Foraging For Class

I do love my friends, but sometimes I really have to wonder about them. Beyond the attempted Statutory Rape, I mean. Who would have thought that trying to fuck a 14 year-old would have been a sign of sketchiness? Anyway, after years of exposure to them, I tend to forget exactly HOW out there they are…until some event or another makes the fact completely unavoidable.

For example, I had a friend who once supported himself for the better part of a year through the activity we liked to call “Dumpster Diving.” Essentially, he would swing by the dumpsters of local electronics, music, and computer stores after sundown and rummage through, looking for anything worth scavenging. He eventually got so organized, he wrote down the mass-trash pick-ups in the various neighborhoods in our country and used to go trolling through lawns and curbs the night before.

Whenever he found anything interesting, he’d throw it in the back of his station-wagon and lug it back home. Then he’d fix it up and sell it on eBay. I went on a number of excursions with him, and it was (provided you had a strong stomach) actually pretty interesting. As you probably guessed, though, the smells, sights, and over-all levels of classiness were not exactly “appealing.”

That wasn’t what led me to my revelation that he was a strange kid. It would seem that rummaging through trash is not a hobby that sets the ladies aflame. So my friend suffered a terrible dry-spell for about two years. Being the compassionate man that I am, I set-about doing my part to rectify the situation.

I had a friend who we’ll call “Katie” who had met my enterprising friend and, despite the constant exposure to human waste, found him, when showered, highly fuckable. That was all I needed to hear. The next time Katie came into town and I told my infectious friend, “Hey, do you remember that girl I introduced you to a while back? I just found out that she needs a place to stay Firday night...but I’ve already got plans. Is there any way she could crash on your couch for a night?” Game set match.

Saturday morning I got a rundown of the evening from Katie. Working her womanly magic, she managed to get her victim in bed and undressed before he knew what hit him. It was then that he tried vainly to protest.

“Look,” he said in a blushing way, she found absolutely adorable. “I haven’t been with anyone for a really long time. And I don’t know if I’ll be…I mean I might not…”

“Honey,” said Katie, flipping him over on his back in a deft motion. “You just lay back and don’t sweat it. This one’s on me.” Whereupon, she set about fucking his brains out.

I know some good, good women.

It all seemed to be going going to plan. Everyone knew Katie would only be in town for another two nights, and I figured my friend would take full advantage of her obvious availability. No pressure, no commitment, just a cool girl willing and eager to let him vent his long pent-up sexual frustration. Then I was reminded why my friends are completely bat-shit crazy.

The morning after their first encounter, he dropped her off at my house, had some breakfast with us, and left saying he had some things to take care of, but that he’d call her up later.

6 PM: no call
10 PM: no call
2 PM the next day: no call

Katie was a bit of a wreck at this point. She’d gone out of her to be as nice, gentle and non-threatening as possible and here he was jerking her around. I mean, when a guy’s gone two years without sex and he won’t call a girl back for an easy second go-round, it’s hard not to take that as a shot to her ego.

Finally, when she was out of earshot I called up my friend. “Listen, man” I hissed. “What the fuck? You told Katie you were going to call. She just wants to bang you once more before she leaves. Besides, she’s my friend. Just fucking call her so she doesn’t feel like a whore.”

Five minutes later Katie was beaming as her cell phone announced an incoming call from my friend. “He’s going to swing by in like 20 minutes.” She squealed, excitedly. “He said that he’s going to take me out.”

I waved goodbye from the front door as she skipped into his car, two blouse-changes and a fresh layer of make-up later. “You kids have fun.” I said. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do…or if you do, at least take pictures.”

I ambled back to the living room to start working on a guitar part for a recording session…and a twelve pack. I didn’t figure on seeing either again that night. See, two years without sex is a big thing for a guy. At that point, you’re officially a virgin again. Any girl who breaks a streak like that at least deserves to be bought a meal. And who knew if it'd be another two years before he got another oppertunity. I thought for sure he'd keep her up and busy all night.

So needless to say, I was surprised when she was dropped off about an hour and a half later, wearing a very puzzled expression.

“That was fast.” I said. “I didn’t think I’d see you again until tomorrow. What happened?”

