Thursday, June 16, 2016

One Stick Pony

There I was, riding through the desert on a horse with no name...

Okay, maybe it wasn't exactly a desert.

And maybe it wasn't really a horse, either, but I swear it didn't have a name, or maybe the horse did have a name and it was something sordid that was whispered in back alleys in the dead of the night, or maybe, just maybe, I'm completely fucked in the head. You be the judge.

You probably want an explanation. No worries, I'm about to give you one, you poor fucking bastard.

La, la, la, la, la, la... La, la, la

On the first part of the journey...

It started out as a typical, lazy Saturday morning at my girlfriend Hannah's house. By the time I popped out of the shower, Hannah was already downstairs making breakfast for her daughter, Little Moon (not their real names), who is all of eight years old, tall, stringy and blonde, with an infectious and toothless grin. Little Moon is just a bit more than somewhat of a precocious kid, like twenty miles over the fucking line kind of precocious. Anyway, I bounced down the stairs, without falling, wished everyone a good morning and then said something that was undoubtedly cheesy. Cheesy, I say, because that's what dudes who are dads do, we speak in cheese. Dads who speak in cheese, telling their horrid, cheesy jokes are the fucking worst, let me tell ya'. Pure fucking torture. I used to run for the hills, whenever my father got started. It was inhumane; the true face of child abuse. That man couldn't tell a joke. As for my kids, well, they've earned their punishment. I like to have them trapped in the car, at speed, on the highway, when I start telling my cheesy ass Dad jokes. Hell is for children.

Little Moon looked up from her pancakes and rolled her eyes at me. I wasn't impressed.


Hannah and I briefly discussed our plans for the day, she and Little Moon were headed to a friend's house for a swim and I would be headed off on an adventure with my friend Luke, until I reconnected with the girls later that evening, for dinner with Hannah, Little Moon and their friends, but all of that was still hours away. Once our executive level strategy session was out of the way, the three of us talked about whatever kind of humdrum stuff we discussed, until Little Moon told us about a totally cool, super secret spy pen that her totally cool BFF Abby had shown her at school.


"It's not a totally cool, super secret spy pen anymore if she showed it to you," I told Little Moon.


"Whatever." Little Moon replied and rolled her eyes again. "It's just the coolest thing ever. You can write in invisible ink on one side of the pen and it has a black light on the other side, so that you can read the secret messages." Little Moon then went on to explain, in great detail, just why she needed that totally cool, super secret spy pen and that it only cost way more money than it should for a cheap piece of crap like that (but maybe not in those exact words) and how she would be the envy of every child in her school if she had her very own totally cool, super secret spy pen and how she would become a complete outcast, a social pariah needing years of therapy, if she didn't.

"You wouldn't happen to know where to find this totally cool, super secret spy pen, would you?" Hannah asked her daughter.

"It just so happens that I do," Little Moon answered. "They sell it at Fairhaven Toy Garden, downtown, right by Village Books."

Hmmm... Village Books. I'd been meaning to stop in there. The bookstore was supposed to have a machine that could print books on demand, as in print myself a few copies of my stories as a vanity project kind of demand. The rusty gears in my mind started turning. I don't think they turned very far.

Little Moon then went on to explain that she had to have that totally cool, super secret spy pen that very same day, because the toy store was closed on Sundays and she had to have that pen before walking into school on Monday or the world would stop spinning, the sky would fall and everyone would laugh at her, reminding us once again that such cruelty would require years of therapy.

"Little Moon," Hannah started, "Momma has lots of things to do around the house today, before we can go swimming. I don't know that we'll have the time to do that today."

"Please, Momma?" Little Moon pleaded.

"I could take her," I blurted out, in a fit of insanity. "I could take her to get the pen and then we could stop at Village Books and I could ask about printing a few copies of my book and then we could head over to Sweet Art and get some chocolate fudge. This way, we'll both be out of your hair and you can get whatever you need to do taken care of. "

If you talk fast enough, sometimes you can baffle them with your bullshit.  Sometimes. Evidently, this wasn't one of those.

"This is just your excuse  to buy chocolate fudge and you wouldn't happen to be thinking about stopping at a certain little ice cream parlour that just happens to be next door to the candy store? Paper Dreams does sell chocolate fudge, you know and it's right next door to Village Books." Hannah asked me in what I must describe as a very accusatory tone.

"I've had their fudge and I'm not a fan," I said. "The chocolate fudge at Sweet Art is the best I've ever tasted; it's made with LOVE. To be honest, I hadn't even thought about any ice cream, but now that you've mentioned it..."

It was time to bring out the big guns. Remember kids, always cheat, if you want to win. This is why I'm a paragon of fucking virtue.

