Ehren Ridicules Rednecks

My girlfriend grew up in West Virginia. One of the benefits of dating someone from the region (aside from some spirited games of “free the slaves” and “pretend I'm daddy in the corn silo”) is that you get to hear such weird stories as the one below.

Apparently, one of the friends she keeps in touch with is involved with a girl who sent him this letter:

"Handsome Prince,

I have been thinking of you with smiles all over my face and in my heart. I hope you are having a great day serving the Lord and I can not wait to see you tonight to hear all about your day. You are a wonderful man of God...so kind and prayerful, smart and fun, hardworking and loving. Thank you for your leadership in our relationship. God willing, I will have you in my life forever.

'You are a blessing to me. I thank my God every time I remember you.' Phi 1:3

Have a lovely day living for Jesus.
Love,
Your Beautiful Princess, Tammie-Lynne"


Usually I leave the Christianity ridicule to Flumadiddle. She’s way better at it. But when Middle America allows such a tender, underage choirboy to fall into my evil, priest-like clutches, I’d be remiss if I didn’t nail him harder than the Jews nailed Christ.

It’s not often that you write a love letter and mention another man almost as much as your boyfriend. There are seven sentences in the letter above. God appears in five of them. Personally, I’d be a little offended if I received that letter. And seeing as how God would smite me down if I was seen speaking with a woman (or as the church calls them “wicked sperm-receptacles”); I’d have no recourse but to write her back.

“Wench,

you mean I rocked your world with all those hot, sweaty hand-holdings; spent all those afternoons denigrating women and minorities; and attended all those book-burnings with you only to play second fiddle to the 'I am'? Remember that time we held each other and cried all night because you accidentally saw my underwear and were thus (according to Father Jesse-Luke) a filthy, filthy whore of Babylon?

As a man, God clearly decrees I am your owner and master. In the future, please refer to me as such, particularly when bad-touching your naughty-hole and crying furiously.

Yours in Christ,
Master Billy-Jim-Bob-Luther-Ray”

Seriously, my favorite part of her letter is the sentence “Thank you for your leadership in our relationship.” I wonder how long it is before she’s making supper, being beaten with a mule bridle, and popping out a kid every eight months. Why eight months? Well, waiting the full nine would be slothful, a sin against the Lord. Kids are basically done after eight months. An’ aint no child of mine gonna laze around the womb for an extra month, makin’ baby Jesus cry. And havin’ sex and enjoying it? Wicked. That’s why I’s gots to inseminate her afore she heals up good.

Sorry, that last scenario got a little too vivid. I almost knocked my teeth out, bought overalls, took up banjo, and started talking about “the coloreds.” God, I love being from the North.

Liebrows

The biggest transition a man has to make when making the transformation from single to “in a relationship” (or, as it’s sometimes pronounced “prison”) is what to do with one’s eyes in the presence of a hot female. This is especially true when you’re hanging out with your significant other. When you’re single, no one cares how much you eye-rape the hot girl standing in checkout in front of you…other than her 6’10” body-builder boyfriend, that is.

We men are a weak bunch. We see boobs and it’s a natural reaction to look. Temptation lurks beneath every blouse, tank top and sweater. It's your job, as a relationship guy, to avoid temptation and maintain eye-contact with any other shapely females. Never, EVER let your eyes stray elsewhere.

My girlfriend and I were eating lunch when a I noticed a girl sitting not-too far away. I suddenly realized that I was going to break the cardinal rule of checking out girls. Eye-contact was simply not an option...but for a totally unexpected reason. She was not especially attractive. Nor did she have any particularly stunning curves. She wore an outfit that probably would have looked more fetching on a clothes-hanger…which was good, because she filled them out roughly as well. She’d have to gain 20 pounds to be considered emaciated. What was fascinating to me was her use of make-up.

I know what a whore looks like. I’ve been to Buffalo, ok? I’ve seen my share of questionable make-up jobs, but I’ve never, EVER seen anything quite like what this girl had done. Normally I’m of the opinion that the less hair a girl has the better. I mean, nothing kills the mood like flossing pubic hair out your teeth mid-kiss. But this girl had taken the idea to whole new level. I’d never actually seen someone go to the length of shaving off her own eyebrows, just so she could pencil them back on. Until then, that is.