“Well, he asked me what I wanted to do and I said that I didn’t know. So he drove me out to some stores.”

“He took you shopping?” I asked.

“Not exactly,” She answered. “He made me wait in the car while he rummaged through dumpsters.”

You know, if I had to think of one activity that would make a girl feel cheaper than never calling her back, I’d be hard pressed to come up with anything more degrading than dumpster diving. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the trash-picking that led to the two year dry spell. It was more likely the fact that the one thing he hadn’t pulled from a dumpster was some fucking class.


P.S. Brother, if you're reading this, you know I love you. That was pretty fucked up, though...but funny. If you're in town for the Holidays give me a ring. We'll slam some Nog together.

14 Will Get You 20

Everyone once in a while you get to see karma at work in such a way that it profoundly affects the way view the world. Suddenly, for a brief second, the curtain is pulled aside and you gaze with awe upon the precision and beauty of the universe’s intricate design. However, it’s not every day that karma uses statutory rape as its instrument.

My friends have never needed an excuse to drink. They’re the type of fellows that would celebrate the Norman Invasion with a three-day binge…provided they were sober long enough to look up the date in the first place. So when one of our gang announced a birthday celebration, my friends needed no further prompting.

The day began with cans of beer at 10 AM in the state park. It was June, so those of us who chose to wear shirts (an overpowering minority) were showing our high social standing and fine fashion sense with wife-beaters. The plan had been to go fishing, but honestly, I don’t remember anyone actually catching anything or attending to the lines. It’s always amused me how a bunch of dudes drinking down by the river is considered “loitering”—unless they happen to be doing it behind fishing poles. In which case it is suddenly a “sport.”

The drinking continued until about 9:30 at night, with only a brief halt for a wardrobe change and steaks, before the party was moved into New York. Somehow, we all managed to pack ourselves into two cars: my friend leading the way in his new 745i series, and me following in my considerably less flashy Honda accord. Both vehicles were filled to the rafters with rowdy, drunk, hollering guys, so as we approached a pair of ladies walking down the street, it came as little surprise when the car ahead of me slowed down to holler at them.

What was shocking was that the women didn’t immediately mace the driver and scream for the cops. My friends are generally nice guys…but after 11 hours of drinking in all-male environment, all bets are off. In fact, I was putting the odds at about 2:1 that everyone in the car would be wearing unsoiled pants at the end of the drive.

“What the fuck are they saying to these chicks?” I asked my passengers. The car had come to a dead halt, and the girls were leaning in to speak to the driver.

Then the girls got into the car. That’s when I realized the evening had taken a turn. “Holy shit!” I announced. “I think they just negotiated a price to gang-bang those two hookers!” The odds that everyone’s trousers would remain on for the duration of the trip had suddenly plummeted.

Two blocks up we arrived at the parking garage, and the boys introduced the rest of us to their conquests.

“Ehren, this is Crystal.” I gingerly reached out to shake the hand of a skanky-looking female. I was sure I had just caught 70 here-to-fore unknown sexual ailments.

“And this is Misty*.” And suddenly I was looking dead into the eyes of a girl that I knew.

Before I had a real job, I used to work as a music teacher at a day camp. The girl shaking my hand had also spent a lot of time at the place—as a camper. She wasn’t a day over 14.

“What the fuck are you doing getting into cars with strange men???” I barked, instantly reverting from sorry-my-friends-are-going-to-run-train-on-your-ass mode to protector of kids in my charge.

“E, don’t be a dick.” said my friend, completely missing the fact that I had a prior relationship with Misty…and that he would be doing serious 15-20 if the evening went the way he envisioned it. “I’m going to make sure nothing happens to this lady tonight.”

And with that he put his arm around the girl and they started off down the street. All I could do was collapse in laughter on the pavement.

When I finally regained breath, one of my friends came up to me and asked, “What the fuck is so funny?”

“It’s just that neither of them have any clue what they’re getting into. What he doesn’t know is that Misty is 14 years-old. What she doesn’t know is that he’s married with two kids.”

Karma is awesome.



*The names of both girls have been changed because they're embarrassingly under-age. For the record, I would have stepped in had things escalated. Turns out it wasn't necissary.

