My Birthday Celebration

While there are a few qualities I enjoy about sharing my birthday with a major holiday, all in all it overwhelmingly sucks. Ever since I can remember, my friends have always had other plans when it comes to celebrating my birth. Turns out they feel as if they owe their loyalty Jesus. Traitors.

I spent most of Saturday afternoon alone in my room, reading Tucker Max’s book cover to cover, fully expecting to see no one but my family for the next three days. So when my phone rang that evening and I heard that my friends were assembling to drink, I was ecstatic. Finally, people would be around to celebrate my birthday and, more importantly, buy me alcohol.

What I had that night was a perfect storm of drinking mayhem. And I proceeded to annihilate all traces of decency, dignity, and vomit control in a hurricane of Vodka-sodas.

I might very well have been drunker on Saturday night than I have ever been in my life. The results were either hilarious or depressing, depending on which side you were on. But below is what I recall of the night. Keep in mind that most of the second half of the evening had to be traced together through eye-witness accounts, here-say, call-logs, and the allegations of a few thoroughly harassed bouncers.

I arrived at the bar at just about 10:15. After a few pre game drinks and a day of Tucker Max exposure, I was amped up like a ferret on Crystal Meth. My friends’ insistence on buying rounds, coupled with my inability to turn down drinks turned me from an aggressive drinker to a combative one. I downed about five pints of Vodka and Soda inside the first twenty minutes. I was full of holiday spirits. Provided they were vodka.

To prove this point, I launched myself into a group of drinkers. “What the fuck are you all drinking?” I bellowed by way of a greeting. “It's Christmas! If you pansies don’t do a shot with me right now, you’ll make baby Jesus cry!”

“Huh?” they managed. Given the sheer volume and intensity of my verbal assault, they did well to manage even that. I was lucky not to have been maced on the spot.

One of my friends tugged on my arm. “Dude, you have to chill out. You’re going to get tossed out before your birthday.”

I considered the possibility, acknowledged the likelihood and decided to ignore this sound logic anyway.

“Bar keep!” I barked. The entire bar turned. Maybe I was talking louder than I thought. “It’s a Yuletide celebration. What would Jesus drink?”

“Wine?” said the bartender after a pause.

“Vodka and Soda it is!” I responded. “And make it a man-sized drink, this time. What do you have that’s larger than a pint?”

I arrived back at my table just as one of my friends announced he was heading to the bar. “Who needs a drink?” he inquired.

“I do!” I proclaimed, waving my full glass as proof. I promptly downed the entire double of vodka and soda. This is my last clear memory of the evening.

Around 11:15 (or three doubles later), I decided that this establishment was incapable of picking any decent music without my supervision. I also became aware, briefly, that I was talking way too loudly, as people four tables over tried to shush me each time I opened my mouth.

Marching over to the jukebox I saw a table of four girls, only one of them even marginally attractive. They were engaged in some quiet, deeply emotional debate about their feelings. They held each other’s hands and smiled reassuringly at one another. What they weren’t doing, however, was paying any attention to me. A costly error.

“Listen,” I demanded at full volume, flinging myself into their midst. “It’s obvious that none of you will ever meet a man. Make yourselves useful and watch my drink.”

This witty remark somehow failed to win their undying love. I didn’t care. I deposited my drink in their midst and headed over to the jukebox, where I was appalled to find that the cost was a dollar a tune. In my alcohol soaked mind, this was tantamount to highway robbery. And if I was unhappy, others were going to share my discomfort. Unfortuntaley for them, the flab four were the people closest to me. Guns blazing, I threw myself back into their midst.

“A dollar a song!!!” I yelled at them before they could open their mouths and prepare for my second pass. “That’s like, 10 dollars a song. And I’m going to need every cent of that money to make any of you seem even slightly attractive.”

“Leave us alone, asshole.” Exclaimed the marginally fuckable one. I assumed she was the leader. Maybe because she was the only one able to stop eating cheeseburgers long enough to talk. Dimly, I recalled some militant group saying that respect was given to those who demanded it. Backing down was not an option.

“Honey, honey.” I said in a soothing voice. “It’s obvious you’re aroused and frightened because I’m way more attractive than you. Don’t worry. Maybe our kids will look like me.”

“I’m calling the bouncer.” She announced, leaving the table.

“Scrooge!” I shouted after her. “It's the season of giving! How can you be so stingy with your vagina? It’s not like you’ve been using it.”

