Tuesday, April 19, 2016

Ghetto Copperfield

I've always had a weakness for redheads and it's been my undoing far too many times to count. Fuck, let's face it, simply getting out of bed in the morning has been my undoing far too many times to count, but that's not what I'm talking about here. What I'm talking about here are Gingers and my personal struggle with Ginger addiction. Let that sink in for a moment. Gingers.

Gingers are evil, soul eating monsters that have somehow managed to escape from the fiery pits in the lowest depths of Hell, clawing their way to the surface and eating the hearts of their victims; a noontime snack along the way.

As tools of the devil, these carrot topped demons are marked by the color red, the same satanic shade as their master, the Prince of Darkness. Cursed by God, Gingers cannot walk the Earth by day without bursting into flames and crumbling into a gritty, toxic, neon orange dust. In retribution for this curse, Gingers lurk in pools of shadow at night, waiting to steal unwary children from their beds, drinking their blood and eating their souls. Gingers scare the shit out of humanity and rightly so. One only needs to look at the history of civilization to see the havoc that the Ginger race has wreaked among our species. Even now, as I write this, my life and 'immoral' soul are in danger of being snuffed out. You see, I'm a race traitor and I'm currently dating one of them. A Ginger. A motherfucking Ginger. Think about that for a moment.  If you need a quick break to process that bombshell, I understand. Take all the time you need, I'll be right here waiting. Deep breaths. Baby steps. Rome wasn't built in a day, you know.

I love the shit out of my Ginger, she's an amazing woman, but I also live in constant fear of her. She scares the living fuck out of me, because she is, after all, a Ginger and Gingers are some scary shit. Don't tell her that I'm afraid of her, though. Please, please, please do not tell her that. I've managed to keep her fooled for all of this time and I like to pretend that I'm all brave and manly and shit and Gingers can smell fear a mile away. I'm a fucking dead man if she catches one whiff of my terror. Maybe you could say like a little fucking prayer for me, or something. Everyone always says that I need prayer, so please pray for me. Oh please, please pray for me. It's all about the power of prayer. It's a long, long, really fucking long way to Heaven, when you spend every one of your nights trying to get to Hell.

Ain't no fucking way I'd ever get into Heaven.

How come there's a Highway to Hell and only a Stairway to Heaven?

There's probably car pool lanes and shit.

While this is a story about a Ginger, this isn't a story about the current Ginger; this one's safe. For now. Oh, but do I have stories, fuck do I ever (insert maniacal, evil laugh here). Please don't cut off my dick, honey. I love you. I really fucking do. I fucking love the shit out of you. Besides, it's not like I want to piss her off or anything while we're both on the same continent. Fear has a lot to do with that. Fear and my desire for a sex life that doesn't involve my right hand. Plus, I'd like to think that I'm smarter than that. I'd like to think it, but we all know that I'm not. Fuck. It's like that whole math thing. I really should have been a stripper, but I would have starved. All the other dudes would be walking off the stage with g-strings stuffed full of cash and I'd be jingling and jangling with a few rusty nickels. Plus, "Nickels" as a stage name, well, it's not very becoming, is it? So no, this isn't a story about the current Ginger, no, this story is about another Ginger from a lifetime ago. Centuries, eons, eras, whatever. I was young. Younger. The wheel had just been invented, it looked promising, but no one knew what the fuck to do with it. Unfortunately, I was heavily invested in triangles, at the time.

My ship always comes in while I'm at the fucking bus station.

Back when I was eighteen, there was this girl, Andrea and she was beautiful. Her hair was a deep red with long curls. Hot stuff. Andrea was petite, fawn eyed and had the biggest and nicest pair of tits that I'd ever wanted to play with. Seriously. I just wanted to hug them and squeeze them, but fuck calling them George. Andrea was eighteen and she and her parents had just moved to Florida from Quebec. Her parents had struck up a friendship with my parents and they had been encouraging us to meet and hang out together. We resisted, but both sets of parents seemed hell bent matching us up. It's like they wanted us to fuck, or be besties, or something. Whatever. Look, at that age, if you introduced me to your daughter, you were basically telling me that it was cool for me to fuck her, because if you didn't want me to fuck her, you wouldn't have introduced me to your daughter. Makes sense, right? It's called logic, baby. Parents, you should keep that shit in mind when it comes to your daughters.

Hope I didn't cock block anyone.

Anyway, one night when our parents were hanging out, or smoking up, or swinging (double shudders), or whatever they fuck they did, Andrea and I were introduced and then forced upon each other as companions for the evening. Apparently, it was my lucky fucking day, whether I wanted it to be, or not. It was one of those, "Hey, Steve. This is your new friend, Andrea. Why don't the two of you run along and play?" kind of moments, like I was five years old and shit. I wanted to shank a motherfucker, but at least she had hella nice titties. As the two of us ran off to play and being the friendly little motherfucker that I've always been, I asked Andrea if she wanted to smoke a little weed. She stuck her nose in the air and she sniffed. Literally. Fuck me. Well, that bitch was just too fucking cool for school to smoke my fucking pot, what with her being a super fucking cool Canadian and all, but if a troglodyte like myself could somehow hook her up with some high class hash, she'd be down with the clown and might even deign to smoke some of it with me. My treat.

Hash? Yeah, sure, no problem. Why not just ask for the fucking moon while you're at it? I could find weed all fucking day long, figuratively pull it out of my ass, but where the fuck was I going to find hash? No one that I knew bothered with it, because we weren't super fucking cool Canadian dickheads who sat around in our fucking igloos, munching on fucking homemade whale blubber jerky and smoking fucking hash mixed with tobacco, all while trying to not be eaten by a motherfucking polar bear, or getting ass raped by a moose. I'd smoked plenty of hash and I wasn't impressed, it really did nothing for me. Yet, Andrea liked hash and she liked her hash mixed with tobacco, no less. Seriously? That's fucking disgusting. Who does that shit? Obviously, super fucking cool Canadian dickheads do that shit, but I digress. I was pretty sure that there was no way in hell that I was going to find any hash.

So yeah, there just might be one teeny, tiny little fucking problem, one little speed bump along the way. Reality was intruding, but who was I to let reality stand in my way. I brushed that shit aside and eyed up those bodacious tatas.

"I can get it," I blurted out. "No problem."

Did I really just fucking say that? Seriously? What the fuck was I thinking? What the fuck am I ever fucking thinking? That's a rhetorical question, you don't need to fucking answer it.

Tits on the brain.

I made a few calls to a sundry assortment of drug dealers and numerous friends, finding nothing other than bullshit promises and my usual disappointment. Everybody knew somebody, but nobody could deliver the goods. Fuck me, I wasn't going to get to squeeze the titties if I couldn't deliver the goods and I really wanted to squeeze those magnificent Canadian titties, even if the girl that owned them was an uptight bitch. I needed to think of something quick.

Fortunately, I've always been a quick thinker and fast on my feet. We're talking motherfucking light speed, when I have the proper motivation and I find a spectacular pair of breasts to be very motivating. Very motivating, indeed.

In hindsight, maybe it was a little too quick, but fuck me, that girl carried quite a bit of motivation.

Whatever. Fortune favors the bold, motherfucker and I was one bold motherfucker.

Inspiration struck. Inspiration, desperation, insanity, whatever. One man's insanity is another man's inspiration or some shit like that and I'm all about being inspirational. Anyway, the point is, I had this bright idea and hatched an amazing plan that was both simple and elegant, like all of my plans. That shit was foolproof. There should have been no way for me to fuck it up. None. I would drive us down to the projects on Ali Baba Avenue in Opa Locka (you can't make this shit up), score some hash, drive Andrea back to my apartment, smoke up and then I'd get to squeeze the titties like they were rolls of Charmin and fuck you, Mr. Whipple. Except... there was no way that I was going to find any hash and Miss High and Fucking Mighty Canadian was going to be forced to smoke my common man weed and I was still going to squeeze those titties. It was a fucked up plan, I acknowledge that, but it was a plan nonetheless. It was a simple and straightforward plan and those sun ripened titties were practically in my hands and begging to be squeezed. What could possibly go wrong?

Pretty much everything could go wrong, if you think about it, but that uppity fucking Canadian was too good to smoke my fucking 100% American weed (from Jamaica) and she just had to have her fucking hash and I just had to squeeze those titties, so I didn't think about it quite as much as I should have. Oops, my bad.

