhood and sexuality of the Jets starting line, I turn around and, with the quick, precise, and devastating motions, proceed to beat this man until blood gushes from his ears, he soils himself, and passes out.

Seriously, it’s like the scene from Goodfellas where Ray Liotta pistol whips the dude who touched his girlfriend.

Sometimes, in my dream, the man is accompanied by a bored, vacant looking blonde girl, who screams hysterically when her date is beaten to death by a man carrying a 54 pack of Trojan magnums. Other times, it’s an equally blonde and vacant-looking male friend who tries to intervene and so joins his friend on the ambulance gurney.

I’ve reached the point where I’m completely fed up with the importance that people seem to assign to assholes on a cell phone. Like when you’re at dinner and their phone rings. Then we allow this loser to hold up a finger and interrupt us while they take a call. Or when they put the phone on the table when they eat, just to remind us: “be interesting. Otherwise, I have other options.”

Under what other circumstances would we stand for that? Imagine you’re talking to your friend when, mid-sentence, he gets up and starts a conversation with a dude that yelled hello to him from across the restaurant. When he came back, he’d be lucky if you hadn’t already relieved yourself on his sandwich. Having a phone does not excuse you from having social graces.

But the absolute worst is the cock suckers who walk around with Bluetooth sets. I want to be clear: I own a Bluetooth. But I also live in a state where it’s illegal to drive and talk on the phone without a headset. Driving and talking I understand. But there is absolutely no excuse for walking around with one. Are you really so lazy that you can no longer lift your fucking phone to your ear? If you are, you should start demanding that all your food be served to you liquefied, in a trough, and with a straw. You should also stop walking and hire a team of Indian man-slaves to carry you on a litter.

What we need is a new ordinance that makes it legal to slap anyone walking around with a Bluetooth. I’m talking about an open palm, backhanded, pimp-slap you like you owe me money slap across the teeth. We need to nip this in the bud fast, because lately I’ve been having difficulty distinguishing between business men on power lunches and crazy people having psychotic episodes.

The Ravages Of Addiction

I sat at my desk today, and carefully peeked around my office: no one was watching. I needed a fix. Bad. Carefully, I reached into my desk and fumbled around until I found a small packet of powder. Smoothly and quickly I took a hit. Sweet bliss. Shangri-la. Wet, shuddering, explosive orgasm.

“Dude!!!”

Fuck I’ve been busted.

I looked around. My friend was looking right at me. “What?” I asked.

“That’s like the eighth pixie stick you’ve done today.”

“So?” I replied rather too quickly and defensively. “I don’t have a problem! I can quit anytime I want! Get off my back!!!”

Actually, it wasn’t my eighth pixie-stick. It was my tenth. I think it was somewhere around number 4 that I noticed I was having trouble controlling my leg from vibrating. Around number six, I began to wonder why the hell everyone was talking so slowly. Also, my face was numb and I was filled with the over-powering urge to hang out in bathrooms, listen to Genesis and discuss Reganomics.

OK, seriously I might have a problem. I know because the day before Halloween, I went through the office and stole every solitary pixie-stick out of the little bags of candy the company had distributed to the staff. I must have started with about 50 of the things. I’m now down to about 20. I’m guessing that my office will find out when I run out, because I’ll be huddled in the corner of my cubical, covered in sweat, and shaking uncontrollably. “Come on, man!” I’ll yell. “Don’t hold out on me!”

I suppose it’ll only be a matter of time before I’m sucking dick to feed my raging addicting. Seriously, have you ever free-based pixie-stix? You have no idea what you’re missing. What the fuck are the rest of you assholes doing in the morning? Starbucks? Hahahaha! Let me tell you, nothing takes the edge off like a line of blue powder.

…

Ok, I’m back. Sorry, I had a random nose-bleed. I’m sure it’s completely unconnected to the shit I was talking about before. Also on an unrelated topic, I’ll be visiting the Pixie-Stix manufacturing plant soon. I’m looking for someone who’d be comfortable smuggling up to a kilo of unidentified powder over state lines in their colon. Prior experience as a coke-mule is a plus.

That’s it, I have to go. I gotta go score a fix.

My Alternative To Radio

Driving into work yesterday morning, I carefully weighed my options:

Option one: Pull over and be that guy throwing up vodka on the shoulder of the thruway at 8 in the morning on a Thursday.