Her new, artistically created brows were as skinny and starving looking as she herself. I kept desperately hoping that she wouldn’t notice my eyes traveling up to sneak a peak at them as she ate. They never moved. They weren’t even the same color as her hair. When she got up to go to the bathroom, I half-expected her to return with the brows having migrated to a different portion of her face. Like a Hitler mustache and a goatee. Hey, it couldn’t possibly have looked any less natural.

I have to admit, I probably only heard about three words the girl said all afternoon. All I could think of was the logistics of maintaining those eyebrows.

Did she draw them on each morning? Or did she just sharpie them on one morning about 6 years ago? Maybe she got them tattooed on?

I think that if you’re going to the trouble of scribbling on your own eyebrows each day, why not use them to fuck with people? I think I’d wake up each morning, decide on an expression and create my eyebrows accordingly.

“Today I think I’ll be ANGRY.” Whereupon I’d grab a huge, black marker and draw enormous slanty lines above my eyes. I figure that would instill my every comment for the rest of the day with a new meaning.

“Hey, want to go to lunch?”
“NOOOOO!!!”
“What the fuck is Ehren so pissed about?”

It might also be fun to install white, erase board on my forehead and manually draw in your own expressions when appropriate:

• Angry
• Intrigued
• Confused
• Sad
• Surprised
• And, my personal favorite, unibrow.

These are the kinds of ideas that prevent me from getting into the really good clubs.

Ehren Vists The South

I knew it was going to be an interesting vacation when, after checking into the bed & breakfast in the center of Fredericksburg, VA, I found that a bottle of Scotch was included with the room. Scotch and a canopy bed. What more could a man ask for?

Seriously, they served scotch with breakfast. On the same table as corn flakes. It took every ounce of willpower not to pour it over my cereal and mix it with my orange juice. I can just imagine the looks of horror as I became louder and more belligerent over the course of breakfast before finally screaming, “WHO THE FUCK PUT CORNFLAKES IN MY SCOTCH???”

All in all, the weekend really brought home the John Cusack quote from the movie “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil”:

"This place is fantastic; it's like "Gone with the Wind" on mescaline. They walk imaginary pets here, Garland - -on a fucking leash. And they're all heavily armed and drunk. New York is boring!"

Further proof that I was in for an interesting experience was when we had a brief conversation with the inn’s proprietor:

“So, where are you from?”
“Just outside of New York.”
“Oh…well, you should still be ok. Just don’t tell anyone you’re from the North.”

Obviously, I had no idea what the fuck I was getting myself into.

Wandering around the quaint, little town I quickly noticed two things:

1. People in Fredericksburg fucking LOVE ice cream. There must have been 15 shops for the stuff in the tiny place, and they were all open. In February.
2. The Motto for the state is, apparently, “Virginia is for lovers.”

Now, I’m sure a bunch of people are expecting an incest joke here. My friends, I would never pick on the slow, inbred, racist residents below the Mason-Dixon line like that. Instead, I’m going to hypothesize that given their obvious insatiable hunger for ice cream, that the motto should more accurately be changed to “Virginia is for FAT lovers.” Sort of like the official state for chubby chasers.

While I saw many strange and glorious things on my trip, the winner, hands down was this little place off the side of one of the main roads:



That’s right. It’s a Drive-Through or Walk-Up Bar-B-Que place, converted from a drive-in bank. Just for education of anyone who’s considering actually visiting a place that lets you order Bar-B-Que sauce by the gallon: the food there is strictly for torture or initiation purposes. I actually went so far as to sample the food. It was as if an angry, hammer-wielding dwarf was attacking my colon. In retrospect, downing a healthy portion of questionable meat product before a four hour car-ride was NOT one of my better ideas. I may need to hire an exorcist before my pants (or car) smell the same again.

I can see him now: spritzing Holy Water on my seat, starting the wash and yelling “The power of Christ compels you! The power of Christ compels you” as the washing machine spins demonically and climbs the ceiling.