Not long after we got into my car, Andrea straight up tried to friend zone me. Oh no, motherfucker, I'm a titty squeezing kind of friend, let's get that shit straight right now. Andrea mentioned something about some dumbass boyfriend that she had who was back in Canada and how much she loved him and was staying faithful to him until some crackhead dream time that she would return to Canada and they would live happily ever after, blah, blah, fucking blah. Yeah, fuck that. I wasn't about to let some redneck Canadian fuck, named Derek, of all fucking things, stand in the way of my squeezing those magnificent tits. There was no way that I was going to be defeated by Derek the Douchebag, no fucking way. Sorry Derek, but fuck you. Find a new girl, dude; maybe buy her some hash.

We drove down to the hood, passed the Circle K, cruised around the block and pulled up in front of the projects. My car was instantly surrounded by a crowd of motherfuckers that were all pushing little manila envelopes filled with dime bags of weed at me.

"Anyone got any hash?" I asked. All of the hands that had been reaching through my slightly open window disappeared. No bueno.

Dude made three grams of hash appear in my hand like he was some kind of ghetto David Copperfield. Get. The. Fuck. Out. I couldn't believe it. There was no fucking way and yet, there it was, the Holy Fucking Grail was in my grasp. Holy shit. I was going to squeeze the motherfucking titties. Hallelujah and praise Jesus, but it was my lucky fucking day.

Some people want to win the lottery, I just wanted to get laid. Tits, ftw!

That space between heartbeats and everything changes. It only takes a fraction of a second to go from squeezing the titties to not squeezing the titties, because that was the moment that the night lit up like a fucking Christmas tree as a police car, that I had somehow missed seeing, rolled up on us, lights flashing. Totally not cool.

Fuck. Yeah, no. This was so far beyond fuck that a word to describe it still hasn't been invented.

Andrea screamed. Seriously? Who fucking screams? She screamed again. Really? Omg. Shut the fuck up.

I told Andrea to calm down, because when you tell a woman to calm down, she immediately realizes that she's being completely irrational and she instantly calms down. Trust me on this one, it works every time. Guys, you should try it.

Andrea became a bit more animated. Okay, she started flipping the fuck out.

The crowd of kids that had been surrounding my car scattered and slithered into the shadows, escaping into the night. That really wasn't an option for me. The cop was out of his car and waddling his doughnut heavy, fat ass up to my car just as fast as he could weeble and wobble.

Andrea screamed a third time. I looked at her.

"We're going to jail! This is all your fault! I fucking hate you!" Andrea wailed.

"Jesus Christ! Would you shut the fuck up?" I yelled at the terrified girl.

Andrea shut the fuck up. Thank fucking god. The power of motherfucking prayer in action, my friends. The power of motherfucking prayer.

I looked at the three cubes of hash in my hand and I did the only thing that I could possibly and sensibly do. I ate that shit. Popped it all right into my mouth and started chewing like a motherfucker. Three fucking grams of hash. Chew, chew, chew like a motherfucker. Three grams of hash is a fucking mouthful. It also tasted like shit. No, it tasted like dried up shit rolled in dirt and then topped with some more shit. Think about that for just a second, I was chewing a mouthful of dirt encrusted dried shit. Just wanted to throw that out there.

The police cruiser was nose to nose with my car, blue lights flashing and the spotlight was on and it was blinding me and I'd lost sight of the cop, but there he was, popping up at my window like some kind of Pillsbury Poppin' Fresh jack in the box motherfucker with his flashlight shining in my eyes and I couldn't see for shit. I was still frantically chewing the fucking hash which had dried my mouth to a fine crusty pucker. I tried to swallow and I couldn't. I kept chewing.

The cop starts shouting at me, "Where are the drugs?"

"Drugs? What drugs?" I answered. "We're lost. We only stopped to ask for directions."

As I'm speaking to the cop, I noticed that little chunks of hash were shooting out of my mouth like little brown cannonballs of shit and those little cannonballs were being fired at the cop, hitting his uniform shirt and tie and then bouncing back at me.

Oh, fuck.

My eyes were watering like crazy. I'm not sure if it was from the lights or if it was the taste of the hash that was making my eyes water. Probably both.

I glanced over at Andrea and she looked like she was one wet fart away from spewing shit all over the passenger seat of my car.

"Don't play games with me, son," the cop said.

What? Did he think we were playing fucking Chutes and Ladders? Dude, you need to take this shit seriously.

I finally managed to swallow the hash. Finally. The taste was glued to the inside of my mouth like a fecal fondue, but hey, I'm just guessing here, having never tasted a fecal fondue. Hey, we all need to swallow a little unpalatable shit sometimes.

I looked at the cop and I laughed. I couldn't fucking help myself. The cop became visibly agitated. More agitated, I should say. I thought that sonofabitch was going to have a fucking stroke or an apoplectic fit. Fuck that guy. The evidence was gone, I was clean, my car was clean (except for Andrea's shit stains and the usual mess of candy bar wrappers, empty cups and fast food detritus) and there wasn't a fucking thing that prick could do to me, so yeah, fuck that guy.

Meanwhile, Andrea is still squirming in her shit, but at least she kept her mouth shut. The power of prayer... It's real.

"What's so funny, boy?" the cop asked me.

"I don't have any drugs," I said just as smugly as I could.

As I spoke, I noticed that the cop's shirt took another broadside of hash cannonballs. Thought I had swallowed all of that shit. Surprise!

"Don't bullshit me, boy," said Officer Smooth. "Give me the drugs and you just might go home tonight. Don't make me go looking."

Did this motherfucker really think I would be stupid enough to hand him drugs and expect to go home that night? Fat fucking chance of that, but since I no longer had any drugs, fuck that and fuck him and I planned on being in my own bed that night, hopefully squeezing some titties, but that was starting to look like it might not happen and it was all this fucking guys fault and I was none too happy about it. Fucking cop blocker.

I grew cocky. Cockier.

"I don't have anything," I laughed.

The cop turned a very pretty shade of purple. Temper, temper...

"I don't have anything," I repeated. "Search all you want. Search me, search the car, you can search your own fucking asshole and anything else you want, but you won't find anything. You were too fast, you jumped the gun. I didn't have a chance to buy anything."

I had finally confessed my guilt, but I was clean and there wasn't a thing in the world that cop could do to me, other than to break my balls and waste my time, so if he was going to fuck with me, I was going to fuck right back. I was eighteen, cocky and stupid and because fuck that guy.

The cop glared at me and that fucking prick kept his fucking flashlight aimed straight into my eyes. Yeah, fuck that guy.

"Don't make me get a dog," the cop threatened.

"Go ahead and get a dog," I replied. "search all you want, I'm clean. Maybe you and the dog can play a little fetch?"

The cop scowled and looked like he was about to say something nasty and had thought better of it. He ordered me to hand over my drivers license, proof of insurance and vehicle registration and I complied. He told me to stay where I was and he walked back over to his car to run my license and registration. Where did he think I was going to go? Out for pizza?

My documentation checked out and came back clean. He looked crestfallen. The cop waddled over to my car again and he gave me back my shit.

"Please step out of the car. I'm going to search your vehicle," the cop said.

Oh goody, an illegal search. You go right the fuck ahead, fat boy.

Andrea and I got out of the car. She didn't look very happy. Actually, she looked terrified and entirely too pissed off. Plus, she was shooting me some serious fucking stink eye. Wtf? What the hell did I do? Fuck. Try to do something nice for someone and this is how they repay you? Wtf? Some people just have no appreciation. Bitches.

Anyway, the cop searches and searches, but he can't find shit, because I ate all of that shit and there isn't shit for him to find, but if he wanted to search through all of the trash and shit in my car, that was fine with me. Holy shit! That's a lot of shit.

"Do you ever clean this thing?" the cop asked rhetorically.

"Not really," I answered.

After what seemed like forever, the cop finally gave up the ghost and ended his search, allowing us to get back into my car. The cop was pissed off and frustrated by his inability to find any contraband. He had no option other than to let us go off on our merry way and he bid us a fond farewell with one final threat.

"Don't ever let me catch you around here again," he said.

Or what? Fat fucking chance of that, you fat, fucking asshole.

I started the car, put it in gear and I got us the fuck out of Dodge. My mouth was still as dry as a fucking desert and the noxious taste of the hash was clinging to my taste buds like a sweat soaked dollar bill stuck in a stripper's ass crack. The taste in my mouth was akin to licking the inside of an abandoned outhouse. Once again, I feel obliged that I need to mention that I have no personal experience of this. No pics, no proof.

Here it is, more than thirty years later and I'm fucking gagging, just thinking about the taste of that shit.

I looked over at Andrea. Yeah, that girl was definitely going to need a change of clothing. Fucking dropping deuces on my car seat and shit.

