How to Ruin a Sex Story

Here's a story I wrote a year ago about something that happened about five years ago. Enjoy

24 Sep 2007

How To Ruin a Sex Story So a few years back, me and My Man Keith were hanging in our shared office at the radio station. I had a story for Keith. Boy I had a story for Keith. You see Keith was like a Level 7 Sex Story Friend. (Out of 7 possible levels.) OK, I just made up that levels thing, but here's my point. Keith was, and is, a most highest level trusted sex story friend. He not only gets to hear details, he gets to hear fresh details. Some stories you have to wait months to tell, so everyone is safe. Not Keith. Sometimes he gets the stories before I've even destroyed the evidence. Keith even gets to hear names. Yes names! Not just, "I was with Ms. X last night." Instead, he gets to here "I was with Ms. X last night." (Of course I had to type "Ms. X" again so as not to shame any of my real victims, eh, I mean lovers from the past. But if I was typing that for Keith, it would have had a real name, like "Ashley." What? That doesn't single anyone out. Everyone knows I've had a life-long Ashley Affliction. Ashleys love me, and I love them. That's a matter of public record. If they wanted to start a club and talk shit about me and what-not,they'd have to rent out the Superdome to fit all of them in one room. (For the record: the following story actually does not involve an Ashley.) Anyway, back to Keith. He doesn't know all my stories, but he's in a small group of people in the Level 7 Trust Club who know more than anyone else. So now that we've covered the back story, let's get to the one I really wanted to tell him that day. I wanted to tell Keith my sex-story from the night before really really bad. It was such a good one, one that I could only tell him or 3 other people and he was the only one in town. Here was the problem: a lot of people that we worked with always walked back and forth and stopped by our office all the time, and this story was so top-secret that I didn't want any of them to figure it out. So I whispered to Keith, "I'm gonna tell you a sex-story, but instead of sex we're gonna talk in baseball." Keith, being ever-adaptive, wagged his finger up in the air one time while saying, "Got it. Let's get started." Roth Wriscey: So Keith, I played baseball last night. My Man Keith: Really! Who was the other team? Roth Wriscey: That team me and you both have always talked about playing. My Man Keith: No way! That team that seemed like they would never play against any of us. I'm jealous. It was really her, I mean, that team? Roth Wriscey: Yes, let's call her the Dodgers. Since she's been dodging all of us forever. MMK: Set up the scene. Did you play at Dodger Stadium or your home field? RW: I was the home team. MMK: So wait; you just challenged her to a game-- and she played? RW: No. She asked for a tour of my stadium. But it didn't appear that we were gonna play a game. I was just gonna show her the field. Then, a few minutes go by, and next thing I know, she's challenged me to game! MMK: Your saying SHE threw out the first pitch? RW: She did indeed throw out the first pitch. I was as surprised as you! MMK: So what did you do? RW: What could I do? I swung at it! MMK: Did you hit? RW: Surprisingly yes. It was one hell of a fastball, and I had barely set foot in the batter's box; but then again, I had been dreaming of this moment at the plate my whole life (or at least as long as we've known the Dodgers.), so I guess I was prepared. MMK: So are you saying you knocked it out of the park? You hit a homer? RW: Well, it actually started as a hard single in the gap. MMK: So you made it to first, easily? RW: Easily. Then I realized she had picked up the ball pretty deep in the outfield and was staring me down at first. Basically, she wasn't gonna give me second, but she was practically daring me to go for it. If I wanted it, I was gonna have to make it happen! MMK: And? And? What did you do? Please tell me you tried to steal second! RW: Of course I did! I didn't know if I'd ever get to play this team again. If I could see second, I was gonna try for second. MMK: So did you make it? RW: It wasn't even close, I was safe by a mile! Now, second was fun for quite a while, and then I noticed something: her second baseman had dropped the ball! I had but one opportunity to go for third. And this was that time. If I didn't go now, I was never gonna have a better chance. So I hustled towards the base like I've never hustled before. MMK: So did you get tagged out? RW: You know what Keith? I think she didn't even want to get me out! Yes, I think she wanted me to make it safely to 3rd. I made it! She still made it a close play; but I think it was merely procedure. I mean, I was starting to think that she was throwing the game....in my favor! MMK: Wait! Wait. Wait. Wait. Sometimes the rules of baseball confuse me. By third base do you mean you were tagging her? Or do you mean she was tagging you? Or maybe you were both tagging each other? I gotta know. RW: DUDE, SHE TOTALLY SUCKED IT!!!!!!!!! MMK: Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, hang on. I'd love to get excited for you, and trust me I will, and I will have to get back to that in a minute. But Wriscey, you just put me through this difficult five minute coded conversation where we had to tranlsate everything into baseball, a sport I don't even know that well, and I willfully played along, so no one in this office would figure out who you fooled around with. I did all that for you. And then, THEN, after all that, ALL THAT hard work I put into this conversation, you had to go and undo everything by yelling out "DUDE, SHE TOTALLY SUCKED IT!!!!!!!!!" That defeats the entire purpose of the conversation. Why didn't you just start it that way? Oh well, fuck it. You started the conversation with baseball, so dammit, you're gonna finish it with baseball! So back to your story. You're on third. And your having a great time on third. And to recap: you turned a single into a double, and that double into a triple. So I know you had to go for the glory and attempt an In The Park Home Run. Right? RW: You've got me figured out, friend. Oh yeah, sorry about the whole "she sucked it" thing. I got so excited I forgot about baseball and threw it out the window. Anwway, to finish the recap of the game: I figured I needed to go for the homer. Not to mention, staying on third could be more awkward than going for home. Because think about it; when you're on third with a someone like the "Dodgers" for the first time, you don't know if she wants you to "tag yourself out" if you know what I mean. And if she does want you to tag yourself out, you don't really know "where" she wants you to tag yourself out. Of course, as a guy you have a preference, but with someone new you're not always comfortable enough to ask, and you don't want to be a dick and tag yourself out just anywhere you feel like. So I figured, if I went for home, everything would pan out more comfortably. And besides, I'm sure as hell not gonna just walk off the field; that would hurt! Win or lose; this game was gonna end with a play at the plate. I was gonna either get tagged out or win with a homer. Either way, I could walk away with my held held high. Whatever was about to happen, at least I could say I played the Dodgers, and had a chance up until the end.------------- MMK: Oh no! Man, I know where this is going. Don't even say it. You got TAGGED. OUT. AT . THA. PLATE!!!! YERRR' OUTTA HERE!!!! ROTH WRISCEY'S DONE BEEN BEAT BY THE DODGERS. NOOOOOOO!!!!! SAY IT AIN'T SO, WITHERS! SAY IT AIN'T SO! RW: I got tagged out at the plate. MMK: But hey; at least she sucked it.