"What do you think about getting some ice cream too, Little Moon?"

Little Moon was all about that ice cream. She sure didn't roll her eyes at me that time.

The tide had turned. Resistance is futile.

"Who eats ice cream at nine o'clock in the morning?" Hannah asked rhetorically.

"Who doesn't?" I answered, just as rhetorically.

Hannah was sold. Shit, she just about chased us out the door. Sucker. Wait. Maybe I was the sucker. Maybe Hannah just wanted to enjoy some peace and quiet, or something. More likely, Hannah had a few souls stashed away and she wanted to devour them. She is a Ginger, after all.


Hannah handed me twenty dollars and told me that it was for Little Moon's pen and whatever else. I told her not to worry about it, but she insisted. We settled for Hannah buying the pen and I would buy the sweets.

"May I please buy a book with the leftover money, Momma?" Little Moon asked, just as sweet as could be. "I've read all of my books."

This kid was good. What parent is going to tell their kid they can't have a book? Little Moon sure knew her shit. She's got Hannah wrapped around her finger. They make quite a pair, those two and they love the shit out of each other.

"Of course, baby," Hannah told her.

Ha! Suuuuuckerrrrrr.

"Momma, may I please get a plushy instead of a book? I haven't got a plushy of the week, yet," Little Moon reached.

"That's because there's no such thing as a plushy of the week," countered Hannah.

"But Momma," Little Moon shot back, "It's been so very long..."

I was fairly certain that Little Moon had overreached with that last request and I was quickly proven right when Hannah interrupted her daughter.

"I don't think so, baby," Hannah informed her. "That money is only for a book."

"Awww, Momma..." Little Moon replied with typical pre-teen angst, but she let it go..

Nice try, kid.

"The two of you should probably run along and get going, before it gets too late to go," Hannah told us.

Wow, Hannah sure was in a hurry to get rid of us. She must have been anxious to get at those souls. Who eats souls at nine o'clock in the morning?

I grabbed the twenty and put it in my wallet, ushering Little Moon out the door and into my car. We drove the ninety second drive into downtown Fairhaven, because I'm too damn lazy to walk a few blocks and we found a parking space right where we needed to be and that had to be a good omen, didn't it?

Well, didn't it?

Fuck no. Of course, it wasn't, but at least it was predictable.

We exited the car and I scanned all four corners. Village Books, an antique store, an empty store with a For Rent sign and some other shit shop. No toy store. Okay, no problem. I pulled out my handy dandy smartphone and I conjured up the Oracle of Google. How the fuck did we ever survive before Google? The gods smiled upon me and the address popped up and it was at the opposite end of the block, but I didn't recall having passed the toy store earlier, but in Google we trust, so Little Moon and I trudged down the block. No toy store.

The Google had failed me. There is no God.

I called Hannah. She told me that the store was back at the other end of the block, the very corner that we had just trudged from. I casually mentioned that there was no toy store at that location, but Hannah was insistent, so Little Moon and I trudged back down the block to our starting point. We arrived back at my car and I looked for the store again. Nothing. I had a sudden, sinking feeling. Little Moon and I crossed the street and approached the empty store. Sure enough, it had been the location of Fairhaven Toy Garden. I was about to have a very upset eight year old girl on my hands.

Fuck.

"Oh, no!" Little Moon cried.

"Let's see if they've moved," I said. "Maybe they have their new address posted on a sign in the window."

I've never been a praying man, but that seemed as good a time as any to start.

As we came closer to the store, I could see that there was indeed a sign on the window. It said, "WE'VE MOVED" and nothing else.

Double Fuck.

It was then that I noticed my saving grace, a small sign on the front door that had the new address of the store. Meltdown avoided. Thank fuck. Eight year old girls are volatile things. I should know, I tend to freak out like one, so that's two, eight year old girl meltdowns we'd just avoided.

This was turning into the journey of Odysseus.


The new location was only four blocks away. Unfortunately, part of that walk included trudging back down the block that we had just trudged down twice and then trudging down it again on the way back. Fuck me. It was like the Triple Crown of Fucks.

Fer fuck's sake.

We trudged back down the block. We trudged and we schlepped and then we trudged some more, finally arriving at the toy store.

 Walking. Like common people, or something. Who does that shit? It was fucking exhausting. I'm not a fucking animal, you know. Seriously, who does that shit?

We walked into the toy store and Little Moon was like, well, she was like a kid in a fucking toy store. What the fuck did you think she was like? The shit that I have to explain to you people. I fucking swear...

We looked around at this and that, played with all kinds of crap designed to help children to separate adults from their money, but we came up empty when it came to the totally cool, super secret spy pen. Apparently, that thing could hide better than Anne Frank.