Once we got back onto the main road, I saw the shining lights of my salvation just ahead, a gleaming beacon in the darkness of the night, BK in da hood. A brightly colored mecca of frosty beverages that could be used to wash the taste of sin and nasty fucking dirt hash out of my mouth. I made a beeline for that oasis of light in the urban desert, that brightly burning beacon of hope with a motherfucking drive thru. Hallefuckinglujah!

As I was about to pull into the Burger King, Andrea finally found her voice and she unleashed a torrent of harshness and invective upon my gentle soul. It was pretty fucking mean, if you ask me. After all, I'm all sweetness and sensitivity and innocence and light and shit and here that bitch was, acting like her sister had just been crushed by a fucking house. Click your heels three times and fucking go back to Canada, bitch.

She was pretty fucking creative, let me tell you. I don't think she used the same curse word twice at any point during her tirade. That motherfucker called me all sorts of names, but I refuse to use language like that. I'm much too much of a gentle soul for that kind of bullshit.

I was pretty sure that I wasn't going to be squeezing any titties that night, but then she called me an idiot.

An idiot? Once she said that, I was pretty sure that she liked me. Things were looking up. Maybe a quick squeeze? Tune in Tokyo?

I ignored the shit out of Andrea and I ordered myself a chocolate shake. Maybe if Andrea had shut the fuck up, I'd have ordered her something too. Lord knows, she needed a dick, or something in her mouth in order for her to shut the fuck up. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Fer fuck's sake. I attacked my drink like a dying man looking for a last chance to jerk off before he dies. That chocolate shake was like manna from heaven and it cleansed the taste of the hash out of my mouth.

Meanwhile, the bitch kept bitching and babbling on.

The way that Andrea kept going on (Jesus, stop and take a fucking breath, would you?) I was starting to rethink my position. Maybe, just maybe I wasn't going to get to squeeze the titties. That's all kinds of fucked up, I know, but fuck it, you can't squeeze all of the titties all of the time.

But you can sure fucking try.

To be honest, at this point, I wasn't even sure if I wanted to squeeze her titties anymore. Okay, that last part is complete bullshit, I'm always down for squeezing some titties. Silence is golden. duct tape is silver. Just sayin'.

I drove us back to my parent's house and I had to listen to Andrea bitch the entire way. Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch... like it was my fucking fault or something. Like I'm the one who wanted the hash. Was I the one who was too uppity to smoke good old American weed from Jamaica? Fuck no. So, how the fuck was any of this my fault? Fuck, you try to do something nice for someone and this is how they repay you?

Finally, I turned to Andrea and said, "Would you shut the fuck up, already?"

Andrea was so shocked, she shut the fuck up. Finally. Praise Jesus.

The car was now silent, which was a good thing. I cranked up the stereo. Andrea scowled, but she kept her fucking mouth shut and that was a good thing too. Like, the bestest thing ever.

The hash kicked in. I was one stoned motherfucker. At least something good would come out of all of this, a free buzz. I'd never paid David Copperfield for the hash. Plus, I made that shit disappear.

Who's the better magician now, motherfucker?

We made it back to my parent's house and I parked. Andrea couldn't get out of the car fast enough. I asked her if she wanted to go back to my apartment and catch a buzz, but she totally freaked the fuck out and started crying and then she took of running. Wtf? Was it something I said?

Needless to say, I didn't get to squeeze Andrea's titties. Not that night, anyway, but I did eventually.

Bitches can't resist my charms.

Wednesday, March 23, 2016

Crash Landing

My friend Luke and I have known each other for over thirty years and I've shared a few stories of our misadventures together. It would seem that when you place the two of us on the same patch of earth, some seriously strange shit happens. More brothers than friends, Luke and I have also been roommates at various times throughout our lives and I have to say, there's never been a dull moment.

Before we go any further, let me describe Luke to you. I don't think that I've ever described Luke before, not on these pages, anyway. Please realize that I am going to poke a little bit at him in my description, mostly because I'm an ass, but it's basically accurate. Luke is a stunted, little, rotund man... I kid. Luke isn't very tall. He probably claims to be 5'8', but I think he's more like 5'6" and he's been going bald since before the day I met him. Hell, he's been going bald since before he went into the womb. Luke wears glasses and is definitely one of the most Jewish looking people that I've ever seen, so just picture a short, tubby,balding  Jewish guy with glasses and you've pretty much got Luke.

Okay, now that we've got that bullshit out of the way, I need you to bear with me for just another moment, because I need to build this next bit o' bullshit up a bit, so I'm going to go off on a bit of a tangent.

I once worked as a DJ at a posh nightclub in Miami Beach, FL, back in the mid 80's. Now, before you can say to yourself, "Holy fuck! How fucking cool was that?" let me clarify things a little bit for you.

It wasn't exactly posh and it wasn't exactly a club, either. It wasn't exactly Miami Beach  and if I'm going to be honest, I wasn't exactly a DJ, although I did a pretty shitty job of pretending to be one. Let's break this down point by point, shall we?

Point #1 It wasn't exactly posh and it wasn't exactly a club, either. It certainly wasn't posh until the lights were off and as for being a club? Well, it was, but it wasn't. It was a shitty little dive bar, or "club", if you will, that was tucked away in the basement of the Marco Polo Hotel, a hotel that was fairly well regarded and did serve an international clientele. The "club" in the basement was still a fucking dive, but in its own way, it was totally fucking awesome. I realize that this was actually kind of, sort of two points, but don't you try to play your math fuckery games with me.

Point #2 - It wasn't exactly Miami Beach. Well, it wasn't. Not even close. It wasn't even within jerking off distance, but it was fucking close enough, okay? The Marco Polo is actually located in Sunny Isles, FL, which is the northern tip of Miami-Dade County, so it's in the same county, which makes it fucking close enough, okay?

Point #3 - I wasn't exactly a DJ. Well, I was, but I wasn't. I mean, it was my job title and all and I did play music, but to say that I failed in fulfilling any part of my responsibilities would be putting it mildly; I was the worst DJ ever, but I can make a mean motherfucking mix tape and that's basically what I did all night long, make mix tapes. How I got this job is a story in itself, but that's a story for another day. I could go into all of the reasons why I sucked as a DJ, but let's just say that I didn't give a fuck and I played whatever I wanted to, was an absolute wanker and constantly fucked things up. Pretty much the same shit I always do. Trust me when I say that I excelled at that job.

Anyway, even the worst DJ ever has to have DJ equipment and I bought myself all kinds of stuff, mostly tacky shit like disco balls, rope lights, strobe lights, revolving police lights, etc. My bedroom looked like the set of a bad 70's porn film. The Feng Shui was fucking great though, let me tell you, even if I have no clue what the fuck Feng Shui is.

Blah, blah, blah... This sure is taking a long fucking time to tell a relatively short story.

Anywho, around this time, I was having some medical issues that were causing me to have a lot of horrible migraines. The headaches were non-stop and would last for weeks on end. It turned out that the strobe lights and all of the other flickering lights would serve as triggers for the migraines and sadly, my light show had to go. Bummer.

Luke and I were roommates at the time and I mentioned to him that I was looking to sell my lighting equipment and he told me that he was interested in purchasing them. We negotiated a price and they were his. The lights disappeared into Luke's bedroom.

Months went by...

I'd met this girl Kim and it was our first date. We'd gone out to dinner and then headed back to my place for a little Betamax and chill. Luke had a date as well and he was supposed to be gone all night, so Kim and I had the apartment to ourselves. Betamax and chill, yeah baby! Just as things were about to get hot and heavy, fucking Luke comes busting through the door along with his date, Irma. Irma. Seriously. Who the fuck names their child Irma? What the fuck is wrong with people? Anyway, those two shitheads come busting through the fucking door like fucking gangbusters, drunk giggling and totally cock blocking me, Fuckers.

Luke stopped long enough to chat for a moment and introduced the girls. I was screaming, "Get the fuck out!" the entire time. I didn't really scream it out loud, but I did think it right to his face. I was giving Luke some serious stink eye coupled with the universal look for you need to get the fuck out of here before I set your ass on fire. Luke didn't get my subtle hints and both he and Irma continued their cock blocking. Luke walked into the kitchen to get a drink and I followed, coming up behind him and whispering into his ear, "If you don't get the fuck out of here, I'm going to set you on fire." In my defense, I did say it as nicely as I could. Luke, being the perceptive little cock blocking motherfucker that he is, managed to absorb that subtle hint and he and Irma made themselves scarce, disappearing into Luke's bedroom, giggling like drunken idiots, which they were.