Of course, the weekend wasn’t ALL bad. And not just because of the brandy and girlscout cookie dinner. Sometimes, a picture really is worth a thousand words, and while I COULD type them all out, I just feel so dirty writing “eight-rope money-shot.” So just enjoy this picture instead.

Nothing Says "I Love You" Like V.D.

Over the last few days, I’ve been struggling with my blog, self-image, and writing motivations. I’m caught in a situation where something has changed in my personal life that, while wonderful, affects each of those elements. I have once again taken the plunge and am involved in a relationship.

This is the second time I’ve been here and the first time, frankly, I fucked everything up royally. I began writing substantially less about sex and girls out or respect to my girlfriend, but I didn’t want to change the tone of my blog, so I never came right out and included her in my writing. The result was a lot of mediocre posts that still infuriated my significant other and left me frustrated. I’m determined to do a better job this time around.

Look, I’m never going to be that guy blathering on about two-person bicycles, lingering kisses, and tender hand-holding sessions. It’s just not going to happen. But something’s got to give. I’ve changed and so my writing here must change with me or else it’s all just bullshit.

So basically, I’ve decided to try to get back to expressing my random thoughts. Maybe they won’t have so much to do with horrible dates with random broads anymore. But I feel confident that my life is interesting enough to provide me with plenty of material for as long as it continues. I’ll be sure to include as much entertainment as I can that doesn’t plunge my life into turmoil….well, more turmoil than normal.

I’m sure some of you are wondering what kind of girl it takes to win over a hopeless misanthrope like myself. To give you an idea, here’s a brief story.

A while back when I had a killer case of insomnia, she sent me two stuffed, plush microbes as a gift: Sleeping Sickness, and Syphilis.

Obviously, she’s a deliciously warped character. Add to that unbelievable smarts, a stripper body and the fact that she fucks like a porn star and ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a winner. For the record, though, playing guitar, loving the Yankees, and owning a schoolgirl outfit didn’t hurt, either.

Perhaps some of you are recoiling now. “Is this the end of the old, bitter, callus, insensitive Ehren?” I hear you ask. I’d like to think not. I spent a couple days wandering about the country, meeting interesting people, seeing weird sights…and mocking them all endlessly. Being in love does not, apparently, decrease my levels of sarcasm or my need to shameless kick people when they’re down. But I’ll get to the South tomorrow.

See you then, bitches.

The Chocolate Get-Away or "Put A Coaster Under That"

Dear readers, it’s high time I introduce you to yet another of my friends, at least as interesting as Jack Saddle. Given the proximity to Valentine’s Day, it’s only appropriate that my first tale of him has to do with a very special kind of romance. Ladies and Gentlemen, meet my dear friend Chocolate Loving.

Chocolate was flirting with a co-worker one day, when he found an interesting tidbit of information: she was a born-again Christian, opposed to premarital sex. It was not the first time that my friends had encountered said religious opposition to loving. While it’s not always a death-knell for sex, it is a warning flag. I had a friend who broke up with a girl when she found Jesus. To this day he says, “Things were never the same after the Pope told her to stop having sex with me.” It was probably the right move on his part.

Chocolate made note of the comment, filed it away for future reference, and changed tactics. He didn’t exactly ignore the girl. After all, she might have hot, Satan-worshipping friends, who were desperate for cock. So he toned down his flirting and began paying more attention to the girls who were friends of sin.

If psychology (and Taoism) has taught us nothing else, it’s that we pursue that which retreats from us. Often, it would seem, with our mouths. Which is how, a few scant days after declaring Jesus wanted her to stop fucking more guys than the Alimony laws, she found herself in the passenger seat of Chocolate’s car in the parking lot behind the office, sucking him like his dick forgave sins.

I’ve never understood the logic of deeply religious people when it comes to sex. God doesn’t want us to screw. Before marriage. And then only if you don’t enjoy it. Seems like a weird way to live. Fuck that. In the words of George Carlin, “If God didn’t want us to masturbate He would have made our arms shorter.” Frankly, I believe that if God didn’t want us to masturbate, he wouldn’t have made Catholic Schoolgirls. “Suffer the little children, come unto thee” indeed.