Little Moon found a display of stuffed birds that tweeted or made whatever kind of annoying fucking noise that birds make and she made sure that I heard every fucking bird call. Twice. Sometimes, even three times, just for shits and giggles, I guess.

"You're not getting a plushy, Little Moon," I told her.

"I  know," she answered, "I'm just showing you what they have."

She moved on to the next bird. Tweet fucking tweet. I wanted to shoot myself in the fucking head.

"Why don't we ask at the counter?" I suggested to Little Moon. I think I was becoming a little exasperated at that point and I think she knew it and took pleasure in it. Little Moon stared me straight in the eye as she exchanged bird after bird, a smile of savage glee plastered on her face.

"Why don't you?" she replied.

Yeah, definitely exasperated.

We approached the counter and I inquired about the totally cool, super secret spy pen.

The very helpful and friendly sales staff informed me that the totally cool, super secret spy pen was one of their most popular items and one of those very nice ladies came out from behind the counter to help us find what we were looking for.

"They're right over here," she told us, leading the way. "Oh my..."

Oh my? That didn't sound good. Nope, that shit didn't sound good at all. Oh my never fucking sounds good.

"I don't see any," the saleswoman said, "But I'll check the computer."

She went back behind the counter and checked the computer. Unfortunately, they were completely sold out of totally cool, super secret spy pens. Yeah, this was turning into the Triple Crown of Fucks, alright.

Fuck.

Little Moon did not take the news well, but I was able to distract her by telling her that she could pick out something else; anything she wanted.

She ran right to the closest display of stuffed animals.

"Anything but that, Little Moon," I cautioned. "I'm not going to get into trouble with your mom by getting you one of those."

"Awwww...," Little Moon said, but she listened.

Little Moon and I wandered around the store, checking out this and that once again. I swear, that girl must have picked up and hugged every single stuffed animal in that store, telling me how they were all just meant to come home with her.

Good luck with that.

We reached the back of the store and it was loaded with art and craft supplies. Little Moon wasn't interested in much until she finally came across something that caught her eye. It was a diary, with three cartoon owls on the cover and just perfect for a little girl. Plus, anything that encourages a child to write creatively is a wonderful thing, so I was all for it, for the most part.

"This is what I want," Little Moon informed me. "I need a diary and this one is perfect."

Well, it was almost perfect. The only problem that I had with the diary was that I thought it looked a little too childish and that she might outgrow it quickly. Plus, when you buy the very first thing you see, you might end up with a case of buyer's remorse if you spot something that you like better, later on. It's a bit of a conundrum.

I explained how I felt to Little Moon and she did not like my answer. I suggested that before we bought the diary, we should walk back over to Village Books and see if they had any diaries for sale and that she might find something she might like better, over there.

"What if I don't see anything that I like at Village Books?" Little Moon asked me.

"Then we'll walk right back down here and we'll buy this one," I told her.

"Do you promise?"

I promised and we schlepped our way back over to Village Books. Little Moon showed me a shortcut that saved us two blocks. I really wish that whole shortcut thing would have come up earlier, you know, like before my ass was dragged all over downtown Fairhaven. We wandered around Village Books for a bit and then I suggested that we ask where the diaries were.

"You can ask," Little Moon told me.

Not that shit again.

Ask I did and we soon found ourselves in front of a display of diaries. There was a much larger selection to choose from and Little Moon quickly found the perfect diary. It was a much nicer book and was definitely much less childlike than the ones at the toy store; perfect for an eight year old girl.

With her diary in hand, Little Moon and I climbed the stairs to the children's section of the store. At the very first display, there was a book on Greek mythology that just happened to be open to a picture of Medusa. I had to do a double take, because I thought it was one of my wedding photos. Little Moon was off on a mission, bouncing with excitement as she ran ahead to where the new releases were, rounding the corner and quickly disappearing from sight. No worries, she wasn't that far ahead.


As I took my next few steps, I noticed that there was a large wooden barrel filled with stick horses. You know what I'm talking about, it's a stuffed horse's head with reins, mounted on a stick that little kids and demented people like me can pretend to ride on.


Fucking A.

Never missing a chance to embarrass myself in public, I grabbed one of the stick horses and hopped into the saddle, clippety-clopping my way down the aisle behind Little Moon, passing a woman reading a book to her son. They pointed at me and laughed. That happens a lot. I'm used to it.


I galloped down the aisle like Don Fucking Quixote and I darted around the corner, where I pulled up behind Little Moon with a whinny and a neigh, but Little Moon just looked at me and rolled her eyes. Again. That eye rolling shit was starting to be downright fucking annoying, if I do say so myself and I fucking do. Say so myself, that is. Fine. So, I did what any other sane and rational adult would do and I doubled down on the fucking crazy. I galloped in circles around Little Moon, pantomiming like I was a world class rodeo rider, riding a demon bucking bronco. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw the ghost of a smile cross Little Moon's face, but it may have just been wishful thinking. Instead, Little Moon gave me a withering look that said she thought I was more like a world class ass of a rodeo clown than the world class rodeo rider that I seemed to think I was. Whatever. Tomato, potato.