Option two: Sit in the car and pray that an oncoming tractor-trailer would end my misery instead.

I knew that I had had far too much fun the night before for the simple reason that about 10 minutes into my morning commute I found myself yelling, “EVERYBODY JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!” This in itself wasn’t much proof—after all, being the understanding, sensitive person that I am, my friends have grown accustomed to my irrational profanity-laced outbursts, which are occationally punctuated with violence. What made the shouting remarkable was that eventually I realized that there was no one else in the car and I was shouting at my radio which, despite my eloquence, refused to "shut the fuck up."

There are few clearer signs that you’re in for a bad day than when you come to consciousness enraged that invisible enemies are disobeying your orders. Honestly, it’s a miracle that I didn’t turn my car around right there.

Instead, I switched off the radio; an action that, shockingly, failed to improve my equilibrium or my chances at avoiding violent illness. After a few uncomfortable minutes of silence I began humming to myself, in that way six year-olds do: beginning really quietly, almost under their breath, and building until they're shouting it at retard volumes.

So there I was, alone in my car, the radio off, belting out the theme to Knight Rider at the top of my lungs:

DUH DUNA DAAAA, DUH DUNA DAAAAA, DUD DUNA DA DA DAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!

Now, when you’re screaming out a theme with no words, you tend to lose interest fairly quickly. So I began singing about everything I saw on the road, still to the Knight Rider:

YOU CUT ME OFF!!! YOU STUPID FUCK! HEY THERE’S A HUGE POT HOLE!

It was a good game that almost distracted me from the fact that I was driving to work drunk on a Thursday morning. All was well until I somehow found myself stuck behind a huge, white van. It was the kind that seems to be owned by every single child abductor since 1982. It’s like car dealers refuse to sell these things to anyone who doesn’t spend a minimum of 4 hours a day in chat rooms, telling underage boys that they needed help moving the boxes of candy in their cellars.

The abduction van in and of itself wouldn’t have been enough to break into consciousness—but what did penetrate my observation was the fact that Mr. Abductor had a tire cover with a huge picture of Jesus. Now, I don’t know a lot about religious symbolism. But I do have to wonder at one’s taste when they decide that the best place for Christ is on the back of their rusted out van on the spare tire. What, did they not have any Jesus jock straps? Were there no more rolls of “Our Savior Toilet Paper”?

Whatever the case, I was still locked into my game of singing everything that I saw. Which is why I found myself at 8:30 on Thursday morning, drunk, miserable, and yelling out to the tune of the Knight Rider theme:

JESUS VAN!!! JESUS VAN!!! COMING TO ABDUCT YOUR KIDS!!! THEN THEY’LL LOCK THEM IN THE BASEMENT AND TEACH THEM TO HATE HOMOSEXUALS!!!

I’m sick, I know. But the good news is that I’ve hit an awesome idea for a TV show: it’s a spin-off of Knight Rider, except instead of the car being a crime-fighting Trans-Am it’s a huge, religiously-fanatical Chevy van. It’ll star Mr. T in the David Hasselhoff roll and the two will set off on missions like abducting homosexuals under the guise of trying to “deprogram them,” handing out pamphlets at the airport, and protesting the removal of religious articles from state buildings across America.

“Oh no, T! The parents of that dead, homosexual soldier are trying to bury their child in peace! Quick! Get the picket signs out of the back and let’s spit on them!”

“Quit your jibber-jabber, Jesus Van! I see the fools!”

I wonder what it’s like being normal. I’ll bet you don’t have nearly as many day-dreams involving fanatical, homophobic 80’s spin-off shows. Oh well. Come back next week when I pitch my version of the anti-Semitic A.L.F.

Ehren And Friends Enjoy (And Possibly Get Banned From) A Bar

When a new bar opens in town, it’s a big deal. If you’re really into Christ, I imagine you’d get all tingly in your bottom when a brand spanking new church opens its doors. Well, I’m into Alcohol not Jesus. So bars are as close to a place of worship as I have. With that in mind, I set out last night to scout my town’s newest cathedral to carousing and to do some serious "praying." I woke up this morning with the distinct impression that I may have already been excommunicated.