If you shove that horn up your butt, don't be claiming worker's comp

"You guys do realize that we all just had the stupidest conversation, don't you? I know I'm the one that started it, but I want to be the first to admit that we just spent five or six minutes enjoying a conversation that was so dumb, that it should have ended after five or six seconds."

And that's what I said to my co-workers at the pizza place last week after we had this conversation:

Me: Hey guys! Do you think that if some asshole with too much money came up and offered you a million dollars a year to stand on a hill and blow a horn and yell "RI-CO-LAAAA" all day that you could do it?

Andy: Hell yeah, I'd do it. That's the easiest job ever!

Will: And you get a million dollars a year for doing that easy job? Fuck yeah, man! Fuck yeah! I'd totally do it.

Andy: Wait - not that this would stop me, but would I be standing on the hill with another dickhead just like in the commercial or would I be blowing the horn and yelling "Ricola" all by myself all day?

Me: You have to alternate between horn blows and yelling "RI-CO-LAAAA" all by yourself all damn day. And you have to do it 8 hours a day, five days a week by yourself at the top of a hill no matter what the weather. And you have to wear the weird hat and the knickers just like the dudes in the ad.

Will: Do I get dental, medical and vacation?

Me: I'll give you two weeks of vacation to be used whenever you want. But I'm already paying you a million dollars, I think you can afford your own damn dental and medical.

Will: I think by law you still have to offer me a medical plan.

Me: Fine. You can have your damn company insurance plan, but if you get clumsy and fall down that damn hill while yelling "ricola" or if you accidentally shove that weird horn up your butt, I will contest your workers comp claims.

Will: Then I think I could do it. I'd take the job yelling "RI-CO-LA" at the top of a hill.

Me: You don't think you would eventually freak out and lose your mind yelling "RI-CO-LA" all day?

Andy: I KNOW I'd go insane... but I'd still take the job. That's a million bucks man! I'd just use some of that money to go see a therapist. She'd be all like "So why are you here?" And I'd be all like, "What do you mean "Why am I here? I've been yelling goddamned ricola for a goddamned year straight! Why do you think I'm here you stupid bitch! Help me, I'm losing my fucking mind!"

Me: Do you realize that you were just simultaneously a women's libber and a misogynist at the same time? You were open minded enough to make your hypothetical-therapist a woman, but you were misogynistic enough to immediately call her a bitch.

Andy: I guess the thought of yelling ricola all day got to me.

Me: "You guys do realize we all just had the stupidest conversation, don't you? I know I'm the one who started it, but I want to be the first to admit that we just spent five or six minutes enjoying a conversation that was so dumb, that it should have ended after five or six seconds."

Fin

Athlete's Anus?

We had a smaller Christmas than normal this year, but that didn't stop the usual weirdos from being weirdos.

When we were unwrapping presents, my sister ripped open a package addressed to her that turned out to be an individual roll of toilet paper. It wasn't listed as being from anyone, and no one owned up to being the giver of the gift. This was no big deal, we figured it was the beginning of some hilarious master plan by my mom. She always does funny things, like give us all toy guns and then tell us where the bullets are, forcing me and my grown sisters to knock each other over while we race to the bullets - because if we don't get to the bullets first the other two will shoot the shit out of the other one. That's the sort of fun stuff my mom sets up on Christmas. We figured the toilet paper was part of a grand comical scheme to be revealed later.

A few minutes later I also received one roll of toilet paper as a gift. Still nobody said anything. Then my other sister opened her toilet paper. Finally someone spoke. It was my mom's crabby 85 year old live-in boyfriend. Let me give you some background on him first.

Him and my mom have been dating and living in my childhood house for five years. He's mostly a nice guy, but he likes to micromanage the house and make you feel like a burden when you visit. He watches everything everyone does so he can be the first to tell you that you are using the wrong drinking glasses or that you need to take your shoes off, and he watches to make sure you don't double dip your coffee spoon into the sugar bowl. He loves nitpicking everything and complaining that everything is messy and germy. And this was the guy that was about to speak up now that we had all recieved our Christmas toilet paper.

He apparently had my mom wrap these rolls of toilet paper up so he could lecture us all about germs (on Christmas Day!) as we held them in our hands. He started speaking to us in that condescending parable-way that old men do. It's a tone that old men think is effective, but all it really does is make you think they are petty and frivolous and you wish they would just speed the story the fuck up so you can go back to not being affected by it. Here's what he said to us:

"At Fort Dix in 1943, the service men were all coming down with the same condition. They all had athlete's foot of the anus. No one could figure out why. Then the cause of the anal problems was finally discovered: the men weren't putting the toilet paper on the holders. They were just setting it on the floor. Because of this, the fungus from their feet would hit the floor, then jump from the floor to the toilet paper that rested on it, then they would wipe their ass with the fungus and get athlete's foot on their asses. YOU ALL DO THIS! You all put toilet paper on the sink instead of the holder. I needed to use this time to teach you guys how to properly put the toilet paper in the right place."

Yes, he really fucking said all that... to grown adults... who don't fucking live there anymore! And he was really fucking serious. Me and my sister looked at each other during this "hygiene lecture" trying not to laugh at the absurdity. Not only was it stupid. It was unnecessary. Here' s why: no one at my house ever leaves toilet paper on the sink. I lived in that house 18 years. Not me, my mom or either one of my sisters ever don't put the toilet paper on the holder. I can't recall ever seeing one roll on the sink, much less the fucking floor. We all have bad backs in my family - it would kill us to have to bend over to pick up toilet paper off the fucking floor.

About thirty minutes after this lecture, my sister had a moment of convenience make her look like one hell of a detective. She said to the rest of us, "I went to the bathroom a few minutes ago and we were coming to the end of a roll. Then I went back just now and the roll is gone and there is a new one sitting on the sink. You know who I saw go in there in between my trips to the bathroom? Yep, it was Mr. Lecture Man! It was old Santa Claus balls himself who left the TP on the sink! He's the one doing it, and then he's forgetting that he did it, and he blames all of us! This is stupid!"

It was stupid. Unbelievably stupid. Almost unbelievable at all. I swear it happened. I got some weirdos in my family, man. They aren't athletes, but they sure can be anuses.

Too much work and fun no time to write

I got so much good shit to write and no time to do it. Preview: I get lectured by an 85 year old man about the hygiene of my rectum. That's about it, but it's good. Can't wait til I get to write it. Got nice girl and Outback takeout on the way over. There is a God and he must be blind or laid back or he'd never let me have either of those things.

Oh, and I didn't win a writing contest, but they still published my entry in the "still pretty good" section of the paper.

My Impending Death

Enjoy what I'm about to write. Once my big sister finds out I write on here, I will have to take this down and she will murder me.