Luke's bedroom went dark.

Back to business...

I turned out the lights in the living room and then Kim and I got back to some Betamax and chill. I was in the middle of, "Praise Jesus, I'm about to get some!" when the room lit up in shades of red as the laser light show in Luke's room started up. The blue rope lights were next and then the blue strobe.

Wtf? I felt like I was about to have sex in the middle of an airport runway. Kim and I looked at each other, perplexed.

"Does he have an airport in there, or something?" Kim asked me.

And that was when we heard Luke's voice, just as loud as could be.

"Better watch out, this plane's coming in for a landing!"

"Can he fly that plane and land it?" Kim asked me.

"Surely you can't be serious," I said.

"I am serious... and don't call me Shirley." she answered.

I fucking lost it. Just the thought of that tubby, little bald fucker sailing through the air, hoping for a one point landing sent me off into maniacal madness and laughter. I started giggling and then I was laughing so hard that I fell out of where I was and off the couch. Thankfully, both the floor and my face broke my fall.

The next thing we heard was a loud thump, followed by another loud thump, which was in turn followed by a scream and then another scream, both so loud and shrill that I couldn't determine if they came from a man or a woman.

Irma came running out of Luke's bedroom.

"Luke's been hurt," she said.

I lost it all over again. How the fuck do you hurt yourself while fucking?

Kim and I jumped up, fixed our clothing and ran into Luke's room, where we found him splayed out on the floor and he wasn't moving. I knelt down to help Luke while Irma explained what had happened. Evidently, Luke had made his landing approach, bounced off his water bed runway, sailed through the air and managed to hit the floor in a perfect belly flop of a heap. I started laughing again.

Kim, Irma and I managed to lift Luke off of the floor. We dropped him. Twice. I shit you not. Luke screamed out in pain both times and all that I could do was giggle uncontrollably. I suppose that I should have felt bad, but I didn't. Fuck that, it was funny.

The three of us were able to drag Luke's ass onto the couch (sorry about that wet spot, bro) and he just laid there whimpering. Whimpering and cock blocking me. Look, I know he was in tons of pain and all, but I just wanted to get laid and here was my supposed best friend, keeping it from happening. What kind of fucking friend does that?

Luke wanted to go to the hospital. I wanted to get laid. The selfish little prick wanted me to take him. We were at a bit of an impasse.

"I'm not carrying your ass down three flights of stairs," I told Luke. "Besides, I'd have to drive your car. There's no way you're riding bitch on my bike."

Irma shot me a look that made me feel as if I were the most horrible and selfish person on the face of the planet. It made me feel good. It made me feel proud.

"I'll take him to the hospital," Irma said.

Good luck with that.

"No one is driving my car anywhere," Luke told her.

I knew that line was coming and Luke had just painted himself into a corner and I still wasn't getting laid. Who was the selfish motherfucker now?

In the end, we called 911. Just fucking great. More red lights, more people invading my apartment and more of me not getting laid.

Fucking roommates...

The paramedics checked Luke over, strapped him to a gurney and carried him out of the apartment. No matter how hard I wished for it to happen, they didn't drop him on the way down the stairs. Doesn't anyone care about my happiness?

Obviously not.


Tuesday, December 29, 2015

Don't Be Lude

As I've mentioned in a number of other stories, my family had a summer home in Atlantic City, NJ and I spent many a summer season prowling that old wooden boardwalk with my friends in search of adventure and girls, always girls.

I've always been a whore. My father respected and encouraged that.

My father... As tough as that man was, I could get straight to that man's heart, and his wallet, by mentioning that I had the possibility of getting laid. It worked every fucking time. Pussy was my personal four leaf clover. Okay, I'm lying, but I'd like to pretend it was. Fuck off, they're my memories.

I remember when my father and I had the sex talk. It was pretty damn funny. I was about thirteen or so and he sidled on up to me.

"Steven," he said, "We need to talk."

My father looked embarrassed; horribly so. Good.

"Sure, Pop. What's up?"

"We need to talk about sex, son," my father said. There was quite a bit of uncertainty in his voice.

"Sure, Pop. What did you need to know?"

My father's face grew red and drifted into purple. I didn't know if he was embarrassed, pissed off, or what, but he just spluttered something and stalked off in a huff. Ah, good times.

But our typical conversations would usually go something like this:

Me: "Dad, can I have $20?"

Back in those days, $20 could get you places.

My Father: "No. You work, use your own money. I'm not giving you $15. I'm not giving you $10. What the hell do you need $5 for?"

Like it was a fucking negotiation or something. How much was the vig going to be?

Me: "I'm broke and I have a date. I might get laid."

My Father (reaching into his wallet): "Don't use words like that. Here you go, Is $20 going to be enough? Don't tell your mother."

And then there was this famous conversation after I started high school in Atlantic City when I was fourteen. We were headed back to Florida and the transfer paperwork from my high school had a typo in it that made me a year older. In my mind, this opened up a world of salacious opportunities and I did a little research. As it turned out, the State of Florida's Department of Motor Vehicles would accept school records as proof of identity and age. Suddenly, I was eligible for my learner's permit an entire year earlier than I should have been. I had a plan.

I approached my father and I told him of the typo and my scheme. He refused to be a part of it. What the hell? My father was into all kinds of shady shit, why not this? I tried and I tried, I fast talked as much as I could; I was literally tap dancing, but still my father stood firm, so I pulled out the big guns.

"Dad," I said, "You just don't understand."

"I understand plenty," my father said, "I said no and that's final. Don't make me tell you no again, or you'll regret it."

Fuck that. I wasn't about to give up, this was totally worth a beating.

"Dad," I pleaded and then I dropped the magic words, "This could get me laid."

"Your mother will kill me."

I was winning. I knew it and he knew it. I pressed home my attack.

"She doesn't need to know," I told him. "I'll never say a word. Seriously, Dad, I could totally get laid."

When the collapse came, it happened all at once.

"Alright," he said, "We'll go to the DMV on Saturday morning. Don't tell your mother. She's going to kill me."

I couldn't believe it, I had won.

I got my permit and then I got a motorcycle. It got me laid. Oh, did it ever.

I just wanted you to understand how my father was when it came to me and girls. We're going to go back to Atlantic City, now.

It was the Summer of 1980 and I was almost fifteen years old. I thought that I was hot shit with my license that made me a year older than I was and it set the stage for a whole new world of trouble. Trouble of the best kind.

I worked a lot in the summertime, usually having two jobs and I also dabbled in a few other things to help supplement my income. I had a close relative that moved a lot of drugs and I would purchase weed and Quaaludes from that relative and then sell the weed to my friends and the ludes would make their way to other friends, or I would sell them for top dollar at the local discos. Nobody really cared about your age back then when it came to getting into bars. If you had money to spend, you were in.

On this particular day, I had scored three hundred Quaaludes from my relative and I needed a safe and secure place to count the pills and then divide them up. Our condo was out; my parents watched me like a hawk and they didn't trust me for shit. I've never understood why, I was always such a wonderful and loving son. Responsible, too.

My friend Sue had a sister named Kathy, who was a few years older than I and lived in the same building that we did. Kathy was also one of my biggest customers. Her parents would let her stay in their condo all summer long and would only show up on the weekends, when they would drive down from Cherry Hill, a suburban enclave in New Jersey, but was more of a suburb of Philadelphia. I went down to the beach and I approached Kathy and explained what I needed to do and I asked her if I could use her apartment for a few minutes, telling her that I'd make it worth her while. As luck would have it, my parents were also at the beach and they took notice of the two of us leaving together. I looked over at my parents and waved to them. They didn't wave back. Instead, they looked at me suspiciously. Somehow, they always knew when I was up to something, not that they were the most trusting of souls to begin with.

Kathy and I went back to our building and she brought me up to her apartment. Once inside, I pulled the bag of ludes out of my pocket and I dumped them on a small table by the door. Those fucking things were rolling all over the place. We started counting everything up, to make sure that the amount that I had was accurate. When we were finished, we would divide them up into piles of ten and wrap them in aluminum foil; they looked just like a roll of Lifesavers when we did that. It was so cute.

Just as we started counting, someone started pounding loudly on the front door.

We both looked up, startled. We hadn't been expecting anyone. I looked at her and she looked at me. Who the fuck could it be? Whomever it was, it couldn't be good, we had three hundred fucking Quaaludes on the table and they were in full view of the door. Fuck, fuck, fuck...

The pounding on the door continued.

Kathy's voice was cracking with fear as she asked me what we should do.