Don't ever go full potato.

"Do you always have to be soooo embarrassing?" Little Moon asked me.

Duh! Of course, I did. How could she even ask? I was hurt. Distraught. Wounded. I wept.

Are you fucking kidding me?  Pffft... Like I have fucking feelings or something. Nah, fuck that shit.

"Little Moon..." I began.

Run, Little Moon, run. Run as fast as your little legs will carry you and as far as you can, because you're about to get a little life lesson.

The poor kid had no clue what was coming. Heh.

Where were we? Oh, yeah.

"Little Moon," I began, "Always dance and sing like no one is watching and who cares if anyone is. Take joy where you find it. Laugh loud and strong. Never, ever, miss an opportunity to be silly and have fun. Never be ashamed of who you are and don't be embarrassed to be yourself. Besides, this is a fine steed, a true warhorse to carry a valiant knight such as myself into battle. I shall call him 'Soul Eater', after your mother."

What can I say? I'm a motivational motherfucker.

Little Moon's reaction to all of this was...

Crickets.

 It was so fucking quiet that I could literally hear Little Moon's eyes rolling around in her head.

Huh? WTF? I'd just given Little Moon an incredible and important life lesson, words of wisdom to last throughout the ages and she'd completely blown me off. Little Moon had completely dismissed what I'd said and instead she showed me the book that she'd picked out. It was the story of Argos, faithful dog of Odysseus.


Irony can be so fucking cruel.

I hate children. All children. Except mine. I love my children (pinky swear!) and I'm not just saying that because they read my stories. Okay, I am. saying that because they read my stories. Look, I don't want those little fuckers to grow up with some kind of complex, or something. Fuck, I already worry that the middle one is going to be some kind of serial killer or mad scientist that destroys the world, or some kind of shit like that. I'll bet he cackles maniacally when he reads that. Little fucker wants to create a zombie virus that will take a bite out of your ass. He's smart and demented enough to do it, too. You should be worried. I know I am.  Oh, and I like Little Moon too and I'm not just saying that because my girlfriend is a homicidal Ginger who reads my stories and always reminds me that if I cross her, she will kill me in my sleep and eat my soul. Nope, I say these things out of love. I just fucking love everyone. I'm a fucking people person. Really.

It all comes down to one thing, really. Some truths are universal. Kids are fucking assholes.

As you can imagine, I was crushed. Devastated. Nah, that's total bullshit. We've already established that I don't give a fuck.

"This is the book that I'd like," Little Moon told me.

"That's a great choice," I said. "It's from a very old and famous story called, 'The Odyssey'. Do you remember what I said about buying the first thing that you see, though? You might want to take a look around at something else, before you make your final decision."

Little Moon agreed and we decided to look in a different section. As we turned to go, in a voice as faint as a whisper, I heard Little Moon ask, "Can I try it?"

Holyfuckingshitballs, Batman!

I whipped Soul Eater around and I dismounted, handing the reins to Little Moon, who was in the saddle in no time at all. The kid was a natural. Now that I had been unhorsed, I used the magical power of imagination to conjure forth a new mount and Little Moon and I took off down the aisle, clippety-clopping to a full on sound effects soundtrack provided by yours truly.

Little Moon giggled.

As we approached the mother that was reading to her child, I warned Little Moon that we were about to pass people. That stopped her cold and she handed the stick horse back to me, unwilling to be embarrassed and ran ahead, so that she wouldn't have to be seen with me, either. Having no shame myself, I quickly climbed back on Soul Eater and continued my clippety-clopping on my way down the aisle.

As  I neared the end of the aisle, in full stride and just as loud and embarrassing as I could be, a salesperson and a group of four or five people came around the corner and almost ran into me. Thankfully, I pulled back on Soul Eater's reins quickly enough to avoid an unfortunate accident. The salesperson glared at me, as salespeople generally do and I never understand their enmity, but the other people gave me strange looks too, as if encountering a grown man riding a stick horse isn't something that you see every day. It was disconcerting. I really don't need that kind of negativity in my life.


Our close brush with death had spooked Soul Eater and I was more than a little embarrassed at being caught out at being an idiot. I thought back to the words that I had just spoken to Little Moon and wondered if that was what I truly believed, that you should never be embarrassed or feel ashamed to be yourself, or was that just so much bullshit? Fuck it. It took me about half a second to decide as I continued my ride down that dusty old trail, sound effects and all.