The Worst Part Of Insomnia Is The Fucking Lack Of Sleep

Seeing as how I’ve slept only 6 hours of the last 96 or so, a coherent post is completely out of the question. I mean, let’s face it: even when I am getting something approaching a normal amount of rest, I’m still barely cognizant. So I figured, “Fuck it.” As long as I’m being unintelligible, I might as well go all the way. So I’m drinking.

By the way, there’s nothing unhealthy about drinking alone on a Wednesday night to ease emotional pain is there?

Nah. Besides, I wouldn’t drink alone. The Lord counts as a person, right?

So here we go: the best I can manage being drunk and incapable of lucid thought. I’m not sure I’m capable of being cute and funny. Maybe I’ll have better luck tomorrow.

Each blink sticks my eyelids closed. It’s a sickly-sweet sensation that slides up my skull. I can’t sleep—so blinking will have to do. It’s my guilty pleasure, and my secret sin. Some people shoot heroin. I blink.

I’m clever. It’s not an admirable quality. It’s a hobby, like cross-dressing. It allows me to sneak by and fuck for money, all without exposing myself. Love me, without loving me and don’t kiss me on the lips…or heart.

Today I was accused of being a cold-hearted bastard by a woman who shared my bed once. Just because she’s incorrect doesn’t make her wrong. Maybe just unobservant. Because I don’t lie…especially to those who lie next to me. I’m a baby boy with a flame-thrower. A puppy with jaws of steel.

Lies. I’m nothing so calculated or considered. I’m a lake. When you blow on me and warm my surface, I distort the truth. But when you turn your back, I glass over and reflect the world back with perfect clarity. A mirror perfectly crafted by nature to depict every fault, flaw, and failing. And who the fuck wants to see that when it’s easier to be clever? Or a cross-dresser?

I read back on my words with nothing but contempt. Life is full of unfortunate souls unburdening themselves to no one in particular. And now I’ve become yet another. But here’s the damnedible part: I reflect back at myself. A never-ending series of mirrors, magnifying every fault back to myself for eternity…or till I crack.

Fuck this. I’m off to have another drink. Nothing else seems to help.

Ehren Makes Light Of The Holocaust

With the Holidays fast approaching, I realized that it was high time to make my list, check it twice and find out who was naughty and who was nice. Just like that other guy…what was his name? Oh yeah, Hitler.

Actually, I wonder what kinds of gifts Nazis gave each other at Christmas.

“Frau Smith, you remember that wonderful painting that Ms. Rubenbergstein used to own? Well I slaughtered her children in front of her then made a lampshade from their skin. Merry Christmas!”

Heartwarming.

I’m sorry, that joke was probably in poor taste. Is it too soon for Holocaust jokes? I mean, it’s been like 60 years. Jesus Christ…killers.

Ok, that joke was officially wrong. Especially given that today marks the end of the “Holocaust Deniers Conference.” Ordinarily, I’d question exactly how unbiased this gathering of the minds (and I use the word “minds” loosely here) is. But then I saw that it was held in Iran. And if there’s one country that springs to mind when I think of progressive, impartial, enlightened thinking, it’s Iran. I wonder if Mel Gibson attended.

I have a female friend who converted to Judaism. I know. I was shocked, too. Apparently, she felt that Christians just didn’t have enough guilt in their religion. Personally, I think she was just trying to mooch off my people’s coolness. At any rate, she happens to hail from a tiny town in West Virginia, which led to all sorts of hilarity involving her family and the locals. And by “hilarity” I mean “anti-Semitism.”

Among the more amusing (or disturbing) comments she’s been subjected to was this exchange at work.

Guy From Work: So, now you’re, like, a real Jew?
Newly Jewish Yenta: Uh-huh.
Guy: Wow…So, did you have to get circumcised?

I told her that she would officially become the most religious person I’d ever met if she did.

Weirdly, it always made sense to me that men who wanted to convert had to carve a section of their cock off, while women were spared the genital (or gentile) mutilation. Why? Because most Jewish women resemble each other, meaning unless you wanted to marry a woman eerily like your mother, you needed to make it easy for ladies to join the club.