Every holiday, we fear that this is the year she will finally poisons us over dinner. It's not funny. Well, actually it is. But it doesn't make it any less true. She is a super-diagnosed bi-polar. She throws full beer bottles in and around swimming pools and swears she didn't do it the next day when you show her. She tries to break in tiny kitchen windows a midget couldn't fit through while you're sleeping. She sucker punches your nose and makes it bleed on a weekly basis for seven years due to its' new shape from the punch (that's my nose, of course. Bled today actually. She bites your arm and leave a bite so hard that even her lips were imprinted on it for two years and it turns black all the way up to your elbow and they put you on 500 dollar anti-biotics for the infection. Do you want me to keep going? I've got about 50 more things like this. (I'll save the peanut butter attack for another time.)

Anyway, I got the bright idea to beat my sister to the punch and drug her this Christmas. (Only I didn't plan to drug for death, just for sleep. I was planning to give her Benadryl. Then I realized she might drive home and pass out on the highway so I reluctantly changed my mind.)

So I told my other sister about my nixed-benadryl plan and she said, "Wow you're late to that party." You've never drugged her before? She was acting nuts at her own party and breaking shit so I mixed four benadryl in her drink. She said, "It tastes funny and is too fizzy." But I told her she was just drunk so she drank it and she went to bed and everyone else had a good time at her party once she left it."

So I told another person who knows my sister about how my other sister drugged her. She said,"Wow. You've never drugged her before? I thought we all have. She was acting crazy at my house once and breaking stuff. And we remembered that she said she hated ritalin because it calms her down. So we spiked her drink with it. It made her weird, but at least calm weird. You've seriously never drugged her? What's wrong with you? She's crazy - sometimes you gotta knock her out."

So that's the story I can leave up until my sister tracks me down on the internet. Merry Christmas all! If I live through mine, I'll tell you all about it. Drug them mildly before they drug you severely!

Nut Jobs and Whore Doors

I currently have three jobs. They all get a different response. They all get the same response. Here's how these conversations usually go.


Job #1

Me: I work in talk radio.

Person I'm Talking To: You guys are all a bunch of right-wing nut-jobs.
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Job #2

Me: I work at a newspaper.

Person I'm Talking To: You guys are all a bunch of left-wing nut-jobs.
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Job #3

Me: I work at a pizza place.

Person I'm Talking To: You guys are all a bunch of drug-addicted nut-jobs.
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So I'm told I'm three different things (2 of which conflict) but the consensus is that I am a nut-job. I'll tell you this: Of those three things, I'm actually only one, and I'm not a drug-addict. That's all I can say. The rest is pretty obvious. I don't speak in a whiny harmless voice and wear women's jeans while quoting Ginsberg in my "Lisa Loeb Glasses For Men," so you can probably figure out which kind of political nut-job I am. But who cares about that right now? I'd rather tell you (once again)! how stupid I am. Here goes:

I'm supposed to transcribe the answers to our weekly surf column tonight. This involves me typing up a hand-written questionnaire from a local surfer to go in our paper. It's called "Surf's Up."

Well, I misplaced the questionnaire. And there was no room for error - I had to find it tonight. Not having it was not an option, because we have a deadline and there's no time to interview a new surfer. So I started tearing apart my room/office. (I do most of my newspaper work in the same place I sleep, watch tv, do it, and wash my hands: my bedroom. Yes, my bedroom even has a sink in it. I am so spoiled. It also has a whore-door - a door that the rest of the roommates can't see or use that I could theoretically sneak girls out of if I didn't want my girl roommates to see who I had leaving. (I'm actually pretty boring these days, I don't have time to also be involved with girls that I am ashamed of like I used to. It's not that a man quits wanting to be bad, it's just that he gets too tired to muster up the energy to be bad. It's the same reason crime rates go down among the elderly - it's just too damn exhausting to keep up that devil's pace. But you know those old burglars would still break up in your place if their hips weren't acting up. They aren't more moral, they're just really tired. It's the same with my whore-door. I may not use it - but I'm still glad to have it, just to know that it's there if I need it. It's comforting.)

Anyway, back to looking for my surfer questionnaire. I knew it was in my room somewhere. So I started tearing shit up! I opened every drawer, flipped over every shelf and looked through dozens and dozens of notepads that were stuffed with folded papers. This one particular folder kept reappearing and getting in my way. No matter where I was looking, that same manilla folder would get in my new pile and I would immediately throw it across the room to get the damn thing out of my way. After an hour of searching everywhere, I finally read what it said in big capital letters written in thick marker on that particular folder that I had been ignoring: "SURF'S UP QUESTIONNAIRES."

Somehow I overlooked that little detail every time I threw the folder across the room. Had the questionniare been unmarked and up in an oak tree across town, I would've found it. But you put that same questionnaire in a properly marked folder on my desk and I'm never gonna see it - in fact I'll throw it around like it's bothering me. I really should clean up this messy room full of papers. I look like a hoarder... with a whore door.

The End

P.S. I thought about using this title: "If I Don't Respect'em, I Can No Longer Inject'em!"

Would that have been funnier? I didn't use it, because it referenced only a minor part of the story. But I found it at least mildly amusing and wanted to type it one time. By the way, I think I've figured out how to get my computer to let me subscribe to you fine folks' blogs, but I'll have to do it later after I write this article on surfing. (Naturally, I don't surf.)

Magical Evil Power Panties

Friday, July 07, 2006

Evil Magical Power Panties
Someone I know told me a story yesterday that made me laugh a lot. It's not my story but I have to tell it. The best part is that I know this guy is not a bullshitter. He told me that he used to live in a mountain town in this state. (Yes, I'm "vague-ing out" a little to get you off the trail of his identity, on the off-chance you know him.) Let's call my friend "Steve Johnson."

So Steve had this lady he went to for all of his haircuts. That got along fine, and he knew she was married. But one day, she made a proposal to come to his place the following Wednesday. He told me that she never verbally spelled it out, but that it was well understood that their upcoming encounter was specifically intended to be nothing but an adulterous fuck-date at his apartment. He said that he had always rejected married women but that this one was just too much his type, so he agreed to let her come over the following Wednesday.

Wednesday came. But the lady never did. Steve was pissed that she never showed up, never called, nothing. But he knew he couldn't bitch too much about it, considering that it was someone else's wife. He figured she just had second thoughts or something. Let's call give this woman a good skank name like "Wanda."

So the next week, Steve went to get his hair trimmed, but Wanda wasn't there. He asked the other lady, "So where's Wanda at?" The lady got a real somber look on her face and said "You didn't hear? Poor thing, she's taking some time off to grieve. Her husband died. He worked for the power company. Poor soul, he touched the wrong power line. Happened last Wednesday night." (This is the part in the story where I started laughing like hell. Yeah, I'm sick. So sue me.)

So here's how I picture it must have gone down: Wanda's getting ready at her apartment, putting on her best skank perfume, got her bank-teller hair all 3 feet high, got her best skank panties on (I picture those ones like those bikinis from the 1980's that make your pussy look like it's one inch wide but three feet tall - you know where the waistline is almost above the belly button?), all the while rationalizing in her head that it's her husband's fault that she's whoring around with her customers from the hair salon. Then she gets the knock at the door.