Little Moon ended up picking out a different book, surprising me, she compared prices and went with the less expensive option. I was pretty impressed. We were a little over budget, but that was cool. If a kid wants to read, you buy them a book. I put Soul Eater back into his stable and then Little Moon and I headed for the register to get checked out. I inquired about the totally cool, print your own book because you're not good enough to get a book published machine and was told that it was a piece of shit and had been tossed upon the great ash heap of history and no extra charge for the disappointment.

Fuck.

At least I still had fudge and ice cream to look forward to and to wash the taste of that disappointment out of my mouth and that gave me a warm and fuzzy feeling. I think out of all the food groups, sugar and chocolate are my favorites. Healthy, too. They come from plants, so it's like a salad.

Unfortunately, life is a cunt.

Little Moon and I left Village Books and crossed the street to my car. After we were both buckled in, I checked the time on my phone. Our little jaunt had eaten up all of our allotted time and we wouldn't be able to get any fudge or ice cream.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...

I really wanted to cry, now. The fudge had been all that I had wanted, the ice cream just an added bonus. I had earned that shit, fought for it, paid for it in fucking blood and now I wasn't going to get any? What kind of fucked up shit was that? It was completely unfuckingacceptable and I was going to get my damn fudge, come hell or high water.

I took Little Moon home, dropped her off, kissed the Ginger goodbye and I went to pick up Luke, informing him that we were headed to downtown Bellingham (as opposed to downtown Fairhaven, even though Fairhaven is part of Bellingham). Luke told me he didn't want any fudge, but I didn't really give a fuck what he, or anyone else wanted by this point, because all I wanted was that fucking fudge and I was sure as shit going to get it.

I drove downtown and was lucky enough to score a parking space directly in front of the store. That had to be a good omen, right?

Yeah, sure.


I could see the fudge piled high in the front window, calling to me like a Siren's song. I could practically taste that chocolatey goodness. I drifted closer, closer; the end of my quest in sight. I approached the front door and smashed my head against it like a ship against the rocks. Dazed, I stepped back and had to wait for the world to stop spinning before I was able to see the sign that read 'Closed Today'.

Fuck me. I just love the taste of disappointment.

The gods are cruel and the struggle is real.

Monday, May 30, 2016

Good Vibrations

WARNING - THIS SHIT CONTAINS SOME TOTALLY NSFW IMAGES

I've done a lot of dating since my divorce. A lot. I know, you're thinking, "Oh my God, what a whore," but it's not like that, no sir/ma'am/gender neutral term of respect, not like that at all. Let me explain. I had recently moved to Philadelphia and even though I was born there and spent more than a few years living there, I was pretty much alone in this old and yet new city. I didn't know more than a handful of people, I was bored and I was so very lonely. I've spent entirely too much of my life feeling alone and lonely and I wanted to break the chains of my solitude. More than anything, I just wanted to meet people, maybe make a good friend or two and have a little bit of fun. I just wanted some company; a fellow reprobate. At the time, I was more interested in friendship than in sex, but I certainly wasn't going to turn down a good roll in the hay. Hell, I wasn't about to turn down a bad roll in the hay, either. After enough time, anything looks better than baling hay by yourself. Friends, sex, whatever. After all, if you can't fuck your friends, who can you fuck? Before I could fuck anyone, however, I'd need to actually meet a living, breathing person and the easiest way to meet people, and by people, I mean women, was via online dating. I've always had fast and easy friendships with women, they either want to mother me or marry me or even worse, both. Many women seem to get it into their heads that I'm so absent minded that I'm completely incapable of taking care of myself, which is complete and utter bullshit, even if I do forget to eat most days. Chicks do make for easy friendships though and I really wasn't looking to meet any dudes, it's just not my thing. You can suck all the dick you want to fellas and that's cool with me, it's just not my brand of crotch fruit. Yeah, I fucking said it. Crotch fruit. Get over it. Anyway, it's much easier for a single, straight guy to meet women than it is for said dude to meet another dude. It's socially acceptable for a man to approach a woman and strike up a conversation, but a dude generally doesn't walk up to another dude in a bar and ask him to hang out and do crazy shit. Well, they do, but not in the bars that I frequent, not without repercussions, getting your face rearranged, that sort of thing. I might not have the prettiest face in town, but I'm used to it and again, it's not my thing, but if it's yours, feel free to play Thanksgiving and gobble that shit down.

Okay, now that we've got that bullshit out of the way - RECAP: I got divorced, I moved, I dated, I wasn't a man whore - I prefer free spirit, por favor, and yadda, yadda, yadda, here the fuck we are.

Wherever the fuck that is.

