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.

Spend My Loot

In a staggering hit to the laws of Karma, I somehow won a bunch of stuff today. Apparently, the willingness to denigrate oneself in front of coworkers is worth a good chunk of change under the right conditions. The whole thing was news to me, because I’ve been making an ass of myself at work at no extra charge for pretty much the duration of my professional life. Essentially, I won $100 in the building’s costume contest and then an additional $50 gift card through my office’s raffle.

The reason I bring all this up is that the gift card is redeemable through amazon.com and as diverse as the available goods are on said website, they don’t sell any of three things that I really want/need. The three things being, in order:

1. Self-Respect
2. Alcohol
3. Prostitutes

I notice that they also don’t sell condoms. Uptight, pansy, puritan-fucks. I suppose next they’ll be making a stand against snuff films and child pornography.

Really, where do these people get off telling me how I can and can’t spend my company’s ill-gotten wealth? This would almost be enough to make me boycott Amazon altogether, but, shit—it’s the internet. It’s not like there aren’t enough places to find all the rest of the stuff. Except the self-respect, I mean. No matter how much porn I download, I just can’t seem to find any of it. Oh well. Must be a coincidence.

This brings me (in my extremely roundabout way) to the point of this whole post: Please tell me how to spend my money.

See, I tried searching through Amazon.com and there is absolutely way too much shit on there. And I know as soon as I buy one moderately cool thing, I’ll find out that Amazon sells that freaky codpiece from the W.A.S.P. album, a fully-functional replica of Jenna Jameson’s snatch, or the ATHF Foreigner Belt. That’s why I’d like to send you, my trusty minions, out on the unholy quest of finding shit to blow my money on. If anyone comes up with an idea I like enough to actually buy, I will send the winner $10 by PayPal. So once again the rules:

1. The item you suggest must be available on amazon.com
2. Must cost no more than $60 (I’ll go a little over the gift certificate price if it’s really bitchin’)
3. Must be submitted to me by the end of the week (No later than Sunday, November 5th 2006, 11:59 P.M.)
4. There's contact info in my profile (AIM and email) or you can just leave a comment on this post.

So send me your links, bitches, and help make me the envy of my block.