"Wanda, we're so sorry. There's no right way, to tell you...blah blah blah." Having her husband die at the exact moment she was planning to cheat on him had to have some effect on Wanda's psyche. I bet she burned those panties. Or was she so sick that she looked at them as "magical evil power panties" - panties that had the power to kill anyone she wanted as long as she wronged them while wearing them? Or did she think that God would forever give her reverse punishments? Like, every time she fucked someone over, they would die, instead of her, and she would be forced to live through the grief and guilt. She definitely didn't maximize her mental illness potential, because if she had, she would have said this to herself: "Oh poor me! I'm now a widow....which means technically I'm single. So it's now okay if go over to Steve's house and do it with him. After all, I'm a grieving widow and need comfort. Plus, I look sooo hot in these supertallpussy panties."

Hey, I wonder if she fears that her husband's newly dead ghost came in and saw her plotting to do it with my Steve. Would he haunt her every time she put on the evil power-panties ? I hope so. That would be so funny. Just like adultery is funny. And people being electrocuted is funny. Hey, shut up. It's funny if you're me. I didn't know the guy. I didn't nail his wife. Quit being so "Oh, that's wrong," and let me laugh. I play fair. I promise you can laugh at my death whenever it happens. In fact, I insist.

The Best St. Patrick's Day Ever Part 2 (Or "Fuck Mumia - Free Us!)

Friday, May 26, 2006

The Best St. Patrick's Day Ever! Part 2. (Part One is 2 or 3 blogs back.)

I know a lot of you are obsessive compulsives (1,2,3,4. I think you left the oven on. Did you lock the door? How many dots are on the ceiling? 1,2,3,4.) I am not one of you. You completionists annoy me the way you have to get stuff done. Not me. I never finish anything and I love it. I get to say things like "I'm so busy. I've got like nine things going on at once." When in reality I have like nine things no longer going on at all. You may remember that I wrote a blog entry titled "The Greatest St. Patrick's Day Ever! Part 1." You would think there would be a "Greatest St. Patrick's Day Ever! Part 2," but there wasn't. There was supposed to be, but I ended up in the emergency room due to a car wreck that day.

You see, someone came up with the crazy idea to give women the right to have driver's licenses - and the right to vote, for that matter. As a result, I have a shredded spine and California has Barbara Boxer. Anyway, I'm feeling generous today, despite the fact that I just insulted the entire pretty gender, and I figure that at least one of you OCD'ers is losing sleep over the fact that there was never a "Greatest St. Patrick's Day Ever! Part 2." So I'm going to do this person a favor and pull a Sammy Hagar and "finish what I started." (That song is about blueballs-seriously) Anyway, here is the completion of a true story I humbly refer to as "THE GREATEST SAINT PATRICK'S DAY EVER! Part 2."

After my real-life fake Kung Fu fight I had in the street (from Part 1 if you read it), Dirty Dave, Firin' Byron, and myself decided to leave the bars of Savannah, Georgia at about 3 a.m. due to the fact that they were no longer selling that potion that makes girls want to take their clothes off, also known as alcohol. My friend Nathan, an alcoholic pilot (That's actually an oxymoron. All pilots are drunks. What? Go meet one and then get back to me. Told you so. Pilots are also womanizers. What? You don't believe me again? Go meet one again, and I guarantee you he'll put his hand down your pants less than five minutes after you first shake it. Told ya, again! You really should start trusting me. See what your mistrust got you? A pilot palm in your panties. All I'm asking for is a little blind faith, people! Is that so much to ask? You'd be an alcoholic man-whore too, if you had to operate these crazy robot-birds that soar through the sky with people in their bellies)

What the hell was I talking about? Oh yeah, Nate. Nathan was supposed to come up from Jacksonville, Florida and get us all a hotel room to crash in that night. I figured a drunk pilot would at least be good at finding a place to crash. There is one thing about Nate-O. He's about as reliable as a crack whore's period. He didn't get us the room, and the last time we saw him was hours earlier in a bar where he was trying to seduce some girl by showing her how many shots of whiskey he could take. Poor girl, even if she was impressed to the point of nudity, it wouldn't do her any good, because Nathan always gets whiskey-wang. Always. We've all come down with a case of it from time to time, but his is a guarantee. What? He sold me out (even if it was 6 years ago). I'm allowed to reveal one secret in anger. And besides, it's not really a secret. Everyone knows about it...now.

So Byron, Dave and me had long since lost our new girlfriends (I know, I know. "Yeah right, Cory. More like they lost you!" Hey, Fucko. It's my story and I can lie if I want to. You don't know. Were you there? You don't know me! Whuh-evvuh! I do what I want!) and we needed to find a place to sleep and we didn't have the funds for a hotel. Our car was parked in the ghetto, and I made the call.

"No way in hell are we sleeping here. I'm drunk, but I’m safe. I'll get us to a hotel parking lot and we'll sleep in the Celica there."

So I started driving us towards where I thought the hotels might be in this town I'd never been to before. Dave fell asleep in the floor of the backseat. I don't know how he negotiated getting his back over the hump-divider thing, either. The boy could rest easy in hell if he had to. At this moment, Byron decided to be a character I will now declare to be "Asshole Funny Byron." Here's how the shit went down.

Asshole Funny Byron: Hey, Cory. (smiling and mildly snickering)

Cory the Grate: What.

AFB: You got a cop behind you. (still kind of laughing and shit)

CTG: Tell me you're joking.

AFB: I'm joking.

CTG: Man, you shouldn't joke about that shit. It's not funny.

AFB: Oh, good. (still fucking giggling) Because there really is a cop behind you.

CTG: You fucker. Why did you tell me you were kidding?

AFB: You said "Tell me you're joking." So I did.

CTG: I'm gonna pull into this place on the left and pray that he keeps going.

AFB: Hey Cory.

CTG: What?!

AFB: He didn’t keep going. And he's pulling you over. (giggles, snickers, and Gargamelish delights were on his face.)

So I had turned into this Prep School Parking Lot, and the cop followed me in and pulled me over, mainly due to the fact that at 3 AM, I had PULLED INTO A PREP SCHOOL PARKING LOT. I'd already been pulled over like a million billion times before, and I thought it was time to try out some new material to get myself out of this jam. I had heard from a friend, who I later discovered to be a certified dumbass, that if you get out of the car and get the keys out of the ignition before the cop gets to your car, then they can't do shit to you. So I tried it.

The cop did not like this one bit. He started yelling a bunch of shit at me that I really don't remember. Then he asked me how much I had been drinking. I confidently proclaimed "Six." Yep, I told him I had six beers. I know you're saying to yourself, "Withers! Why in the fuck would you tell a cop you've had six beers?" I'll tell you why. I've watched COPS, a million gazillion times, and the drunks all do the same thing when they're pulled over. They at first say, "No, officer. I haven't had a drink tonight." Then they upgrade the lie to "Well, I've had 1 or 2." It's never one. And it's never 2. It's always the ever-vague "1 or 2." Then the drunk caves in and says, "I'm fucking wasted. Take me in."