I had met Mary Beth online and according to her pics, profile, messages and the tiny little brain in my dick, she was smart, sassy, sexy and very hot. Hot like in hawt hot. That worked for me. In turn, she thought I was smart, funny and cute and she agreed to meet me, which meant that she was pretty fucking dumb, so that worked for me too. I was in.

Mary Beth. That name. Jesus Christ. That fucking name. It's fucking everywhere. Seriously. If you are female, Catholic and from the Philadelphia/South Jersey area, there's better than average odds that your given name is Mary and your middle name is Beth (most likely), or Ellen, or Kate, or whatthefuckever, so the odds are that everybody calls you Mary Whatthefuckever, but more than likely, your name is Mary Beth, or some iteration thereof, you have big, huge Jersey hair and keep a fucking can of AquaNet in your purse with three backups at home and another in the car. Yeah, I've got you pegged, Mary Beth.

Shit, I have one cousin named Mary Ellen and another named, of course, Mary Beth (they're sisters, don't ask, but with fifteen kids in their family, I guess they ran out of names and had to use the same one twice; Catholics are fucking weird), who are not to be confused with my friend Mary Beth, or my other friend Meribeth, or even the legendary Maribeth. My fucking head is spinning. As a matter of fact, I personally know 39,847.5 Mary Beths. The .5 isn't actually a Mary Beth, but her name is Mary and she is a bitch, so I call her Mary Bitch, so she counts as a half and that's totally logical. Duh. 39,847.5 Mary Beths and they all lived on the same fucking street, attending the same goddamn Our Lady of Perpetual Fucking Sorrow High School. Just fucking trust me on this one, okay? I know I've dated a gaggle of Mary Beths over the years, but who the fuck knows? I can't remember most of the women I've dated and no, that most certainly does not make me a whore. I prefer the term free spirit, remember?

Mary Beth and I had been messaging back and forth, as well as talking on the phone and we decided to meet in person. We agreed to meet up on South Street, a hip yet not hipsterish little urban thoroughfare in the heart of the city that is home to great food, freaky people, cool shops, live music and lots and lots and lots of fucking bars to get hammered in, so get your drink on, bitches! Get your drink on, bitches. I really just fucking said that. No shit. Wow. Next thing you know, I'll be using fucking hashtags. #nah #icallbullshit #nevergonnahappen

***Just to be clear, I do not condone, nor do I recommend the use of drugs or alcohol, but fuck, they've always worked for me.***


Cheers!

Anyway, Mary Beth left it to me to come up with a plan for our date. A plan. Gee. Thanks. Because that's what I do best. We all know how that's going to work out. Fucking yippee. Still, how hard could it be? We'd meet up, walk, talk, get to know each other and see if we clicked. If things went well, maybe a little lunch and then we would take it from there. No pressure. Easy peasy.

Mary Beth and I met outside of the TLA, a local legend and one of my favorite music venues. Calling it a bit of a shit hole would be killing it with kindness. Mary Beth was about twenty minutes late, but she had messaged me to apologize and to let me know that she would be late. It's not like it was a big deal, I pretty much expected it; women are always late. It's inevitable; I accept it, just like death and taxes. She finally shows up, which was good, because standing around on a street corner looking like a fucking idiot gets old after the first few minutes. So, I'm standing on the corner like some overripe hooker, my head swiveling back and forth like a fucking lawn sprinkler, trying to spot this chick and she comes strolling up like fucking gangbusters and my jaw about hit the fucking ground. Mary Beth's photos did her no justice. Her pics portrayed her as beautiful, but this chick was dick throbbin' hard hot. Seriously. Mary Beth was tall, around 5'8", thin, very curvy and she had an ass that I could have bounced quarters off of. I could feel the evil little smile spread across my face as she walked up to me. I wanted to rub the palms of my hands together with pernicious glee and anticipation as she introduced herself and threw her arms around me, hugging me and pressing her breasts against my chest. Nice D cups. It must have been a little chilly and overcast that day, because someone sure had their high beams on and that had a noticeable effect on me, as those sharp pointy little fuckers cut into my chest, causing quite the involuntary reaction. It twitched. Fuck. I was a little embarrassed, but fuck it. Mary Beth just giggled and pulled herself closer. My kind of girl. A real fucking champ, that one.

We started walking along South Street arm in arm, chatting away and getting to know one another, growing more comfortable with each step. We talked about our jobs, lives and families. We window shopped, pointing out things that we liked and we made fun of the things and people that were a little offbeat and strange. We popped in and out of galleries, boutiques and oddball stores. Everything was going well, we had great chemistry, we were having fun, holding hands and there was a lot of laughter and shit like that.