Unfortunately, I didn’t know this girl when she converted or I would have at least known what to get her for the Holidays. See, the extreme Orthodox Jews only have sex with each other through a sheet with a hole cut in it. It was a slam-dunk that she didn’t have one yet.

On a side note, I don’t condone sex through linens. I mean, this one time I fucked an orthodox Jew with a bedwetting problem and she had rubber sheets. It was fun when she started thrashing around, but towards the end she really got lazy and just laid there. It was like having sex with someone who’d died of asphyxiation or something. When her bowels released, I knew it was time to get the Hell out of there. Crazy broad.

Yeah, since then I don’t sleep with other Jews. Besides, as a religious minority, it’s fun to fuck-over Christians for a change.

Ehren Issues A Retraction. I Suck.

I was thinking just now—I recant my entire previous rant. Seriously, I was looking back at it and I realized, “I’m not pissed off at that girl. I’m pissed off at myself.” She was trying to be nice, and I went out of my way to be a dick, not just to her, but to other people who care about me.

I have the tendency to bite my nails. And by that, I mean “I gnaw them until I bleed and they ache to touch.” Recently, I’ve been realizing what a fantastic metaphor that action is for my personality: self-consuming. Inevitably, I turn all my anger, criticism and discontent upon myself.

It goes through ebbs and flows. Most of the time, it simply makes me work hard. Lately, it’s been out of control, the point that I haven’t been able to sleep at night. It’s demoralizing to get up when your alarm rings, realizing that you just spent the last 7 hours in bed picking apart your flaws rather than sleeping. Today I woke up miserable and ended up turning all my misdirected criticism at an easy target, instead of the place it so richly deserved to go: on myself.

So after being a dick to this very nice girl, I then wrote and posted the last peice: whose ultimate purpose was to get more people to heap the criticism and anger on me I've been providing myself. Because, obviously, I can't even do that right. The whole fucking post was nothing but me pushing the buttons of other people so they'd lash out at me.

At any rate, that’s all shit that I’ve got to deal with. And while I’m all for rage-filled writing, it’s much funnier when the target actually deserves what’s coming. In this case, I was off-base. So basically, I want to apologize and I feel simply pulling the article down won’t do it.

Besides, this whole blog has always been about honesty. It’s why I post any comment left to me, even when they’re stupid or just trying to pick a fight. The last piece was a mistake. But it’s more honest to leave it and post an apology.

I was wrong. Sorry.

Won’t happen again, folks.

Still Alive...And Hating

I’ve heard it said that every strength is also a weakness. I’m beginning to think that’s true, especially when focused on the events of and following my company Christmas party.

First thing’s first, though. Yes, there was plenty of debauchery, flirting, and an inhuman amount of drinking. I never did meet up with Li’l Terrorist…though chances are good I left a number of incoherent, belligerently drunk messages on his voice mail. Jack Saddle, true to form, got thrashed enough to fight not only a bouncer, but also my date. This led to mixed feelings on my part. On one hand, it was hilarious to watch. On the other, it all but guaranteed me going home alone at the end of the night. A co-worker wrote a bit about the goings-on of the night (and about me), but if anyone cares to look, I’ve posted pictures from the evening here.

But on to the fun stuff...well, interesting stuff, anyway. My date for the night was a friend of a friend whom I’d flirted with over text message and via drunken phone call. Though my recollection of the night is hazy, I seem to remember that with the exception of the fight with my friend and a mix-up with a cab, she enjoyed herself. So I decided to find out whether she was planning on visiting my neck of the woods again soon.

Now, here’s where things take a turn and where I realized that my greatest strength is also my Achilles Heel. Jack Saddle once told me that the thing he admired most about me was my willingness to speak my opinion regardless of consequence, be they social or physical. When I inquired whether Ms.-I’ll-Come-To-Your-Party-And-Let-You-Buy-Me –Drinks-All-Night would like to get together again, she became evasive.

This was a tactical mistake. Because I think nothing of telling someone, “You’re too ugly for me to date” I assume that everyone has the balls to be upfront. So when I hear phrases like, “I’ve got a lot of work coming up,” “I just got out of a relationship,” and “I don’t know when I’ll be in the area again” I take them not as a kind attempt to spare my feelings, but as a sign that I’m not even thought highly enough of to be spoken to as an adult.