I knew that's what the dude was expecting from me. I never give people what they want, it's in the Withers Family Handbook (The sad thing is that you are actually considering the possibility that my family might have a family handbook. Surprisingly, we don't. But boy, if we did, it would be a doozy.) So I decided I would fuck up this cop's predictable world with one three letter word: "six." I could see in his little cop eyes that he wasn't prepared for this. He naturally went in for the upgrade "So how many have you really had tonight?" My tone didn't change: "Six." I could see his simplistic copper brain now questioning every thing he'd ever believed. "About six, huh?"- I had to interrupt him here; "No. Not about six. Six." The true answer we later calculated to be eleven, but the truth was not needed at this time. It wasn't time to "go to eleven!" (Yes! My first forced Spinal Tap reference! Stonehenge!)

This was a case where the truth would not have set me free, so instead, I set the truth free. (Damn, that should be modified into a gnarly-ass t-shirt.) "Son, you think maybe had more than six beers?" I calmly dug my heels in harder. "No, sir. Just six." He stood there as his primitive brain comprehended my stance, and he questioned the issue one more time. "So you're saying you've only had just six." "Yes, sir. Just six."

Look what I did! I got the cop using the phrase "JUST six." I was starting to see that I had opened a path to owning this guy. Oh, don't get me wrong, I was scared as hell, but I now knew that I had the ability to win.

I had taken Bacon to unchartered territory - a journey to the center of his mind, if you will. And he didn't like what he saw, so he tried to hedge the conversation in a different direction. He wanted to get into the "whys" of it all. "Why were you driving around Savannah, Joiwjuhh at three in the morning drunk?" At this moment, the little scam artist that lives in my brain came to me with the assessment that I asked him for. "Hey, Bossman! I've analyzed your surroundings and I found us just one way to win. Listen to me, NO, STOP! Look, what's the point of having a scam-artist in your head if your not going to use him? I have other offers you know. Now listen to me. We're in the blackest town in the state of Georgia. And he's a cop. It's a safe bet to assume that he's not exactly a card carrying member of the NAACP. We have to play the race card. I don't care if it's right or wrong, it's the only way to avoid jail. You wouldn't last five minutes in jail without getting butt-rammed. Hell, you can barely survive in a gay bar - you have to do this. And I don't want to hear any arguments. Assuming that this guy isn't "down with the brothas", I think you can get yourself out of this. Just play the race card, and play it well. Now get talking, talky boy."

So I proceeded: "All right, officer, here's why I was driving. My friend Nate was supposed to get us a hotel room and he bailed on us. You know how those Florida Yankees are. (I was hoping that there was some Georgia/Florida rivalry that this redneck cop was a part of. If he was a native Floridian, I was fucked. I was trying to soften him up for the race card move.) So we were left stranded, with my car parked in the middle of...the GHETTO!”

My mouth may have said "ghetto" but the look I gave him said "BLACK NEIGHBORHOOD"). I could see that he was hearing me out, I found his soft spot - a hatred of black people.

I continued: "I'm responsible for this. I made the call. When I saw the brick wall beside my car was spray painted with "FREE MUMIA," I knew that we had to find a different place to sleep, even if it meant me driving illegally."

Oh man, this was his red-meat material. He was eating this shit up. So I continued on, almost to the point of overdoing it. But I was on a roll. I couldn't stop.

"I didn't just drive us out of this neighborhood for our sake, but also for your sake. Yes, it sounds crazy, but I thought of you guys, when deciding whether or not to leave. I thought to myself "Oh, that would suck to be the cop that has to clean our guts up off the street tomorrow if we sleep here tonight."

I knew that it was now a matter of when, not if, I was going to own this dude. I had pulled a number on this guy. Then I realized that I had also pulled a number on myself. I had convinced myself that what I was saying was a lie; when in fact, most of it was true. Nathan did sell us out on a hotel room. It did say "FREE MUMIA" on the wall beside my car. We would have been shot in our sleep in that particular neighborhood. But I didn't care if a cop had to clean me up off the street. That one was a lie. I can't stand cops. They've done many shitty things to me over the years. Most of them have small-dick complexes. They are out to steal our liberties. And they're all the time trying to keep me from having fun. Fuck cops.

Then the cop looked at me and said the corniest most cliché thing Byron or I have ever heard a person say. "This ain't North Carolina, boy! This is Georgia! You know what we do with our drunk drivers?"

At this point I knew I was being forced to fake having a true wonderment about what the answer was. It was my duty to fake being genuinely curious about the answer. So I faked being in suspense with the obligatory "What? What do you do to your drunk drivers in Georgia?"

His answer of course: "WE PUT 'EM IN JAIL!"

No Duh.

Ironically, the moment he said the word "jail" was the exact moment that the "Oh So Chipper Middle Aged Gay Man That Lives In My Head" joyfully sang in a broadway-ish manner to me "It looks to me like a certain special someone isn't going to jail after all. Splen-DID!" He's a pretty cool guy for the most part, but he can get annoying. He's a lot like Paul Lindh (If you're under 35, you're saying "Paul Who." Bewitched? No? Hollywood Squares Re-runs? No? Oh, who gives a shit. He was gay and famous and wore bad leisure suits.)

I knew that in lieu of going to jail, I was going to be givine some sort of alternative impromptu punishment.

"You boys are sleeping here tonight. Right here in this parking lot." I tried to be helpful by offering to straighten my car up more properly into the space. His response: "If you move that car one inch before tomorrow, I will haul your butt to jail so fast!"

Ok, dude. You got it.

"I'm gonna send somebody to wake you up in the morning, and when they do, you boys need to get out of Georgia immediately."

Yes, we were being unoffically banned from an entire United State. (I've never seen "United State" in the singular either.)

"You're the luckiest son of a bitch I ever knew. That's fucked up. You should be in jail."

What the fuck? Who the fuck? Who said that? Oh, it was Dirty Dave! He wasn't asleep after all. He was just too tired to get up and deal with the cop. And yes, my good buddy was pissed off that I didn't go to jail.

"Every time I get pulled over for drinking and driving, they send me to the slammer. But not you, man. That's so fucked up."

Yes, my dear pal wanted, WANTED, me to be hauled to jail, leaving him stranded two states away from his home, all in the name of fairness. He was so pissed off, but it was only because he was a thrice-convicted drunk driver who spent 30 days in the Brunswick County Jail, where he lived among wife-beaters and dead-beat dads who gave him the jailhouse name of "Professor" because he was the only college graduate in the joint. Oh, by the way, he said they had a rule called "flush your kids" which meant that it was OK to wack off in the one shower the 12 of them shared; but under one condition: you better get the jiz down the drain. Thus, “Flush your kids.”