We stopped and grabbed a few slices for lunch at the legendary Lorenzo & Sons and then we continued our little stroll, our steps eventually leading us to the front window of the Sexploratorium.

Ah, the moment of truth had arrived...


One of my favorite things to do on a date is to take a woman out of her comfort zone, not too far mind you, because I don't want her to freak the fuck out and ruin any possibility of getting laid, I just want to deconstruct her carefully constructed dating persona. i.e., that perfectly sculpted person that they are presenting to you can be shorn away a little bit, so as to give you a glimpse at their true personality. This way you can fuck with them a little bit and not have to wait six months to find out what they're really like. It helps keep out the crazy. Sound thinking, I think. It also saves on the emotional investment and you can take that shit to the bank. Remember, 25% of women are on mood altering medications. That means that the other 75% are running around untreated.

We both looked in the window and then I turned to look at Mary Beth and she turned to look at me. I noticed that she had the good grace to blush, but I also noticed a bit of a twinkle in her eyes. Good. That meant that she wouldn't be a total prude in the bedroom. Rock on. My kind of girl.

I casually asked Mary Beth if she'd like to explore the Sexploratorium. She blushed again, but she smiled and asked me if I were kidding.

"What do you think?" I asked her.

Mary Beth blushed a third time, but she turned and headed for the door. Rock the fuck on!

Here we go...

We walked inside the store...


Holy shit! It was like being stuffed into a pinata full of dildos. There were sex toys everywhere. There was just about everything you could possibly imagine and a ton of shit that you just couldn't even begin to guess what the fuck it could be for and I'm a pretty fucking imaginative guy who flies his freak flag proud and high.


Mary Beth's eyes lit up like fireworks on the Fourth of July as we approached a table that was literally overflowing with different models of vibrators and they all had names. There was the Rabbit, the Butterfly, the Butterfly Kiss, the Temptation, the Slick Rick and the Oomph! It was like the Ballbreaker Suite and The March of the Plastic Dildos at Radio City Music Hall at fucking Christmas time, a chorus line of Cockettes. It wasn't until I reached the end of the table, however, that I found the Holy Grail, the Philosopher's Stone of sex toys, the Sith Lord.



It seemed to be standing aloof, tall and proud, massive in height and girth, gleaming in its black armor and topped with the prosthetic mask of Anakin Skywalker. I looked at the box and sure enough, it was billed as the world's greatest Master Vader.



I shook my head and grinned as I picked it up and turned it on. You could feel the fucking power of the Dark Side course through its plastic and copper veins as it came to life like some sort of misshapen alien monster. It thrashed, it swayed and it gyrated like an epileptic one-legged breakdancer in the midst of a seizure. It even jumped through fucking hoops. Hoops. Hoops! Motherfucking hoops! That fucking thing roared to life like something out of a Transformers movie, but scarier, maybe more like Maximum Overdrive on Red Bull. Fuck you and your killer toasters, Stephen King, I had nightmares for weeks after watching that fucking movie. There were murderous man-eating pocket pussies and demonically possessed RealDolls. I think I have PTSfuckingD. Anyway, that fucking thing was dancing with the stars; I'm telling you, that thing had moves like fucking Jagger.

I held it out to Mary Beth.

"Would you use something like this?" I asked her, all innocence and shit. You know, because I'm an innocent and sheltered motherfucker.

Mary Beth's face turned a deep shade of crimson. Well, that answered that question. Score!

"Can your penis do that?" she asked me.

Ouch. Touche. Score one for the perverted chick.

"Nope. Mine only knows how to sit up and beg," I answered.

I turned the device to a higher setting and I took a threatening step towards Mary Beth, the vibrating menace bouncing in my hands.

"Feel the power of the Dark Side," I threatened and advanced upon her, wielding that BBC like a Fleshlightsaber.


She squealed, giggled and took a step back. Next thing you know, I'm chasing her around the table with the vibrator and we're both giggling like idiots, but as we all know, any time that you're having some good. clean and harmless fun, somebody has to cum along and fuck up your wet dream. In this instance of buzz killing joy, it was one of the clerks, some sort of pseudo professional, vibrator wrangling, rodeo clown, who took it upon herself to interrupt our festive little soiree. What the fuck? Who does that kind of shit? I'm an adult, sort of. I don't need supervision. Fuckers. The world is full of fuckers.

At least it wasn't security, or the cops. It's kind of embarrassing when they yell for security. Even worse, I fucking hate it when they call the cops. The police never find shit as funny as you do. People need to calm the fuck down and get a sense of humor.

"Hi! Did you guys need some help?" the clerk asked us, entirely too perkily for me. I fucking hate perky people. I dream of feeding them to lions and throwing them off of cliffs and shit. You perky people need to settle the fuck down.