The fact that the stories were so weak is just an additional slap in the face. I mean, as long as we’re lying, why not come up with some amusing lies.

• “I can’t date you because I’m already married to the sea.”
• “Tomorrow I’m returning to my home-planet with information to enslave mankind.”
• “I no speak English.”
• “I’ve already been impregnated by the Lord. He’s HUGE and, frankly, I don’t think you’ll measure up.”
• “I’m really a man.”
• “I’d love to! But just so we get this out of the way now: I have herpes. How’s Friday at 8 sound?”

Maybe I’m out of line, but I just want to be treated with honesty. That’s all I ask. I lashed out at this girl in a way that was probably uncalled for: picking apart her every excuse and refusing to simply crawl off crushed and humiliated.

I’m looking back at it now completely unsure whether I was right or wrong. If I were really interested in this girl, the correct thing to do would be to let the issue drop and go back to being charming and funny until she gave me another chance. But it goes so against my nature to repress my feelings…plus, fuck that. Weak lies deserve nothing less than instant and shameless retribution.

She’s a nice girl, and I don’t carry any sort of grudge against her, but she’s got some work to do if she wants to repair the damage she’s done to my opinion of her. Then again, I suppose that she doesn’t really care. That’s sort of the point of all this.

OK, enough of me venting. Tomorrow I’ll be back with funny shit. Provided I don’t get an email that my New Year’s date is going to busy “Washing her hair.”

Nothing Today

Apparently, just because they pay me a salary my office thinks this gives them license to "boss me around." Losers. Between that, buying liquor, picking up women and wreaking havoc on Lower Manhattan, there's no time for blogging today.

I shall return tomorrow, however, thoroughly hung-over and equipped with many pictures and tales of daring misadventures.

If you're drinking tonight, have a shot of jack for me.

Ehren: Fascist Dictator Of Lunch Breaks

While I appreciate the saying “Seize the Day,” I feel that the phrase doesn’t quite capture my true level of intensity when it comes to getting shit done. I don’t so much "seize" it as much as I "drug it, bind it, throw it in my trunk, drive it out to the desert, penetrate it’s every orifice in ways that would violate all decency or feelings of self-worth, and leave it sobbing and broken on the side of interstate 50."

I’m not like this all the time—just when I’ve got something to do. Which is why I put out on the first date. Or at least rub one out in her soup when she goes to check her make-up.

Today’s lunch break was a good example of my “Rape the Moment” philosophy. Generally, I spend my lunch periods napping on the couch in the break room, or violating all laws of decency (and sexual harassment) joking with co-workers. Of course, there was that one super-productive day when I multitasked and did both. Let’s just say it involved a wet-dream in the break room.

Today, however, my eyes were on a prize far-greater than the mere dry-humping of a $3000 couch. Tomorrow night is my company’s Christmas party and, seeing as I make up a good portion of the company’s hardest-drinking department, the rumors were thick in the air. Let’s put it this way: we’re pre-gaming an open-bar event. That should give you an idea of the levels of depravity I fully expect to surpass tomorrow evening. Word is that we also have a VIP table at a club for afterwards.

I believe that anything worth doing is worth doing in style. And as I anticipate being fired first thing the next morning, really the only thing to do was look sharp as I destroyed my career binging on off-color humor, women, and Jack Daniels. It was with that in mind that I decided to go clothes shopping.

1:35: Get up from my desk and recruit two co-workers/fashion advisors. I’ve learned the hard way that I desperately require a babysitter when shopping. Shopping alone has led to such questionable decisions as FUBU shirts, blue velvet pants, and prescription welder’s goggles.

1:40: Arrive at a men’s clothing store that sports a huge sign reading “Liquidation Sale! Everything must go!” I’m Jewish. Lay off me.

1:41: I’m the only white man in the store. I resist the urge to demand the clerk “dress me like Jay Z's drug-dealer.”

1:43: I find a suit that looks pimptastic. My advisors let me know I’m not hallucinating.

1:44: The salesman fits me for the pants. I enjoy being felt up a little more than is appropriate. Such is the price when I skip my afternoon masturbation session.