Anyway, the cop left and I slept in the front of the car, Dave slept in the back, and Byron slept on a towel on the asphalt. (His body. His choice.) It was a hot Georgia night, so we rolled the windows down for the night, and I remember that as we chatted ourselves to sleep, we all agreed that the cop wouldn't really "send some dumbass to wake us up in the morning."

So some dumbass woke us up the next morning. (pause for the laughter) He did it by honking his horn repeatedly. Then he said "Get up, and get the hell out of here!" I really didn't like "Some Dumbass." Nevertheless, we got the hell out of there.

We decided to make one more stop before we left the state that we had so greatly offended in less than 6 hours time. We went to McDonalds for breakfast. Dave was in the bathroom, and me and Byron were getting our food. With Dave still in there, me and Byron decided to go to the wizzer, as well.

Byron walked in and I followed about two feet behind him. When we got in the bathroom, Dave was standing there at the sink washing up, and he looked at Byron and said "Aye new watt yer theen ken. Budeye dedden dew it." (If you don't yet speak the language of Buffalo native Dirty Dave that translates to "I know what you're thinking. But I didn't do it.")

"Didn't do what?," we both thought. Then we both saw a pile of turds placed neatly in the center of the urinal. The sad thing is that, had he not immediately denied it, Byron and I would have both naturally assumed that Dave was the guy that took a shit in a urinal. He was no doubt capable of it. That's just the way Ol' Dirty Dave rolls. You haven't truly lived until you have befriended an intelligent college graduate who is still fully willing to shit in pee pee device in front of complete strangers at a McDonalds. That dude is awesome. Oh, sure he didn't do it...this time! But the doesn't mean he hasn't done it before, or that he won't do it again. And that my friends, is what I like to refer to as...THE GREATEST ST. PATRICK'S DAY EVER! (PART 2)

So Screw The Whole Thing

I just stopped in Castle Hayne to fill up two tires that were very low. The thing about Castle Hayne is that it's a nice little country town outside of Wilmington. It even borders Wilmington, but most people that live in Wilmington wouldn't know how to get out of their bubble and find it.

The fun thing about Castle Hayne convenience stores is that there is always a random dirty black guy and a random dirty redneck looking at you from different sides of the store parking lot both waiting to rape or rob you. They never do it, but you can tell they're thinking about it. The just let you pump your gas or whatever and then walk backwards into the wooded area around the store. I take that back, there are actually some pretty good crimes in Castle Hayne. A lot are done by Mexicans. The following one wasn't.

Two months ago, some young black dude got into an argument in a convenience store with his girlfriend. So how did he handle his fight with his girlfriend? Naturally, he walked up to a white guy he didn't know and put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. (I still don't know what that was going to accomplish.) It's all on high-quality security tape. Here's the best part: the gun misfired. So that honkey from Castle Hayne gets to know a thrill most of us will never get to know. He knows the rush you feel when a stranger puts a gun to the front of your head right above your eyes and fires it. He got to feel it without the usual added effect: death and bloodiness.

I'll tell you one more thing that describes Castle Hayne. People who live there are always winning the lottery. Just last week some dude won a million. People there are always winning a million. Their mostly nice folks and you'd think I'd be happy for them, but I'm not. You know why? I don't think poor people should win the lottery. It sends a bad message. It tells other poor people, "You don't have to do shit, just keep wasting money on lady luck down at the Kangaroo Mart and you'll be fine."

You know who I like to see win the lottery? Rich motherfuckers. It's hilarious. They have all they need, and they get more! That's the way it should be. It says, "This guy worked his ass off and someone just put financial whipped cream on his already-pile of whipped cream." That's the way it should be. It tells poor people to get their asses to work. As the old saying goes, "Poor people have poor ways." Look, in America you shouldn't be poor forever. And the number one indicator of the fact that you won't be butt-ass poor forever is if you just keep working without taking extend voluntary periods away from the workforce. (I read lots of studies. I do it because it confuses the assumers who think this silly bastard here must also be an idiot. Oh, I am an idiot, but not in every way.)

But the greatest lesson about rich people winning the lottery is what they do afterwards: THEY KEEP WORKING! Poor people that win the lottery quit their job down at the pantyhose factory before the press conference is even over. They usually quit live on television. That don't even have enough class to write a resignation to the boss - or serve out a two weeks. But rich people that win the lottery, you hear about them burning the midnight oil even ten years after winning it all. They may have a private jet, but they'll turn that island-bound jet around and head back to headquarters if their is an emergency at the office. Sure, we all know the occasional rich prick who got money from his parents and didn't do shit with his life, but most rich people I know: they're tired! Sure, they can afford a massuesse and unlimited perscription of uppers - but they need those things. They've been working their asses off! Sorry, jack. I'm not gonna buy into this class warfare and envy game that people have been trying to sell me. I don't hate the rich. One day, I want to be the rich. And it won't happen by winning the lottery. I have to admit though, I'm not sure that I'm smart enough to become rich, and I'll tell you why. I can be really really dumb. You want proof of my dumb? (As if I haven't given you enough.) When I went to the Kangaroo Mart this afternoon and pulled in to fill up my two low tires, a miracle happened. I got out of the car and saw the miracle before my eyes. Both tires were already filled back up! Did they do it themselves? Was it the work of God? Or was it the fact that I'm an idiot? Yep, it was that. It occurred to me right then and there what had really happened. I had just woken up from a nap about 30 minutes prior to stopping at the gas station and I suddenly remembered having a dream about having two flat tires. Yes, I pulled in to fill up real tires, when the only ones that were flat were dream tires! I'm never gonna be rich. Unless I play the lottery in Castle Hayne. But then that black guy and the dirty redneck will just rob me of my ticket. So screw the whole thing.

Now go blow yourselves!

Real quick. I'm new to this place. The first person to successfully teach me how to follow other folks' blogs will receive a bag of Skittles in the mail. And not those crappy chocolate ones. What a let down those were.

On a candy note, I've learned something. If you never let your candy jar go dry, and you don't stock it with bullshit candy that nobody likes like Zero Bars - word gets around. What I'm saying is: girls are always at my house. Sure, they don't like me. But they do like my chocolate. And to be honest, some of them I don't like all that much, either, but I do like their cocoa puffs.

No for real, you should see it. When girls come to my house they go straight for the screaming lion. (That's my talking candy jar. He says in a scary black man voice: "Getcho hand out my cookie jar. Roar! Roar!" And I haven't changed the battery in 7 years. And I just realized - I haven't had a "dry spell" in seven years, either. Coincidence? Hell not! That's the power of chocolate making up for my sociopathic personality! Thanks chocolate! I've almost had babies I could learn to love with girls I could never learn to love because of you, you piece of shit! And thanks for always showing up late, periods! It's no fun when you don't show up when you are supposed to. Try being a little more punctual, you menacing menstruals!) It's like girls can't even say hi to me yet until they've raped my chocolate collection. Am I mad? Hell no. That's why it's there. Let's face it, my really cool video game chair with speakers in the head rest was never going to work as bait - unless I was trying to lure a bunch of dudes that are just like me.