I whispered back to her, "Stop freaking out. Calm down and ask who it is."

Kathy gulped, took a deep breath and sounded a lot like a big ol' hoot owl when she asked, "Who-who is it?"

"It's Tony. Is Steven in there? Tell him to get his ass out here, right now!" yelled the voice at the door.

It was my father. Fuck. Shit. Fuckshit. What the hell was he doing here? Shit. I was well and truly fucked. Maybe he'd understand that I was just trying to make some extra money. Maybe he wouldn't actually kill, me either, but I knew that I was just bullshitting myself. My father wasn't going to understand shit and I was a fucking dead man. Hell, even I understood that much.

If I thought Kathy had been panicking before, she seemed about to piss herself at that very moment and I don't think that I was too far behind her. This shit was getting out of control. I had to think of something.

Like a lightbulb that sizzles and pops, I had an epiphany and I knew what I had to do.

I looked at Kathy and I said, "Don't worry, I've got this. I've got a plan."

You'd think that would have calmed her down, but noooo... Why do people always get nervous when I say that I have a plan? They always work. Mostly. Sometimes. On occasion, maybe. Fuck you.

I got up and started walking towards the door, unbuttoning and unzipping my pants as I went. I pulled my shirt out of my jeans and then I messed up my hair. I unlocked the door and cracked it open enough for my father to see me as I was pulling my jeans back up and started zipping them. I could tell from the look on my father's face that he thought that he had interrupted something and that I was getting dressed. My father's face turned cherry red. It was working, I was going to get away with this. For once, one of my fucking ideas was actually working. I felt giddy with joy.

"What's up, Pop?" I asked him. "Need something?"

My father was speechless for a moment and then he started spluttering.

"I just wanted to know where you were," he said. "When you're finished here, come and find me. I need to talk to you about something."

He was trying to save face. My gambit had totally worked and I was going to live to see another day. The relief that I felt was palpable. This... This right here... This is why I'm a fucking evil genius and you're not.

"Sure thing, Pop," I said as I closed the door in his face and locked it. I turned around and started laughing my ass off.

Kathy looked at me as if I'd gone mad. I told her what I'd done and she started laughing too. Insanity, like laughter, is contagious.

"I can't believe he fell for it," I told her. "He really thought we were having sex."

Kathy looked at me a little funny and she said, "What would be so hard to believe about that?"

Oh? Ohhhh...

It was a while before I went looking for my father.

Thanks for stopping by!

If you enjoyed reading this story, you might enjoy this one as well:

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

Date Raped

I'm going to get all technical and shit, so bear with me for just a moment please...

You can skip reading this part, if you really want to.

Flunitrazepam, also known as Rohypnol, among other names, is an intermediate acting benzodiazepine used as an hypnotic, sedative, anticonvulsant, anxiolytic, and skeletal muscle relaxant drug. In general, the prescription of flunitrazepam as a hypnotic is intended to be for short-term treatment of chronic or severe insomniacs not responsive to other hypnotics. Flunitrazepam has been referred to as a date rape drug even though its incidence is very rare in cases that have been reported.

Flunitrazepam is known to induce anterograde amnesia in sufficient doses; individuals are unable to remember certain events that they experienced while under the influence of the drug. This effect could be particularly dangerous if flunitrazepam is used to aid in the commission of sexual assault; victims may be unable to clearly recall the assault, the assailant, or the events surrounding the assault.

And you can start reading again here, if you went ahead and skipped out on all of that bullshit.

In case you haven't figured it out by now, Flunitrazepam, or Rohypnol, more commonly known as Roofies, are best remembered as a date rape drug. In modern parlance, getting "Roofied" is the term used to denote a drugged drink and a possible sexual assault. This wasn't always so.

As Don McLean sang in American Pie,

"A long, long time ago..."

It was probably around 1985, or so; some years on the timeline are a bit hazier than others. What I really mean to say is that some years are just a fucking blur, fueled by copious amounts of drugs, alcohol, easy money, even easier women and decidedly fast times. All of South Florida was a real life set for Miami Vice back then and the lines between art and reality would often blend together.

While the Earth might revolve around the sun, South Florida in the 80's revolved around two things, money and drugs. Money and drugs are the lifeblood of Florida, they always have been and they always will be; it's just a simple truth. Florida is a smuggler's paradise like no other, a nexus point where cash, cocaine and marijuana fuel a high flying lifestyle.

In those days, I used to get my weed from Val and her husband, Mike. Val was definitely the alpha dog of the pair, while Mike always seemed to be little more than an extra in the background, drunkenly puttering around and occasionally engaging in conversation. I had been scoring weed from them for years and what had originally started as a strictly business relationship had, over time, evolved into a genuine friendship. Occasionally, that friendship would provide access to some special treats. Hey, when I'm a good boy, sometimes people throw me a bone.

One particular day, I was getting low on weed and I gave Val a call. She told me to come on over and I did. I showed up at her house, she rolled a few joints, we got high and we hung out for a bit. There seemed to be an undercurrent of sexual tension between the two of us, there always was, but neither one of us ever acted upon the impulse. Shame. I'd have plowed that field like Mr. Green Jeans on a lawn tractor.

Val mentioned that she and Mike were going out that night with some friends and she asked if I wanted to tag along. I didn't have any plans for the evening, so I accepted her invitation. That was when she told me that she also had a single female friend named Jackie, who was also tagging along and she wanted the two of us to meet, because Val thought that we might like each other. I gave Val a look that could have melted steel and she just smirked. Fuck. The last thing that I wanted was to be fixed up on a blind couples date.

Val also mentioned that she had some special party favors for that evening, something called "Roofinal" that Val described as a South American Quaalude and how many did I want?

Quaaludes? Val certainly had my attention. Quaaludes were a fun drug that made the rounds during the 70's and early 80's. Quaaludes, also known as Ludes, Disco Biscuits, etc., had been illegal for years and I hadn't seen one in a very long time.

Yeah, I was definitely interested.

Never one for half measures, I told Val that I wanted two of the little white pills and she handed them over to me. Val baited her next trap with the offer of free food. That's some seriously unfair fuckery, right there. You can get me to agree to just about anything if you feed me. Need a date for a wedding, bar mitzvah, or funeral? Is there free food? I got your back. Toss in some free booze and I'll even pretend I love you. Oh yes, me love you long time, baby. Val asked me if I wanted to stay for dinner and I told her that I would, but that I wanted to go home to shower and change first, since I had been tricked into meeting someone.

Val smirked again and then she mentioned that Jackie would also be having dinner with us and then she confessed that it would really only be the four of us going out that night.

I'd just been completely bamboozled. Again. Fuck.

Bitch was still smirking. She was really fucking proud of herself and her Jedi mind tricks.

I headed home and I thought of not coming back, but I really didn't want to risk losing my best weed connection over something so silly. That would have been really fucked up.

When I got back to Mike and Val's, Jackie had already shown up and Val introduced us. Jackie was tall, thin and very cute with a pair of boobs that were outfuckingstanding. That old AT&T commercial jingle played in my head...

I wanted to reach out and touch someone, alright. 

Val disappeared into the kitchen to put the finishing touches on dinner, while Mike broke out the booze and started mixing drinks. I rolled a few joints and we passed those around. I'd say that we were all fairly comfortable by the time that we sat down to eat.

When dinner was finished, we took our drinks into the living room and we smoked a little more pot. Okay, a lot more pot. Val suggested that we should take the Roofies and we did. I tossed mine down with a rum and coke. It was going to be a great fucking night...

It was the early morning sunshine that woke me up. It was streaming in through the window and it was bitch slapping me across my face. I cracked open one bleary eye, winced and wondered just where the fuck I was and if anyone had caught the license number of the truck that had hit me. I tried to think. It fucking hurt. A lot. Slowly, very slowly, I began to piece together the events of the night before. Dinner, drinks, pot, Roofies and ??? I had no fucking clue. I slowly scanned my surroundings and realized that I was still at Mike and Val's house and still in the same position that I last remembered. I must have passed out, but at least I knew where I was. I felt relieved.

I closed my eyes again. I was tired, so tired.

I smelled coffee and something else. Bacon. It smelled like heaven. I slowly realized that  Mike and Val were both awake. Val noticed that I was stirring and she asked me if I wanted some coffee. I declined the coffee and I apologized to both of them for passing out on the couch the night before.

"What the fuck are you talking about"? Val asked me.

I was confused. Well, even more confused than I normally was. What the fuck was Val talking about? I had passed out on the couch and had woken up in the exact same spot, hadn't I?

Hadn't I?

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I shot back.