1:50: I leave the store with a receipt for a brand new suit in my pocket and turn my attention to my date situation. The alternative is being molested by drunk women from sales as per last year. This is far less fun than it sounds, as the phrase “more loquacious than a cattle auctioneer and roughly as feminine” is shockingly accurate. It’s your word of the day, fuckers. Look it up.

1:52: I have successfully uninvited a girl I know is notoriously antisocial and now have plans with a hot Italian girl. I am mother-fucking Benito Mussolini: partly because of my ability to get shit done but mostly because of my sinister plot to defile and enslave the Italian people...or at least their women, anyway.

To put my lunchtime of kicking-ass into perspective, while I was out plotting an evening to set the progress of women back 50 years, my co-worker stood on line at a deli and ordered a sandwich. I won’t say whose time was more productive, but unless his sandwich had an ass that was so large, round and perfect that it made smaller asses orbit it, I’m guessing it was me.

“How was your lunch?” a co-worker asked, as I assumed my on-going project of turning a leather couch into a biological disaster.

“It was great!” I responded. “I bought a suit and got a date.”

“Sounds productive.”

“Yeah. It really makes me think of all the similarities: both are dark, on sale, and of course, I hope to be inside each of them for a generous portion of the night.”

Everyone In My County Has Brain Damage

I may be just an awkward white kid from the suburbs, but at least I have one saving grace: I KNOW that I am. I wouldn’t bother pretending that I’m a thug, or a club rat, or a prostitute/hotel heiress. What you see is what you get. It’s one of those qualities about myself I never really admired until recently.

Saturday was my friend’s birthday, and so, with expectations of drunken debauchery in my head, I drove into the bar area of my little suburban neighborhood. I must have been out of my fucking mind. Because apparently, I’m the only person in the county who realizes how fucking lame my county is.

As I pulled into a parking place, four girls stumbled across the road in front of me. The temperature was, conservatively, 34 degrees. Between, they had enough fabric to make one shirt that would struggle to conceal the torso of one of those starving african kids they show in the commercials. Which was ironic, because no one could ever have thought for a moment these girls were in danger of starving to death. Rather, they looked as if they had been force-fed butter, bacon, and congealed hog-fat around the clock for the last 20 years or so.

Really, the only hint I had that the beings weaving their unsteady way across the double yellow line in front of me actually had overies was the shitty make up that slathered across their faces. One of the girls had a belly shirt that was desperately fighting a losing battle with the enormous gut that was making a bid at consuming her blouse and too-tight pants leather pants. Seriously, if the lighting had been better, I guarantee I could have seen an outline of every wrinkle of her bloated vagina. It looked like Jaba the Hutt had gotten a make-over from a blind, transvestite prostitute.

Desperately trying to put the walking horror show from my mind, I headed off to the bar to meet my friends. Now, there’s a clear delineation, in my mind, between bars and clubs. Bars are places you go to get shit-faced on cheap beer and/or whiskey. Clubs are places you go if you’re into sipping champagne, looking bored, and wearing body glitter. I arrived at the agreed upon meeting point that was, in my mind, a bar. Why? BECAUSE IT’S IN THE MIDDLE OF ROCKLAND FUCKING COUNTY. The closest thing approaching a “scene” in 20 square miles was the 11th graders sipping stolen beer in their mom’s basement. That’s it. End of fucking list.

When I arrived there, however, there were two new features: velvet ropes and line outside. Never seriously entertaining for a moment that people would bother standing on line to get into a bar in the home of the world’s lamest night life, I proceeded to simply walk into the place—only to be stopped by a bouncer.

“You can’t come in.” he said.
“Huh?” I asked intelligently.
“Back of the line.”

It was only then that I turned my attention to the people waiting for admittance: hair-gel. Sunglasses. Leopard print pants.

“Wait, you people are actually waiting in line for a bar? You do realize that this is Rockland County, right?”
“Dude. Maxim is holding a party in there. It’s going to be rad.”
“And you’re hoping to over-power one of the maxim girls with your cologne? Jesus, did you use the whole bottle?”
“Man, whatever. This party’s going to be off the hizzle.”