But enough about my pending trial for a violation of Megan’s Law. Back to the story:

Chocolate had just given her his own special twist on the “Holy Communion.” It may not have been blessed by a Priest, but he HAD had sex with a teenager. Plus, he’d taken the Lord’s name a few times as she swallowed.

She wiped off her chin and suddenly sat bolt upright. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she announced.

“Uh…ok,” said Chocolate a bit startled by this sudden revelation. “The door’s right over there.”

“NO!” she said more urgently. “I have to go RIGHT NOW.”

“Oh. OH!”

He gunned it across the parking lot to the building. She was out of the car pounding pavement before the car rolled to a complete stop like she’d heard her God was going to punish her.

Unsure about how to proceed, Chocolate stayed in the car. He’d never actually said, “Goodnight” and while he was all for skipping the mandatory post-blowjob talk-about-feelings, it had been good enough that he had visions of new ways to spend his lunch breaks. He was just considering whether to start calling his cock the “double-meat special” when God Girl emerged from the building.

She hung her head and looked dejected as she approached the door.

“Ummm…how’d it go?” Chocolate asked.

“I…uh…didn’t make it.”

“You didn’t make it?”

“…to the bathroom.” She said brokenly as she reached for the door handle.

“Oh!” In a split second, Chocolate had a decision to make. He could console her and possibly get her to fuck him in the backseat. Or he could maintain the cleanliness of his passenger seat. He cast around his car frantically. There were no viable coaster-replacements.

As if in slow-motion, he saw her hand reaching out for the door handle. Her finger grazed the metal. It was now or never.

“Well…See you tomorrow.” He said and floored it out of the parking lot. I wonder if the dust from his fleeing vehicle stuck to her still-soaked nether-regions.

A Fat Prenup

Over the weekend, I went to a bar/grill type place with Jack Saddle. We settled into a booth and after a couple rounds he began flirting with the waitress until she decided to sit down and join our conversation.

The conversation was about sex after marriage.

“Listen,” Jack told the waitress. “When I’m married, I’ll be fucking my wife until I’m 90. Everyday. Even if they have to pump me full of drugs.”

“How do you know that?” asked the waitress. “People change. What if your wife puts on like 500 pounds?”

“That doesn’t matter.” Jack replied. “She’s my WIFE. The girl I marry I’ll love no matter how much she lets herself go.”

This is where Jack and I differ in our approach to picking up women. Jack will actually lie to girls to make himself appear more appealing. I just assume that sooner or later said skank will realize I’m “touched in the head” and either take me or leave me. By which, of course, I mean “leave me.”

Of course, maybe Jack was just having a moment of selective memory. See, a few weeks earlier, we had a discussion about creative prenuptial agreements. I figure since people write in grounds for divorce and monetary compensation, why not go the whole nine yards and create a REALLY all inclusive prenup?

Wouldn’t it be great to have legal grounds for separation if your wife gained 500 pounds, stopped putting out, and grew a mustache? Up until now, a man’s only recourse was to either have a costly affair, or passive-aggressively punish your spouse by letting yourself go:

She gains more chins than a Chinese phone book. So you stop showering and begin referring to her mom as “Burt Reynolds.” She stops letting you watch the game. So you grow mutton-chops. She puts sugar in your gas tank and begins removing your hair while you sleep to make you bald faster. You continue to have mutton chops.

Yeah…I was just thinking: there’s nothing in the world that can top mutton chops for a passive-aggressive “fuck you.” Seriously, that’s End Game right there. Once you do that, you know you’re dealing with a guy who’s willing to do anything to get even. There’s no way to get inside that man’s head. You’re better off just cutting your losses and moving out.

So why not avoid all the unpleasantness of growing and maintaining facial hair from a Dickens’ novel and just write out in prenup how often you’d like to have sex, how much weight your wife can gain, and whether or not you want anal X number of times a month? The women can put in the same clauses, along with number of orgasms expected, how many times a month they expect to be taken out, and whatever else. It just seems like it makes so much more sense.

So when Jack told the waitress he would be having sex with his wife even if she gained 500 pounds did I smile and let it go? Did I pitch with a comment about how he was the most loyal guy I’d ever met? Did I fabricate a story about how Jack once nursed an abandoned sperm whale back to health…then made sweet love to it on the moon-lit beach?