Sensing I’d worn out my welcome (really, where did I go wrong?), I decided it was time to make a get-away lest the bouncer decide to take Shamu and the rest of her Sea World menagerie seriously. After all, I had been shouting non-stop for about an hour and a half. I downed my drink and sent my friend to get me another one. I remember nothing else of the night.

What you have to keep in mind was that it was still only 11:30 or so. I DIDN’T EVEN MAKE IT TO MIDNIGHT AND MY BRITHDAY. Among the more amusing actions that followed over the course of the next 30 minutes, and my subsequent inability to stay vertical, were (as recounted by my friends):

• Yelling sexually harassing comments at two women on my cell phone through use of the call-waiting feature. Fortunately, I did stop eventually: to vomit—WHILE THE GIRLS WERE STILL ON THE LINE.
• Inviting everyone in the bar to come on vacation with me the following weekend.
• Head-butting my sister in the stomach when she insisted we leave before midnight.
• Making up fake names and identities for strangers and introducing them to my friends.
• Getting kicked out of an Irish bar for being drunk.

I was well beyond shit-housed. The kicker of the story, however, was waking up the next morning, and deciding to attempt to drive home. Obviously, I was out of my mind, as I didn’t even know where I was…and still drunk. I always keep my keys in my right pocket, so instinctively, my hand shot down to retrieve them. However, I had supremely underestimated my level of inebriation. I struggled with my pants for about two minutes, before giving up and holding the pillow over my throbbing head in defeat. That’s right, folks. I WOKE UP TOO DRUNK TO WORK MY POCKETS.

Now that’s a fucking birthday celebration. Next year, I'm asking for a new liver and Motrin.

Rape Me: A True Friendship Story

Sometimes, you come across a situation where you just have to do something for a friend’s own good. They might protest, argue and curse you out, but deep down, they’ll respect you the more for it—especially once they sober up. Below is such a tale.

When Jack Saddle, my close personal friend, turned 21, I took it on myself to make sure that a truly epic night of debauchery was realized. The way I saw it, four things were needed to ensure an evening equal to this epic event:

1. Copious amounts of alcohol
2. A designated driver
3. Easily available women
4. An adversary

Number one was readily available at any bar. Just to be sure, however, we visited five different establishments. I was happy to take over the role of item number two. Number three was available—but only on the condition that I was ready take on the duties of number four, as well.

Allow me to explain. Jack dated a girl his senior year of high school who I periodically kept in touch with. After a falling-out that included Jack calling all of her college friends “dumb, white, rich brats,” the two had parted ways. Through my contact with the Ex, whom we’ll call Leanne, I knew that she was ready, willing, and drooling for the opportunity to jump Jack once more. Jack, on the other hand, was more or less completely repulsed by her personality. However, I was counting on two things:

1. Leanne’s truly spectacular breasts
2. Jack’s repeated inability to refuse spectacular breasts when drunk.

However, Jack could never know precisely what I was plotting in advance. The second he thought I was trying to get him to sleep with his ex, I knew he’d put up his guard and protest. So instead, I got Leanne to bring friends with her and we met up with them under the pretense that we were trying to set him up with one of the friends.

Around 1 AM, I surveyed my progress: Jack, after a truly heroic number of vodka-cranberries and Hennessey was chatting with the girls, while staring down Leanne’s blouse with an intensity that was bordering on creepy. Said curvy female was sending “fuck me” vibes across the table so loudly, I became seriously concerned that she was going to dive over the table and rape him. It was time to move to Phase 2.

Herding everyone into my car, I began to drive back to the friends’ house. Leanne asked if I’d drop her off first.

“Wait,” said Jack as we pulled to a stop. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

He got out of the car. I began to think that my plot would go off without a hitch.

“Ehren,” he said, coming up to the driver’s side window as Leanne beckoned him from her front porch. “Don’t leave me here.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m serious, Ehren. Don’t fucking leave me here. I don’t want to fuck her. Swear that you won’t leave me.”

“I swear.”

“You PROMISE?”

“I promise.”

“Ehren, I’ll seriously be pissed if you leave.”

“I won’t leave.”

I waited about 15 seconds after the door closed and pealed out like a stunt driver in The Fast and the Furious. I must have left two inches of rubber outside her driveway.

Three hours later I returned, threw rocks at their window, and started walking back to the car to wait for Jack to reappear.