That’s when I knew I had to leave. Because I didn't want to have to shatter his skull against the pavement. If the kid in front of me were any paler, he would have been in imminent danger of being mistaken for a snowman--provided snow men wear armani shirts open at the chest and bathe in Aqua Velva. Besides, I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was roughly as black and gangsta as Rick Moranis…of course, that was before the escalade piloted by a 23 year-old white kid drove by, blasting rap.

It’s then that I realized: apparently, I was the only person in town that night who didn’t think he was something he wasn’t. I knew I wasn’t a hot model. I knew I wasn’t black. Most importantly, I knew that I was in Rockland fuck County. And until the rest of you fat, brain-damaged white kids figure that out, I’m through with the night life.

The "Training" Of A Girl

Every once in a while you come across an experience that your mind simply refuses to accept. For example, every time I see an advertisement for a movie starring Paris Hilton. It’s like you’re watching it, but you can’t believe that someone would be dumb enough to think “Hey, this is a really good idea.”

Such was an experience I had a few months with a girl. Let me warn you: what you’re about to read is not for the weak stomached. I’ve been on dates with some fucked-up women before, but this tale takes the cake, platter and table-cloth of bad judgment. And this is from someone who’s been on a first date where a girl prattled on about her abortion party.

Now, the female in question and I had hooked up a few times—nothing too serious, but enough that she felt comfortable enough to drunk dial me at odd times and send me long, rambling emails. It was sweet. However, what was rapidly becoming clear was that she was interested in something beyond purely physical.

I respect that. But at the same time, I didn’t see her frequently enough that I saw any real harm in letting her know that the feelings weren’t completely mutual. Three hook-ups in a year do not qualify as a relationship.

I was at work one day when I got a phone call from Ms. I-Want-To-Date-You. She didn’t have anything approaching a steady job, so I was used to phone calls at strange hours. What I wasn’t prepared for was the story she launched into.

It seems that the night before she had attended a party. After walking around for a while and downing an obscene amount of Malibu, she began flirting with a guy she met. She was a fairly attractive girl with an insatiable sex-drive so as the cocoanut rum worked its magic on her insides, she decided to take matters in to her own hands as it were. She promptly led the guy upstairs to an unused room, stripped him down, and rode him like a theme-park ride.

None of this was especially disturbing to me: she and I weren’t exclusive by any means. I saw no moral reason for her not to have fun. But here’s where the story takes a turn.

Turns out that our hero, in her rum-addled state, had forgotten she’d invited a guy to the party as her date. Her date arrived only to find that she is suspiciously missing in action. By which I mean “being fucked like the South fucked black people.” At long last, someone mentions to our poor boy that they saw his date heading upstairs not too long ago.

Fortunately (or un depending on your point of view) Boy Number One had just finished up defiling the young lady in ways that would make a Bangkok hooker blush, and passed Boy Number Two on the stairs. Boy Number Two opens to the door to find our girl, nude, flushed, and spread eagle on the bed from an invasion that had made the Crusades seem soft and romantic.

“Wow!” he said. “Have you been waiting for me?”

“What did you do?” I asked. At this point I was completely engaged in the story.

“Well,” she answered. “I kinda felt bad. I mean I HAD invited him…and it seemed rude to have sex with someone else while on a date with him.”

“So?” I asked.

“So I fucked him, too.”

I let that soak in for a moment. “So you had sex with two different guys inside of 40 minutes?”

“Yeah. Am I a bad person?”

“Did either of them know?”

“Well, Guy Number Two MUST have known. I mean, neither one of them used protection.”

My stomach did a long, slow summersault and clenched like the asshole of a felon his first night in prison. I felt nauseous.

Now, I’m not one to throw a moral hissy-fit regarding anyone’s sexual behavior. Different people like different shit, and Lord knows I’ve done my share of weird things, some of which I’m not particularly proud of. But it is simply beyond my comprehension how anyone, ANYONE could think that this was a good story to tell to a dude you wanted to date. I mean, short of coming clean about an interest incestuous necrophilia, that’s probably the worst choice ever made. This makes Paul McCartney’s prenupt-less marriage look like a brilliant stroke of strategic planning.

As I struggled to keep my breakfast down, I realized she was still speaking.

“So,” she asked. “When will I see you again?”

“After you’ve been tested.”

Click.