Fuck no! I sold him down the river. “Jack, didn’t you tell me last week you wanted a clause put in your prenup allowing you to divorce your wife if she gained 30 pounds?”

“Uhh…no…I mean…well…”

The waitress waited about 30 seconds longer before politely excusing herself from the table. She was noticeably colder to us for the remainder of the meal. As Jack shot me glares across the table, I couldn’t help but think that I’d let him off easy. Because the REAL Jack Saddle story involving weight gain is this:

Jack was snuggled in bed with his then-girlfriend after a night of tender love making. As his girl sighed contentedly and gently traced the lines of his face, she asked him dreamily, “Honey, would you still love me if I grew a little bit of a pot-belly?”

Jack cleared his throat, and ever so gently caressed the chin of the girl he was closest to in the world, and gently drew her head up, squarely meeting her eyes.

“Are you kidding?” He asked. “If you don’t drop ten pounds by next week, you and I are through.”

The Greatest Movie Ever

Last night I sat through one of the more tired and listless Hollywood productions I’ve ever seen. A little film called “Smokin’ Aces.” It’s movies like this that remind me why Jeremy Piven never had an acting career. Jeremy, please just continue to tongue the ass of whatever HBO executive you drugged into giving you a part on Entourage and be thankful that you aren’t sucking dick for crack. Christ, the man makes Keanu Reeves look like he has range.

Basically, the movie brought home a realization that I’d had about three years ago: Hollywood has just completely given up writing anything new. Basically, the only things that get green-lighted are remakes of shitty sit-coms and the same four action, horror, romance, or comedy. It’s slightly depressing that the film industry has all this money but, apparently, no idea how to spend it on anything worth while.

Well, if only same few scripts keep getting made, my friend and I hit on a fantastic idea for a film. We’re going to remake a teen comedy. No change in script, setting, or characters. The only difference: the cast.

Awkward Boy Desperately Wooing the Hot Girl: Christopher Walken
Hot Girl: Edward James Olmos
Best Friend: A guy in a fat suit doing an impression of Marlon Brando.
The Mean, Insecure Girl: The Rock
Principal: Ralph Macchio
Coach: Chuck Norris

The only real addition to the script would be a showdown between Chuck Norris and Ralph Macchio. The way I see it, Chuck Norris ends the fight with a flying crane kick to Ralph Macchio’s sternum.

My friend keeps contending that Eric Roberts needs to play a prominent role, but I have my doubts. Mr. Roberts, by the way, will forever have the epithet “World’s Greatest B Movie Actor Ever” attached to his name. I, however, am not as enamored of “The Pope of Greenwich Village” as he is. Besides, I wouldn’t want to make a mockery of the production.

In case you’re interested, by the way, there’s a fake website promoting Christopher Walken for President. I find it highly amusing and have a poster for his candidacy on the wall in my cube at work. But what’s even more fantastic is the other merchandise you can buy, such as a "What Would Walken Do?" Thong. After all, who doesn’t want Christopher Walken in their pants?

I Am Socially Retarded

Deep down, everyone likes to think they’re smoother than a Slip N’ Slide coated with 50 gallons of astroglide. Under the right circumstances, anyone can be cool. But it’s only those select, unflappable few who have the aura and presence of mind to be slick regardless of circumstance. In case there was any doubt, I am not a Chosen One. If you had a cool-o-scope, I would rank somewhere in the thousands of negative mega-fonzies, right between pocket protectors and speaking fluent Klingon.

The majority of my weekend was spent trying to impress a particularly fetching member of the opposite sex. It’s fortunate for me that she is, apparently, attracted to men who are socially retarded. Sort of like the social version of a chubby-chaser.

We were stepping out of the car behind a vehicle that had single-handedly redefined all definitions of “poor parallel parking.” Really, if they had been trying for “perpendicular parking” they would have been closer to acceptable. As it was, they neatly managed to park diagonally, be three feet from the curb, all while neatly subjecting their passengers directly into oncoming traffic by blocking an entire lane. It would have been better if they just hit the hazards and drove their car through the display windows of one of the stores.