"We went out last night. Don't you remember?" Val asked.

"Remember what?" I asked. "You're full of shit, Val. Quit fucking with me."

"Quit fucking with me," Val said. 

Was there a fucking echo?

"Bullshit," I said, "The fuck we did."

"The fuck we didn't. You might want to take a look at your hands," Val told me.

And so I did...

What the fuck? My hands were covered in stamps from different nightclubs, while several bands from others adorned my wrists.

What the fuck?

"Okay," I said. "Would someone care to fill me in on just what the fuck happened last night?"

Val explained that we had left the house and headed for South Beach, where we started drinking at The Clevelander and then made the rounds of the local bars like horny tomcats on the prowl. We finished up at the Button South in nearby Hallandale, where we were thrown out at closing time, which was five a.m., or was it seven. Who the fuck remembers?

Certainly, I didn't remember a fucking thing.

There was more, a lot more. Fuck. There's always more, isn't there? Evidently, Jackie and I had been very friendly throughout the night, becoming even friendlier as the evening wore on, until we became about as friendly as two people can possibly get, right there in the fucking club.

Sex? I didn't remember any sex. And it was in the fucking club? Get the fuck out! Where the fuck was I? Sex? Like with another person kind of sex? I had all of this sex, in a club, with a real live person and I couldn't remember a fucking thing. Now that, was super fucked up. Was it good? Was I good? Did I give her the best 90 seconds, or less, of her life?

Apparently I must have, because Val had the impression that Jackie had the impression that the two of us were now a couple.

What? A couple? A couple of what? Ohhhhh... Oh, shit.

How the fuck did I get here? My head swam.

I was so fucked. What the fuck did I do and how the fuck did I get a girlfriend out of it?

"I'm going home," I announced. "I'm going home and I'm never leaving again. I think I'm going to crawl under a rock and stay there until I die."

Val smirked and said, "I can't wait to see you try and talk your way out of this one." And then she giggled.


I vaguely remember the drive home and when I finally fumbled my way into my apartment, I dragged myself into the bathroom and pretty much fell into the shower. I turned on the hot water and I emptied the tank, staying under the water until it was so cold that my teeth were chattering and my balls were blue, their natural color. The ringing of the phone pulled me out of the shower and I wrapped a towel around myself as I went to answer it. I face planted getting out of the tub, taking the shower curtain and the curtain rod down with me. It's okay, my face cushioned my fall.

I made it to the phone just as it stopped ringing.

Son of a bitch.

The answering machine picked up the call. It was Jackie. Apparently I had given her my number. Even worse, I had made plans with her for that night. What the fuck had I been thinking? I was so incredibly fucked. I picked up the phone and I tried to talk my way out of it, but everything that I said sailed right over Jackie's head. Yeah, I was fucked alright.

Jackie and I went out that night and it was like we came from two different planets. I talked about how wonderful it was to be single and I swear that crazy bitch didn't hear a word I said. She kept talking about our future. What future? Us? She was out of her fucking mind. We had a date and a sport fuck that I couldn't even remember and I wasn't even sure if I liked her or not and here she was, planning our wedding and picking out the names for our kids and shit.

After dinner, Jackie asked if I wanted to go back to my place. Okay. Who am I to say no? Why would I want to? As all men know, crazy bitch sex means crazy great sex, but it comes with a steep price; you have to pay for the crazy. It's okay, though, you can pay on the installment plan, they call it a relationship.

And I was curious to see what I had missed. Well, I hadn't missed it, I just couldn't fucking remember it.

Judging by the great sex to completely fucking bonkers scale, Jackie was a twelve out of ten. Shit, I still have scars on my back from that girl.

She left a note on my pillow before leaving in the morning. I found the notepad that she wrote it on. She had doodled all over it, variations of my name, such as Mrs. Steve M., or Mrs. Jackie M.

What the fuck? She was even crazier than I had previously thought, but the sex was incredible. I knew that I had to get rid of her and I had to do it soon, but damn, that woman could do things that, just fucking wow. I tried and I tried to get rid of her; I even broke up with her three fucking times and she just kept coming back and I kept having sex with her. She was into the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing and I felt trapped. Jackie started talking about marriage and she was serious, so I did the only thing that I could do and I tried my best to make her hate me.

Shit, I just had to be myself.

It worked. Our relationship unraveled in less than a month and she gave me the whole, "It's not you, it's me" talk.

Now that night, I remember. It was the best fucking night ever... 

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

A Fish Story

Back when I was living in West Virginia, I went fishing one day with my friend Ted and his son, Chuck. We went down to Back Creek, which was near my home and we ended up at this spot that was known locally as "The Waterfront". Yeah, you got me, but that's what the hillbillies called it. Anyway, "The Waterfront" consists of a high cliff wall that was an easy climb down to the creek below. Back Creek was deep enough in this spot to be a popular swimming hole and it was equally popular as a fishing hole. This place was about as close to hillbilly heaven as it gets.

Ted... I loved that guy and I can't help but laugh like hell, whenever I think about him. Ted had transplanted himself from Minnesota and he had the accent to boot. Ja? If you know what I mean. Ted was tall, a bit over six feet, with a curly mop of grey hair that adorned his scalp and a big, bushy porn star of a mustache that was the same steel grey as his hair. Ted was just the sweetest guy ever, just as jolly as could be, but man, that guy was fucking burnt. I'd never imagined that anyone could possibly be stoned twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week and three hundred sixty-five days a year, but Ted laid my any doubts that I had to rest. That motherfucker was always fucking stoned. The amounts of alcohol and pot that Ted could consume were absolutely staggering. I was kind of in awe, to be honest.

Chuck, Ted's son, was basically just a shorter, younger version of Ted, with brown hair and without a mustache. Chuck definitely followed in his father's footsteps. Great kid.

The three of us had been at the creek for hours, drinking beer, sippin' corn likker and we probably smoked enough weed to get half of the fucking county stoned. Good times.

Ted and Chuck caught a lot of fish that day, reeling them in one right after the other. Meanwhile, I caught nothing but ridicule. Fucking assholes. Every time that Ted or Chuck would catch a fish, they would look my way, start laughing and give me a huge ration of shit. Those dirty fucking motherfuckers.

This shit was not only intolerable, it was humiliating. I really needed to catch a fucking fish.

After a while, Ted asked me to reel my line back in and I did. He told me that he knew that I was used to salt water fishing, not fresh and he told me that he wanted to check my tackle. Ted adjusted the weight on my line, changed the hook and he changed my bait for shits and giggles I guess, before handing the fishing rod back to me.

I cast my line back out and waited... And waited... And then I fucking waited some more.

Nothing. Zip. Nada.

Son of a bitch.

Those bastards kept right on laughing at me. Motherfuckers kept catching fish, too. I could have shanked a bitch.

I really, really needed to catch a fucking fish or I was never going to be able to live this shit down. It was unbelievable and it seemed that no matter what I did, no matter what I tried, I just couldn't catch a fucking fish. There were times that I cast my line out to virtually the same spots where Ted and Chuck had their hooks in the water and still those fucking pricks managed to catch all of the fucking fish. Fuck me.

Around half past three, my ex-wife showed up, with both of our sons in tow. Anthony, our oldest, was five years old at the time and he jumped out of the car and ran towards me. He was so excited. Anthony loved fishing.

"Hey Dad," Anthony yelled, "Did you catch anything yet?"

Ted and Chuck erupted with fresh gales of laughter. I felt my face burn red from embarrassment.


"Not yet, buddy," I replied, "But I'm trying."

I really, really, really needed to catch a fucking fish. There was no way that I could allow myself to be humiliated like this in front of my children.

Medusa walked up holding our youngest son Dominic's hand. Dominic didn't seem very interested in what was going on and he certainly didn't give a fuck about fishing. He still doesn't. Now that I think about it, Dominic seems to have that attitude about a lot of things. The not giving a fuck, I mean.

Medusa asked how the fishing was going and those two assholes started laughing again. They told her that they were having a great time, but I evidently had the fishing skills of an old, blind goat, but even an old, blind goat would have surely caught something by now.

Medusa started laughing at me too, that traitorous bitch. Fuckers. They were all fucking fuckers. I was going to show them. Yes sir, I most certainly was. It was on like motherfucking Donkey Kong.

Yeah, why don't you guys go eat a big bag of dicks or something.

I really, really, really, really needed to catch a motherfucking fish.

Anthony asked me if he could fish for a while and I brushed him off, asking him to wait for a little bit. I was going to catch a fucking fish any second now and I just knew it was going to be a whopper, I was sure of it and there was no way in hell that I was going to give up that fishing pole, not until after I had caught my prize..