Speaking of dudes, my friend who still does a radio morning show likes to send me disgusting pictures on my phone. He knows that I'll think it's a text message and then nearly throw up when I see the gross picture he sent. (Oh man, I'm starting to dry heave over what I'm about to tell you. For such a sick guy who dishes it out, I sure can't take it. My stomach is a pussy.) He sent me a picture of an old dude on a couch blowing another old dude that was also on the couch. Here's where it gets interesting: I actually caught myself thinking "Ooooh gross. Their dudes! And their old dudes! That's even grosser."

So why was my thought disturbing? Because my friend had inadvertently tricked me into realizing that I have a preference on what types of dudes I'd like to see blowing each other on a couch. Here I thought all these years that I'd equally prefer to not see ANY dudes blowing each other on a couch. Although I didn't enjoy it one bit seeing these old dudes slobbing each other's knobs, I had to admit: given the choice, I'd rather watch young healthy dudes sucking each other off than geezers. I know that doesn't make me gay - but it makes me something. It made me realize I had a preference - even if I enjoyed neither. And that was no fun to find out. I hate you, ugly reality. Go away!

This same friend of mine once argued with me (off-air, during a commercial break when we worked together.) He said, "Dude, if you could blow yourself and you did, that would be gay." I argued that blowing yourself isn't gay, because we all give ourselves hand jobs all the time and that's never been called homo. Then the commercial ended and we went back to performing a wholesome family radio show. However, three hours later, my friend went back to this subject that he had obviously never stopped debating in his head all morning - you know, the subject of the gayness of blowing yourself. And he tried to bring me to at least a compromise. He said, "OK, dude, so you don't think blowing yourself is gay. Fine. But at least give me this one: if you come in your mouth and actually swallow like a good girl should: then that makes you gay. Will you at least admit to that?" I said, "Deal! Let the resolution show that it's only gay if you swallow yourself."

I can't believe they ever let guys like us have microphones on a family station. How stupid! By the way, if you want those Skittles, get me learning how to follow some blogs. Later, yall. Now go blow yourselves!

Roth Wriscey Shows Off His Badass Moves In The Street

I'm going to be putting my favorite re-runs on here from time to time. I cringe at my writing, but the stories are good enough on their own that my writing didn't mess them up too bad. Here's one I wrote three years ago. It really happened and it really involved Kung Fu.

Thursday, March 16, 2006

The Greatest Saint Patrick's Day Story Ever!

The greatest Saint Patrick's Day ever took place in time long, long ago. It was the year 2000. The future was here and Savannah was calling. It might be a little played out, but everyone has to go there to celebrate the holiday at least once; including Dirty Dave, Byron, and myself. So that's what we set out to do: Saint Patrick's Day in that beautiful Georgia town.

The three of us arrived in the town at 10 p.m. by way of my magical Toyota Celica. The plan was to get drunk, make out with strange women, and meet up with my pilot friend Nathan, who came up from Jacksonville, Florida, at the hotel room that he reserved for all of us. That was the plan. Plans suck. More to come on that.

It was a great evening of bad behavior. We were drinking on the streets and saying dumb stuff to girls. I'm pretty sure Byron did some fire spitting, and Dave did some "Famous Dave Girl Manipulation" (Damn, he was good. Greasy, but good.)

We were in a boring bar, Dave looked around, picked out two girls, walked up to them, creeped them out, then made them laugh, then told them that we were leaving. At this point, predictably, they asked us if they could come along. Dave could always make girls think it was their idea to hang out with us, when it was actually his. It's like some magical Yankee Jedi mind trick. He could violate girls with the way he looked up and down their bodies.....and they would thank him! You’ve got to witness it some time. We are now almost to the point where this shit gets good and hits a fan. It's so good that it deserves it's own paragraph.

Thank you for coming to the next paragraph. Let's proceed: So Dirty Dave, Firin' Byron, Weird-Ass Me, and two strange girls that Dave hypnotized were all walking down the streets of Savannah to another bar. Byron started lagging behind, and before you know it, some dude was yelling at him. Not just any dude, a dude that looked almost identical to former Atlanta Braves relief pitcher John Rocker, except he had an Australian accent. We were all confused, why was a stranger yelling at Byron? That's Cory Territory! (OK, so my real name appears sometimes.) Strangers are supposed to fuck with me. The balance of the universe was slightly off.

"Oi’m gonna kick ya' ass, mate," the Australian John Rocker yelled at Byron.

"Oh shit," I said. I remember looking at Dave and ordering him to put his beer down on the sidewalk so we could present a united front in defense of our friend. Dave always seemed to suspiciously disappear during previous conflicts, and I was not letting him slip away because Byron needed us.

Me: Why are you fucking with my friend?

Australian John Rocker: He tried to steal me beads out of me hand that I was trying to give to these girls. I'm gonna beat the fuck out of him, mate!

Me: A) Byron didn't try to steal your beads. And B) You're not gonna beat anyone's ass.

John Rocker: Yes I am.

Me: You try to beat his ass and we're gonna kick your ass and any of your friend's asses that try to jump in and kick our asses. Got it?

This stupid boy-posturing went on for another minute or two with repetitive declarations of who exactly was going to get their ass kicked, and by whom. It was like a wrestling match, with all sorts of pre-match threats. Guys are so dumb. I'm one of them, I know.

Finally, I decided to regulate and rectify the situation by barking orders. I told Dave and Byron to take the two girls (yep, they were still with us) and walk down the street. I told John Rocker that he was going to stay right where he was until my people got a safe distance away, and I was going to stand in the middle to make sure he didn't run after them. I told him if he tried any shit, I was gonna take him down. Did I mention that I'm 5 foot 10 and not that big; and that he was about 6 foot 4 and a whole lot of pounds, and very mad, and very drunk, and very Australian. Well, he was. It figures into the story in a moment.

I saw my friends take a right at an intersection and felt they were far enough away from our new enemy that I could take my eye off of him and catch up to them and get on our way. I was walking down the street and just as I took the right turn at the corner, who do I see? Yep, Crocodile Dundee was running full speed down the street towards me. He was trying to sneak up on me to attack from behind! The rat bastard! Not only was he large and crazy, he was running down a hill towards me, which made him even bigger. He was getting closer and closer to me and I didn't know what to do. In case you hadn't figured it out yet, I had absolutely no chance of beating this dude's ass. I was totally lying when I told him that I could. What was I gonna do? (You'll find out in the next paragraph.)