As we stepped from our perfectly positioned car, we couldn’t help but converse about the piss-poor performance of the asshole who had abandoned his vehicle in front of us.

“Ohhhhh…” I said after an inspection of the car’s plates. “They’re from Wisconsin. We really can’t blame them.”

“Why?” demanded my shapely companion. “Don’t they have curbs there?”

“Of course not!” I beamed, proudly. Thinking I was about to deliver a line that would surely be among the funniest ever, I raised my voice slightly, so that an elderly gent approaching from the sidewalk could hear. “What are they going to do in Wisconsin, park between cows?”

The elderly gentleman shot me a particularly withering glance, then unlocked the punchline of our conversation and drove off. I’m not sure whether or not they give “the finger” to cows in Wisconsin. However, he seemed to have had enough practice in the maneuver to perform it a damn sight better than his parking skills.

On a scale of one to ten, it was roughly a three in terms of social fuck-ups. Had I played my cards right, there was still the possibility that maybe my female companion would think I was just “slow” instead of full on major-head-trauma-makes-baskets-and-pisses-himself socially retarded. Unfortunately however, I erased all doubts that I ride the short bus of cool that evening at dinner.

We arrived at a stylish sushi restaurant from the blustery cold and were shown to our table by a slender, attractive Japanese waitress. As I shucked off my coat, I turned slightly towards my date who was saying how exquisite the food at this establishment was. My second of distraction allowed our slender waitress the chance to silently glide by me, back towards the kitchen. She would have succeeded, too, had my arm not shot up in an attempt to extricate myself from my top coat. Basically, my arm and her head tried to occupy the same space simultaneously. But just like the Highlander, “in the end, there can be only one.” My arm laid a WWF-worthy clothesline on the 90 pound waitress. I should just start calling my right arm “Connor MacLeod.”

I apologized, helped the poor girl to her feet and sat down as quickly as I could. I contemplated, briefly, asking my date to call me “Ike” for the rest of the night. Instead, I went about digging my hole even deeper.

About five minutes later, she returned to set-up a table right across from us. I got up, walked over to her and said, “Listen, I feel really badly. Are you sure you're ok? Is there anything I can do?”

All I got in return was a blank stare.

“I’m really sorry.” I floundered on. “I didn’t see you. I swear, I didn’t mean to hit you like that.”

“You hit me?”

Suddenly sensing that my evening was about to get much worse, I glanced desperately around the restaurant...and saw a second, very similar-looking Japanese girl holding an ice-pack and taking an order of a customer at the end of the room. I was right. The evening HAD gotten worse.

Thank you. You've been a great audience. I'll be here all week.

All I needed to do at this point was to squint my eyes and yell, “Me so sowwy. Me love you long time, silly American round-eye.” I really might as well have just said, “All you rice-eating cunts look the same.”

Smooth. I wonder if they’ll cut me open when I’m lynched by rightfully-offended Wisconsinites and Japanese waitresses and find that I have some sort of neurological disorder. In the meantime, I think I should just start wearing a helmet and carrying a drool cup, just in case. Because the sad thing was that this was my vain attempt at being cool. Sort of like Chimps, using tools. I can’t even comprehend how big of an asshole I am when I just don’t give a shit.

I’m A Narcissistic Whore

Today I had the opportunity to view one of my more annoying traits with perfect clarity: I’m a narcissistic whore. And there’s really no way around that. Honestly, I should pray that I never become famous, because it will literally be the end of my life. I’ll do nothing but sit in front of the computer in my underwear, reading all the shit anyone’s written about me.

See, it was brought to my attention that a recent crush of mine has a live journal. And what was the internet created for but to violate the privacy of others? Oh yeah. Porn. Well, I downloaded porn yesterday, so I opted for invading someone else’s intimate reflections instead.

So I actually took the time to register with a site I have no intention of reading, just so I could read posts that might not even be about me. I know. I’m sick. At this point, I might as well just take the rest of the day off from work so I can make out with my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“Mmmmmm…sslllllllluuuurrrrrrrrppppp…uh…uh….yeah. You like that don’t you, whore? You’re a bad, naughty, wicked, disease-ridden slut. That’s right! Get my dinner before I put my cigarette out on your nipple. Cry! Cry because daddy never loved you. Skank.”