Ted caught another fish. More laughter and more insults followed. Bitches.

"Please, Daddy," Anthony asked again, "Can I please fish for a little while?"

"In a minute, buddy," I replied.

I was mere moments away from glory, I just knew it.

"Please, Daddy," Anthony said, "It's not like you're going to catch anything."

I looked at my son, startled.

Et tu, Brute?

All of those motherfuckers started laughing at me again.

I felt the sting of Anthony's betrayal like a knife piercing my heart, but I reeled in my line and I attached fresh bait to the hook. As I prepared to cast the line back out and hand the rod to Anthony, I got a queasy feeling deep in my gut. Somehow, I just knew that as soon as Anthony touched that fishing pole, he was going to catch a fish and then my humiliation would be complete. I shook off my premonition and my angst, cast the line back out and I handed the fishing rod over to Anthony.

I don't even think it took ten fucking seconds before Anthony let out a whoop of joy.

"I caught one. I caught one," he yelled excitedly.

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

Let's just say that someone, and I'm not going to name any names, but someone came very close to getting a combination cliff diving/swimming lesson that day.

Those fucking assholes started laughing at me again and gave me even more shit than they had previously. I felt my face grow red again. I'm sure glad that those motherfuckers were having a good time, because I sure as shit wasn't.

I remember thinking to myself, "That's okay, motherfuckers, y'all are staying for dinner and I'm going to poison your asses. I couldn't poison Medusa, though. That bitch had built up a tolerance over the years, despite my best efforts.

I helped Anthony reel his fish in. He was proud of his catch and rightfully so. Anthony had caught a fairly large striped bass and was excitedly showing it off to everyone, the little shit. Good for him and all, he's my son and I love him, but that little shit had caught what was supposed to be my fucking fish! I had been taken down by a snot nosed kid.

Meanwhile 3/4 of the supposed adults in this story were busy pissing themselves with laughter and it was all at my expense. Yeah, real fucking funny. Assholes. Had our situations been reversed, I'd never have given any of them a hard time. No sir, not me. Honest. Like, cross my heart and shit.
Dejected, I called it quits and I let Anthony continue fishing. He caught another fish and then another. Every time that he caught a fish, my pride and dignity were assaulted and brought down to a new low.

That's fine, motherfuckers, I know how to make bodies disappear.

Around five o'clock we packed it all in and headed back to my house to get cleaned up and grab some grub. Apparently, Ted and Chuck evidently had an immunity to poison as well. Lucky fuckers.

I haven't fished since that day, the scars run too deep.

Fuck fishing.

Catch this...

If you liked this story, here's a link to another one. You won't find this story anywhere else.

The Middle Aged Man and the Sea

One summer, my friends Jack, Chad, Dana and I all chipped in and we rented a very large and luxurious, almost palatial, vacation home in the Outer Banks of North Carolina. We loaded up our families and our vehicles and then we caravanned down to the Barrier islands off the coast of NC, for a relaxing week full of sun and fun.

After we'd been there for a day or so, the guys and I made plans for a day of surf fishing at the beach, with our families. Being an experienced salt water and surf fisherman, I was considered the resident expert and when our Deadliest Catch crew invaded the waters of a local bait and tackle shop, I advised everyone on the purchase of rods, reels and other assorted fishing gear. Our purchases made, we headed for the beach and the bounty of fresh fish that must surely await us.

After unpacking our families and getting them settled on the sand, it was time to get our gear together. I assembled the various rod and reel combinations for everyone, seven sets of them; two sets for Jack, and one each for Chad, Dana, his son Zack and one for myself. I strung the lines for everyone, added weights, leaders, hooks, bobbers and bait. One by one, I got everyone squared away before showing them how to cast their lines into the surf and how to set their poles in the sand without having them dragged out to sea. Everyone was all set up, fishing and as happy as a fat kid with a gallon of ice cream. I started assembling my own rod and reel. I ran the line, added weight, attached a leader, a hook, a bobber and bait and then I double checked everything. Satisfied with my handiwork, I was ready to start catching some fish.

I grabbed my gear, stood up and walked down to the surf line. I got myself situated, drew my arm back and cast out my line.



My line had snapped. Well, that was just fucking great, but not that big of a deal. Still, I was feeling a little frustrated. I had set up five other rods and reels without a hitch, but when it came to my own, there just had to be an issue. I dragged my rod back to where I had left my fishing tackle and I put everything back together again, before walking back down to the surf line. Once more I drew my arm back and then I snapped it forward, giving my cast a good bit of distance.


Are you fucking kidding me?

The line had snapped again. I couldn't believe it. I started cussing up a storm that would have made a drill sergeant blush. I was overcome with frustration and anger and I took it out on the closest thing that I could; I looked at my fishing rod before throwing it down in disgust.

Jack looked over at me and said, "Wow, it really sucks to be you, doesn't it?"

Yeah, fuck you, buddy.

I wasn't about to give up just yet. Once more into the breach...

I picked up the fishing rod and walked back to where all of the fishing tackle was and set up everything once more fucking time, walked back to the fucking water and cast the fucking line back out. It was a perfect cast. Satisfied with my handiwork, I expertly set my pole into the sand and walked back to the where the coolers were, so that I could grab myself a beer.

Just as I had reached the cooler, I heard Jack yelling my name.

I turned around and looked. Holy shit! I had a strike and I had caught something. The way that my rod was bending, it was something big, too. I watched horrified as my rod bent over, was dislodged from the sand and was quickly pulled into the ocean. I started running like hell, but was slowed down by the soft sand. I was slowed down even more by the face plant that followed next. I got back up and started running again, almost making it in time, but I watched horrified as my fishing rod, like my dignity, was pulled swiftly out to sea. I ran into the ocean trying to chase it down, but it was already too late. I searched and searched, but I couldn't see the damn thing anywhere.

Dejected, I turned around and started wading back towards the beach. I was about halfway back to shore, when I was taken by surprise by a large rolling wave that sent me tumbling over and over and dragged me the rest of the way back to the beach. Let me tell you, I could have done without the fucking shortcut. Spluttering and spitting out half a gallon of fucking water, I rose from the ocean like a drowned rat and made my way back to where my ex-wife and son were sitting.

Medusa looked up at me as I approached and as she took in my bedraggled appearance, she raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Don't even fucking ask," I told her.

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

Urine Luck

While I don't smoke marijuana anymore, my views on it are the same as when I smoked it. I believe that marijuana is less harmful than alcohol, has scientifically proven medical benefits  and that the consumption of marijuana should be a personal choice. Legalization increases tax revenue, provides employment and contributes to local economies. Crime rates are lower, opiate use and abuse are also lower, and contrary to popular belief, people are not intentionally giving marijuana edibles to children (that shit's expensive) and it has been well documented that use among children has not increased. Marijuana is not the boogeyman hiding under the bed that we once thought it was.

But I'm not writing this to advocate for the legalization of marijuana.

I'm also rather opinionated on the topic of drug testing. I don't like it and I don't believe in it. I believe that drug testing is an affront to liberty, dignity, and privacy. That being said, my being able to work and pay my bills is more important to me than catching a buzz and I expect to have to take a drug test when applying for employment. I think that drug testing is overly intrusive  and that a corporation should not have the right to be able to demand a sample of my urine, DNA, hair, blood, or saliva. I've never smoked before work, I've never been high on the job, and frankly, what I do on my own time is my business, not my employer's.

But I'm not writing this to advocate for the elimination of drug testing, either.

Nope. Today, we're going to talk about what it's like to be the poor schmuck who was confronted with taking a drug test when he knows damn well that he's not going to pass it, but takes it anyway. Of course, that poor schmuck would be me.

Now, you may have read about a previous experience that I had when it comes to drug testing in the story "In a Pickle", but this one takes a somewhat different track.

Many, many years ago, I was working full-time and looking to take on a part-time job. I had been applying to a lot of different companies, because my skill set is pretty varied and I happen to know a lot about absolutely nothing, which makes me fairly qualified for a political career, I guess. One of the places that I applied to was an Awful House restaurant in Martinsburg, WV, looking for a position as a cook. As I was filling out the application, the manager struck up a conversation with me and he started asking me questions about my background, experience and education. We spoke for a few minutes and he asked me if I would be interested in applying for a management position. As it turned out, he was not the restaurant manager, he was the district manager for the company. He turned on the charm and I informed him that I really wasn't that interested, but he pressed on. He started talking numbers; base pay, bonuses and benefits. Those were some pretty big numbers that he was throwing at me and I had no idea that the managers at those little shit holes were earning that kind of cash. Suddenly, I was a bit more interested.