"Three hours ought to be enough." I thought to myself. Obviously, I underestimated my friend's endurance.

Because at that moment, Leanne was bent over the couch in her front room, with Jack balls-deep inside her. Meaning both of them had a full view of me throwing rocks and my subsequent walk towards my car. Leanne probably assumed that I'd head home and meet up with them in the morning. However, she failed to take Jack's fear of abondonment and loathing of her personality into account. In his drunk, post-rape trauma paranoia (fueled by the fact I’d ditched once already this evening), Jack saw his one chance at escape and pounced on it. Leaving Leanne mid-thrust, still bent over the couch, he went tearing out of the house, pants around his ankles, screaming hysterically, “DON’T LEAVE ME, YOU BASTARD!!! DAMN YOU EHREN!!!NOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

Hastily arranging her skirt Leanne came pounding out of the house three steps behind, yelling after him, “Jack, it’s fine if you want to stay the night. Why don’t you come back inside and get your shirt?”

It’s hard to prepare for a Dukes of Hazard type get-away, while incapacitated by laughter. I did my best.

Jack hastily yelled, “No thank you” over his shoulder as he threw himself headlong into the backseat. For the second time that night, I pealed out of Leanne’s driveway, leaving her alone in the middle of her front lawn, with a very bewildered look on her face—not surprising considering a scant 20 seconds before she had been mid-coitus.

He climbed into the passenger seat and we drove in silence for about two minutes. I stole a glance over at him. The bleary, drained, relaxed and confused expression on his face spoke volumes. It looked as if he’d been molested by some 100-women harem, certain they'd never see another man again.

“Thanks” he finally said.

Hey, what are friends for?

***After speaking with Jack, I realized that the first version of this post, in which he came running out while peeing, was incorrect. Above is the true chronicle of the night.

Ehren Argues (Fruitlessly) With A Fanatic

For years and years I harbored the illusion that you could change someone’s mind simply by proving they were wrong. I guess it’s because I always tried to figure shit out for myself. So when I ran into ideas that challenged my beliefs, I’d try to look at them as analytically as possible and if they made sense, I’d adopt them.

I’ve since discovered that this is not a trait shared by everyone.

This country, I’ve decided, is no longer run by people of different political views. It’s run (and over-run) with people so far beyond hope, common sense, and compromise, that they’ve become religious fanatics. On both sides.

Ordinarily, I let politics lie because I end up getting so incensed at the candidates, that I almost induce a stroke. But every once in a while, I stumble across someone with a crazy viewpoint who otherwise seems so sane and articulate that I can’t help but stick my nose in. Because I keep thinking that maybe I can convince him if I keep showing him the other side in an intelligent, respectful, and humorous way.

Needless to say, I’m always disappointed. For example, a few months back I stumbled across the blog of a religious conservative. Every day he picks a new target, tears them a new asshole because they have an alternative opinion and ends with some statement like “John Stewart, why do you hate America?” Completely missing the point (in my opinion) that the whole point of the U.S. is that we’re supposed to have dissenting points of view. Because otherwise we’re a dictatorship.

Anyway, I couldn’t help but comment on one of his posts where he called someone anti-American because they didn’t agree with the reasons for the War in Iraq. We went back and forth over the place of civil disobedience and the market-place of ideas before he finally said, “After September 11th it is the duty of every true American to support our Divinely-Appointed President.”

That’s when I realized that no matter how much this guy read, at heart he would never be anything more than a crazy, bible-toting nut. The point of a debate is to prove your argument using logic and facts. And while you might believe Bush is divinely appointed, there’s no way to prove it. Personally, I think the fact that he’s possibly the worst public speaker since Dan Quayle is a shot to the whole “Divinely appointed” title, but that’s just me.

I check back at the blog every once in a while, just to see what the lunatic is ranting against this month. Today, it just happened to be the whole “Xmas” uproar about how using a contraction causes the land to whither, babies to die, and men to commit bestiality. Even though I KNEW there was no shot in Hell I would get him to change his mind, I couldn’t help myself. My favorite part about this blog is the more rationally I tear apart his ideas, the more he blindly gropes for wild religious statements he can’t actually defend.

Enjoy, and feel free to try to convince him of the error in his ways. Or else just say, “Fuck it” and come back tomorrow when I talk about Jack Saddle’s favorite birthday ever. Hint: involves nudity.

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.