Sorry. I got caught up in that hot, romantic moment there for a second.

Ugh. A crush. This whole “wanting a woman for reasons other than sex” thing is pathetic. WHAT HAVE I BECOME??? I’M EVERYTHING I’VE EVER HATED!!!

It’s put a real crimp in my style, I’m telling you. I’m not bitter all the time…Probably only 85% of my waking hours, now. Sometimes I smile at work. Today I caught myself talking to some one socially…in the morning. I tell you, it’s a royal pain in the ass. I have my image to consider and caring for another human being really does nothing to improve it. Before you know it, people will think I’ve gone soft. Then they’ll want to forge friendships with me. And that means phone calls, social gatherings, weddings, Christmas cards, and introductions to their sisters. Then, after I break up with their sister in the most devastating way possible (maybe through intercourse with their mothers) we’ll have to break off the friendship, divide DVDs and maintain an atmosphere of subdued animosity and hatred. And frankly, I just don’t have the energy for that.

Besides, the real loser in this whole thing is the readers of this blog. What the fuck am I supposed to write about? Imagine if one day I posted this

“Today I got up and thought of her again. When we’re together it’s like thousands of tiny leprechauns are having lesbian sex in my tummy.”

Christ, I’d have to kick my own ass. Yes, in the long run, it’s much better for everyone that I remain my bitter, insane misanthropic exterior. Maybe I should execute a child or a kitten or something.

Ehren Hosts A Social Gathering

In my not-too-distant and vaguely shady past, I used to throw pretty bitchin’ house parties. By which I mean 200 people, kegs, live band and a blackjack table. In case you were wondering what the key element to a good bash is, I have two words for you: Pajama Party.

Understandably, these shindigs rapidly became the grounds for some truly notorious behavior and outrageous stories. Like the time that my neighbors called the cops on me. Unfortunately for them, about 15 people at my house happened to be volunteer firefighters and EMTS…who were drinking buddies with the local police. Or the time I had to turn the hose on a couple having sex on my front lawn. Of the time half a company of Marines showed up.

Early on, before I’d gotten the whole “hosting” thing down to a science, I ran upstairs to grab something out of my room, only to find my door closed. Kicking it in, I found a couple making out on my bed. The girl had her shirt off.

“Dude” the guy said. “Do you mind?”
“Actually, I do.” I answered. “Get the fuck out.”
“I’m invited.” He smirked. “And I’m not leaving until Ehren tells me to.”
“In that case, you’ve officially been told. I’m Ehren. Get the fuck off of my bed.”

After that, the parties became a well-oiled routine. I equipped my friends with walkie-talkies, set up shifts for checking the house and manning the door, and bought a cop-sized maglite for whoever was on bouncer detail. The light held 6 D batteries. You'd have to be insane to talk to anyone wielding it.

One truly unfortunate kid tried to sprint into the party without paying. Grabbing my walkie-talkie, I yelled “Code Blue! Perimeter breach!” and casually walked down the driveway after him. He didn’t even make it to the backyard. In about five seconds he was pinned on his stomach, beneath four of my friends.

Probably my favorite memory of the party, however, involved my friend we’ll call “Drifter” (it’s the nickname he chose when he recorded an album with me).

I met Drifter through a camp that we both worked for. He’s an interesting dude, who shares my affection for hard rock, gadgets, and eggnog. What better recommendation could any man have?
Drifter was wandering through the party, well into his seventh mug of beer or so, when he came across a really good looking girl. Of course, any girl becomes better looking after seven beers.

Without hesitation he plunked himself down in the seat next to her, and struck up a conversation. She responded with enthusiasm and soon they were chatting away like old friends. Licking his chops over what appeared to be a locked up lamb, he said, “I’m Drifter” and reached out for her hand to kiss.

It was then that his intended prey got a very strange look on her face. “I know,” she said, taking his hand and shaking it. “You used to be my councilor at camp.”

And so I learned perhaps the most important law of party-hosting: always card your guests.