We spoke some more and our casual conversation turned into a full blown interview and he offered me the position. I would have six weeks of training in the location that I was at and then I would be opening my own store on the other side of town. My start date would be contingent upon the results of my background check and drug test.

Wait. What?

Drug test? That motherfucker never mentioned anything about a fucking drug test when he was talking me into that bullshit. The background check wouldn't be a problem, but that drug test, yeah... that was going to be a bit of a problem. This was why I had just wanted to be a part-time cook, I hadn't wanted to be bothered with that kind of bullshit. I'd never heard of drug testing restaurant employees before. Hell, most restaurant employees are high, think about that the next time your server or the cook fucks up. If restaurants started drug testing their employees, there wouldn't be many restaurants left. I'll even tell you why we do drugs. It's because of YOU, motherfucker. We do drugs because of motherfuckers like you. Seriously. The general public treats us like shit. That's okay, think that fucking smile is real? Wondering why your food is taking so long? Throat feeling a little parched, because you sucked down five sodas, demanded a sixth and are wondering where the fuck your server is? That's because we fucking hate you too. Piss us off and we'll fuck your shit up ten ways from Sunday. Want it your way? Go to motherfucking Burger King or cook that shit at home, just the way you fucking like it. Now you've got it your fucking way.

Anyway, most restaurants wouldn't dream of drug testing their employees, but not the fucking Awful House. Oh no, this fucking place had to have a "Christian Ethic" that management had to aspire to. The management of Awful House was held to a completely different and much higher standard than their hourly employees. Role model bullshit and all that. It's hard to have a Christian ethic when you're not a Christian and I really didn't want to let silly little things like ethics get in the way of all of my raping and killing. A man needs his pursuits.

This was complete bullshit, of course, but I'd swallowed enough bullshit by this point in my life that I'd acquired a taste for it. The real question was if I really was willing to put up with this bullshit for money? Well, it was a lot of fucking money and I just needed to pass one silly little drug test. How fucking hard could that be?

I had a plan.

I had to schedule the test within five days. No problem. I needed one of two things and I was golden; I needed someone who could provide me with a clean urine sample, or I needed some type of masking agent.

This left me with two problems.

Problem #1 - I didn't know a single person that could provide me with a clean urine sample. Everyone that I knew back then was a pothead. Fucking potheads.

Problem #2 - I'd tried using masking agents before and based upon my previous experiences, they were completely worthless. No, they were worse than useless. I'd tried a product called "The Stuff", which came with a money back guarantee. Well, "The Stuff" was "Le Shit" and the money back guarantee was just as worthless as the product was. Guaranteed to fucking fail, is what it was.

Fuck. Things weren't looking very good for me, but I wasn't ready to give up just yet.

I had looked at some other methods for passing a drug test. There were online forums that were devoted to the art and full of erroneous advice. I read through discussion after discussion about the efficacy of bleach, vinegar and pickle juice (yeah, fuck that and fuck you too, Chad). There was even a white paper written by the guy who invented the fucking thing in the first place (feeling guilty, motherfucker?) And then there was some really strange shit that my research turned up, commercial products that were available for purchase, wondrous and magical things such as synthetic urine (who thinks of this shit?) and even a synthetic penis, the Whizzonator delivery system, which was basically just a big old rubber dildo that squirted fake pee. Yeah, um, no.

Not exactly the gift that keeps on giving, unless you're into giving golden showers. ***Spoiler alert*** Guess what you're getting for Christmas?

A friend of mine suggested that I try Tommy Chong's Urine Luck, a masking agent that my friend claimed had worked for him. I drove over to the local smoke shop and I bought a bottle. I had my study aid and I was ready to pass my drug test. The clerk at the store told me that it looked and smelled just like the real thing. I asked him about the taste test. People are so fucking uptight.

The big day arrived without fanfare (fuck that, my life deserves fanfare and a soundtrack) and I went to the lab to take my drug test. I walked in and greeted the female technician at the front desk. She had me show her my ID, sign in and then I had to sign a small forest of paperwork. The tech then asked me to empty my pockets. No problem, because the Urine Luck was securely taped to the inside of my thigh, in order to keep it at body temperature, because I'm fucking smart like that. The tech asked me if I was ready and then led me into the bathroom where she explained that I was not to close the door, I was to pee into the cup, I was not to touch or flush the toilet and I was not to wash my hands. She asked me if I understood all of that claptrap and asked if I had any questions. Seriously? I needed to pee in a cup. It wasn't exactly rocket science.

Ready, set, wait...

The tech was still in the bathroom with me. What the fuck? Not cool. Now, I had questions. Serious questions. Was she going to watch? Maybe hold it for me, too? Maybe she'd like to go outside and write my fucking name in the snow with it. More importantly, did she have good hand writing? I wouldn't want to sign my name to anything that might be less than the best. The technician's continued presence presented me with a little conundrum; I still needed to get to the bottle of Urine Luck that was taped to my thigh and this woman was watching me like a motherfucking hawk. This really wasn't working out the way that it was supposed to.

The lab tech looked away and I was good to go. I unleashed the beast and... nothing.

I had motherfucking stage fright. Yeah... this shit really wasn't working out for me.

I overcame my shyness and started filling the cup, but I still needed to get to the bottle of Urine Luck that was taped to my leg. I reached into my pants and grasped the bottle, giving it a quick tug. Nothing happened. The bottle was stuck fast against my thigh. Looking back, maybe duct tape wasn't my best choice for an adhesive, as the tape strained against my leg, painfully pulling at the hair that it was attached to. I pulled harder and the tape ripped free, taking all of the hair on my thigh along with about two layers of skin. That shit fucking hurt. I stifled a scream and nearly spilled my pee all over myself.

I looked at the instructions on the bottle. In hindsight. maybe it would have been a better idea to read the instructions before the moment of truth. Shit happens. Real men don't read the fucking instructions, anyway. Fuck that, I sure as shit was all about reading those fucking instructions right then. Hey, if Bruce Jenner can be a little bitch, so can I.

Step 1 - Pour Urine Luck into the urine sample.

Simple enough. I emptied the bottle into the sample cup.

Step 2 - Stir.


My head spun.

Stir? Get the fuck out of here. How the fucking fuck was I supposed to stir that shit in the middle of a fucking drug test?

What the fuck was I going to stir it with?

I looked at my finger and let out a sigh.

"Fuck it," I thought, as I plunged my finger into the cup. I dipped and stirred.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. A fuck for every lap around the cup.

It was beyond fucking nasty, it was totally fucking gross. I'm pretty sure that I will never be into that whole golden showers thing. No lemon parties for me, thanks.

Don't click that link! Too late? So fucking sorry, bro.

If you just went back and clicked that shit, I promise you that your life will never be the same again. If you still haven't clicked it, don't. I'm warning you for the last time. That which has been seen, cannot be unseen.

So, my finger was covered in piss and I wasn't allowed to wash my hands. Urine Luck, my ass. If this was fucking luck... Jesus...

I needed to zip back up, but I really didn't want to touch myself, not at all, not with my piss finger anyway. Fuck! I managed to take care of business, cringing at my own touch and completely disgusted with myself. Hell, it's not like I can really complain that it was the first time I've ever been disgusted with myself, or the tenth. It certainly wasn't the last time, either. I'm just blessed like that. My fucking cup runneth over.

Speaking of cups, I handed the cup over to the still oblivious tech. She sealed the sample and labeled it. I was then allowed to wash my hands. What did it matter now? I'd already pissed away all of my dignity and whatever small measure that may have remained now washed slowly down the drain like so much soap scum.

I dried my hands, tucked my tail between my legs, and left the lab as quickly as possible. It was a traumatic experience and I needed to smoke a joint for my PTSD. I was puffing away before I pulled out of the parking space.

I patiently awaited the results of my drug test. Translation - I was paranoid as fuck.

Time passed slowly. I didn't expect to hear anything right away but three days had gone by. I was starting to wonder what was going on.

After the fourth day had passed, I still hadn't heard back from Awful House, so I gave the district manager a call.

He hung up on me as soon as I said who I was. Well, maybe the call dropped. Yeah, that was it, the call must have dropped. I called him again and he hung up on me again. What the fuck? I stopped calling. Fuck that place.

A few days later, I received a copy of the lab report in the mail. Evidently, the amount of THC in my system may have disqualified me from employment and it was a wonder that I hadn't peed green.

I also tested positive for the masking agents in the Urine Luck.

Some fucking luck.

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