My body went faster than my mind and I suddenly found myself in some sort of martial arts stance; which would be great...if I had any training in oh, say, martial arts! The dude didn't know this, and to my surprise, he stopped in his tracks and started staring at me out of confusion. I started shifting my feet back and forth in some sort of alternating pivot, like I was a left-handed fighter, then I would jump into the stance of a right handed fighter, and back and forth repeatedly. I also had both hands held out with each one pointing five fingers at him like I was Bruce Lee. Each time I switched my lead foot, I also switched my lead hand. While I was doing this, I started screaming at the guy, who was still frozen, in some sort of fake Asian language.

It went something like this, "Gow Kaki Daiii-eeeYa Ya OOh!"

Then I would alternate my language back to that of an insanely angry English speaking white boy, and I said stuff like, "Oh you want some of me, motherfucker! It's on bitch! Gow Kaki Daiiii-eeeeYa Ya Oh Gow Mo Kokiko."

Here's the weird part: the dude was buying my act. Then I realized, "Oh shit, I've got to follow through with this bullshit routine I've just created. If he realizes that I don't know Kung Fu, and that I don't speak - what the fuck kinda language am I speaking anyway? Anyway, if he figures it out he'll just beat the shit out of me".

Currently we were at a standoff. The guy was trying to figure out my “advanced” moves so he could break in with a punch, but he was afraid to punch me because he had a fear that I would take his arm flip him over and stand on his throat, or something like that. I could see it in his eyes, he was freaked.

He finally tried to come at me with a punch but I stuck my foot out. I didn't exactly kick him, but I did have my foot wedged into his groin area of his pants. With my foot stuck, I just sort of shoved him backwards. It looked like a masterful mercy kick - like I was giving him one last chance to walk away. I went back to pivoting and rambling Fake-Asian and he went back to trying to break the code of my masterful martial arts stance.

"You want more, Buddy! Next time I kick you, you won't be getting up. How bad do you want it? Mao Za Kagaduchi Mi Mo Hirohito Tagachi Sushi Yo!"

I needed help. Damn I needed help! Where was my rescue? It wasn't coming from Dave and Byron, because I looked over to my left in the middle of this "fight" and I saw both of them laying on the ground slapping the concrete and laughing at my antics. They knew I didn't know Kung Fu. Yet, I guess they thought I'd be OK, anyway. They better have thought that, otherwise they were just leaving there buddy high and dry. Who was gonna save me? How about........................

.................John Rocker's friends! They ran up, grabbed HIM, pulled him away, and then circled me. I knew I was dead. Or was I?

They said to me, "Hey man, our friend's drunk. He doesn't mean it. Just let it go. Can you let it go?" I said "I'm cool man. I'm cool." But they didn't believe me. I couldn't believe that his friends were also buying my martial arts expert act; and now they thought that I was in an uncontrollable rage. But I wasn't, I was scared to death. Oh well, they didn't need to know that. So I continued the rage act.

I screamed, "I'll make you a deal. Get your damn friend out of here, right fucking now and I'll leave him alone. But if I see him tonight, he better not so much as say a fucking word to me. NO, he better not even LOOK at me."

They said, "That's cool, we'll get him out of here, just be cool, dude, calm down, he's just real drunk. We don't want any trouble, man"

As John Rocker and his buddies were walking away, a guy from the crowd (oh, I forgot to mention that there was a crowd of about 100 people watching), walked up to me. He put one arm around me, and addressed the crowd.

"Hey everybody, I don't know about you people, but I've gotta shake this guy's hand! Because he didn't know what the fuck he was doing! He had no chance of kicking that guy's ass; but he convinced that guy the he DID!" He was, of course, pointing at John Rocker, who was walking away.

He continued, "I know karate, and you, my friend, don't know the first fucking thing about karate! That was awesome!"

Some people in the crowd started applauding and cheering. I got nervous that John Rocker's crew might hear this, as they were possibly still within earshot. I whispered to my new admirer, "Hey dude, I appreciate the appreciation. But I don't want everyone knowing that I can't fight. You're blowing my cover, man."

"Oh sorry, dude. That totally rocked," he said. Then he walked away, the crowd disappeared, and Firin' Byron, Dirty Dave, Kung Pow, and 2 strange girls that barely figured into this story continued on their way down the street to the next bar. Byron said, “You know the funny thing? I totally tried to steal the bead's out of that asshole's hands. I guess I should've told you that part. Sorry, man.”
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This concludes Part I of the Greatest St. Patrick's Day Ever! Part II is coming tomorrow.

And Slightly a Murderer

I wrote this two weeks ago. I'm just testing out my new blogger space. Enjoy.

If I gave you a million dollars and told you it was yours, you could probably deal with that. But what if I told you that out of that million bucks I gave you, every 1000th dollar you spent would kill someone the very second you spent it. It wouldn't necessarily be someone you knew - it could be any one person in the world. All you would know is that the second that every thousandth dollar left your hand, someone else was leaving earth. And you'd never know who, where, or how painful it was. Could you handle it?

I bet you could at first. And then you'd slowly start to go nuts. You'd try to figure out who it was: "Who were these people I've killed?" And then you'd try to justify it by doing something dumb like trying to pay off your victims' families - but you'd probably never find them. So then you'd try to tell yourself, "He didn't really have the power to kill those people. This isn't really happening. But why would he give me that money for no reason? He must be killing them like he said he would if I spent this money. I'm eventually going to be responsible for the death of 1000 people! I'm crazy! I'm crazy! I'm crazy!"

You see. That's why I was never allowed the power to give out money with stipulations (such as murder.)

Now, as if it couldn't get any worse. Imagine if I presented you with the same million dollars/1000 dead scenario. But I narrowed the scope of my killings to the town you live in. For example, if you lived here in Wilmington with our population of about 100,000 - you'd know that once you spent that million I gave you, you would have killed off one percent of the entire population. And no doubt, you probably would have killed off a handful of people you knew and even a few you liked. Every time you spent another thousand dollars at Target, you'd crouch and grind your teeth as the money left your hand in the hopes that you didn't see someone in the store fall over dead of a heart attack right in front of you. And you'd never get a good night's sleep because you'd always be waiting for the newspaper to hit the doorstep so you could check the obituaries to see who you had done in. And every time the phone rang you'd answer it on the first ring to make sure your friend wasn't calling to tell you that another friend was dead. And every time a co-worker was late for work, you'd have to call to make sure they were still coming in. And every time your roommate was in the bed at a strange afternoon hour being too quiet, you'd have to rush in and check her pulse. And every time you were driving on the local highway, you'd be afraid that one of your online transactions was posting and that the driver of the car coming towards you would fall dead on the wheel and drive into you. And every time you heard an ambulance drive by, you'd be sure it was your work again. And sometimes you'd sneak over to the morgue to see the faces of your victims. And eventually you'd start paying for every funeral in town (just in case) until you were actually going broke trying to buy your way back into heaven.

I warned you not to take the money. Wait, no I didn't. And this isn't real. But if it was, I'd have made you waaaay crazy. And slightly a murderer.