Two friends and I went in and took seats at the end of the bar. It was a nice a joint: many large TVs, comfy looking booths, a huge, highly lacquered bar—and best of all, it was new enough that the local skanks hadn’t yet discovered it and whored the place up. You all know what I mean: one minute you’ve got a respectable, chill hang-out spot, the next, it’s over-run with girls wearing glitter and the place is blasting songs by Ludacris.

But the best part about new bars is that the bartenders haven’t learned not to encourage me or my friends. This was apparent when our server approached us. Actually, I think her breasts arrived about 5 minutes before the rest of her. She was so top-heavy, I was afraid she was going to fall over at any minute. Had that happened, of course, I would have been obliged to be a gentleman and help her up. With my cock.

After about 4 drinks (one Magner’s, one Yuengling, two pint classes of vodka and soda), I hit on one of my more brilliant ideas of the night. Calling the bartender over, at this point beyond caring whether I was making eye-contact or blatantly staring at her nipples, I began to question her.

Me: Excuse me. Do you have special arrangements for diners with infants or small children?
Her: Umm…I guess. You mean like high chairs or booster seats? Why do you have kids?
Me: Not yet, but the night is young. Do you have those special cups for infants that don’t spill? The sippy cups?
Her: Yep.
Me: Bring me vodka and ice in a sippy cup.

Think about it: how often have you been drunk at a bar and gotten really involved in a story you’re telling and then spilled your drink down the dress of some girl you’re trying to impress? Or been staring down the tank top of your bartender so intently that you knock your drink directly into your lap? Sippy cups are the natural solution. Plus…it’s vodka…in a sippy cup. It’s so wrong and yet so right.

Unfortunately, the bartender was not amused and refused my request. When she returned with my drink in an ordinary glass, I said, “No sippy cup??? You could have at least put a nipple on my drink.”

“You mean rubber ones?”

“That,” I responded “Depends on how well you hope to be tipped.”

Two drinks and zero sippy cups later, the same girl came by once more to take our order.

“What can I get you?”
“I want you to look deep into my eyes.” I said, not yet sure where I was going with this.
“OK…”
“Good. Now I want you to look at me, really look and bring me a drink that you think is appropriate.”
“Umm…well, what kind of drinks do you like? Do you—“
“No, just look and use your woman’s intuition.”

She set off looking bewildered and returned, 10 minutes later carrying a glass, which she dutifully set in front of me. I looked at the contents doubtfully and took an experimental sip. It was the pinkest, sickly sweetest, most vile concoction I’d ever had.

“You are possibly the worst judge of character I’ve ever met.” I declared. “This is who you think I am? I think you just called me a homosexual.”

“No, I think it’s really good. I invented it just for you.”

I narrowed my eyes into a glare and allowed a beat of silence.

“You’ve hurt me, Kim.” I declared somberly. “You’ve hurt me in a way only sex can heal.”

I’m not sure if that was the line that will get me banned from the place for life. What I am sure about, however, is that my friend, Jack Saddle, did not help our cause. See, at some point during the evening he decided that he was going to check out the V.I.P. section—invite or no. His exact line as jumped the velvet rope was, “NO ROPE CAN STOP ME!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

Ropes might not have been able to stop him, but apparently managers can. Or can at least try. Unfortunately for the proprietor, however, my friend saw him coming and made a mad dash into the men’s room, narrowly and temporarily eluding capture.

So there Jack was: locked in the bathroom while the manager pounded on the door, demanding Jack’s neck. Jack then proceeded to urinate, lengthily (as drunk people are apt to do), while yelling, “You can’t come in—I’m peeing.”

The manager continued to knock, so my friend, irritated that the existence of his urine was being called into question, decided to prove the issue in the only way possible: he started to open the door, midstream.

There he was: legs planted, one hand holding his cock, while the rest of his body and the other arm twisted and flailed at the door, which he somehow managed to unlock. As it swung open, the manager’s brief victory quickly turned to defeat as the half naked man continued pissing in full view of him and a table of VIPs. At this point, I think my friend’s only hope for re-admittance is the slim chance that everyone’s eyes were so riveted in horror to his cock that they completely missed his face.

Oh well, I suppose that there will always be other bars. There isn’t enough alcohol on the planet to make people forget that they live in Rockland County.