Next thing you know, Mary Beth and I are balls deep into a conversation about vibrators with the sales chick as she held up each one, turned it on and proceeded to extol its virtues. This chick knew entirely too much about vibrators. I wanted to ask her if her sales pitch was based upon personal experience, but I was on my best behavior and so I held my tongue. Not like that, you fucking pervert, I pride myself on being a gentleman, so I limited myself to grinding on her. Chivalry ain't completely dead. Anyway, after pitching four or five different vibrator models to us, the clerk picked up the smallest vibrator on the table. It was about two inches long and silver.


"That doesn't look like it would be much competition for me," I remember saying.

The clerk smiled a secret little smile.

"This is called the Magic Silver Bullet," the clerk stated with a flourish. Again with the secret little smile.

I'm not a big fan of fucking secrets, not when they're being kept from me.

The clerk turned on the Magic Silver Bullet and dropped it into the palm of Mary Beth's hand. It sounded like a fucking industrial chainsaw and it flopped around in her palm like a hummingbird with a broken wing, on crack. The look on Mary Beth's face said it all. She was transfixed. I eyed my replacement warily. Mary Beth's smile grew wider and she let out a little squeal; I swear her eyes rolled back in her head.


Rock on! This chick was a total freak. Can I pick them or what?

"How much is it?" Mary Beth asked the clerk.

Aha! I knew that I'd been spot on in my appraisal of Mary Beth's freak potential.

"It's $39.99, but this is the last one. I can give you 20% off, because it's the display model," the clerk said.

The last one? The display model? What she really meant was that it was the whore that no one wants to be seen with, the redheaded stepchild, the slut that's been fingered by many, yet wanted by none. The last one? Who the fuck wants the last one? Even when I'm at the grocery store, I never take the one in front, it has fucking cooties.

"No, thanks," said Mary Beth, "Maybe something else. I think we'll look around a bit more, but thanks again."

And with those parting words, we were able to escape from the clutches of the evil, pseudo professional, vibrator wrangling, rodeo clown.

We strolled along to the next display and what at first appeared to be necklaces turned out to be racks of nipple clamps, next up were various restraints including things that looked like they belonged in a medieval dungeon or maybe on the cover of a Judas Priest album, it's pretty much the same thing, isn't it? Throw them in the Iron Maiden!



There were whips and chains and Brony tail buttplugs. Anal beads, Ben Wa balls and cock rings. Chastity belts, cock cages and clit clamps. Penis pumps, pocket pussies and prostate pokers. Double dongs, dildos, donkey dicks (totally lifelike!) and even an 18.5" pony pud.


Strap-ons, sex machines and stimulators of every type.

You're going to need those fucking crutches by the time that thing's done with you.

Locks, collars, rings, harnesses, Fifis, extensions and sleeves. Fuck me, they even had a sex robot. I could go on for hours, but I think you're starting to get the picture.

Short Circuit 4: Johnny Five Does Anal
They also had a large selection of latex, lingerie and pleather. It was a regular fucking pleasure palace, I'm fucking telling you.

My lightsaber's a'poppin'.
As Mary Beth and I were coming to the end of our tour of the Sexploratorium, we came upon yet another display of vibrators, shelf upon shelf of them.


I reached out, picked one up and turned it on to the highest speed possible and put it back on the shelf. I proceeded to do this with the next seven or eight vibrators that were on the shelf until I had an entire fucking chorus line of dancing vibrators gyrating happily on the shelf. Mary Beth and I started laughing at our little can can line. This was all fine and dandy until disaster struck. My best guess at reconstructing what happened next is that the combined vibrations from the mass of dancing dildos caused the supports for the shelf to loosen and weaken, at which point the shelf collapsed with a loud crash, pancaking into the shelf below with another loud crash and then continuing downward through another three or four shelves of vibrators. It wasn't fucking pretty. Nope, not pretty at all.

It was the Dildo Deathmarch, the Anal Apocalypse, a Menagerie of Gadgetry... You get the picture.

The entire store was silent. You could have heard a ball gag drop.

Heads turned; everyone was staring at us. Shit. You know it's fucking bad when you're the one that the fucking freaks are staring at. Mind your fucking manners, people; staring is rude.

It was more than a little embarrassing. To be honest, it was way the fuck beyond embarrassing.

There was only one thing I could do. 

It was time to get the fuck out of Dodge.

I grabbed Mary Beth's hand and we hightailed it out the door and around the block just as quick as we could, escaping before the staff could react. We were laughing our asses off as I led us through a maze of streets and alleyways until we popped out who the fuck knows where, but we were in front of a bar, proof that God smiles kindly upon fools, deviants and miscreants. Hallefuckinglujah! We walked inside, went straight to the bar, sat down, ordered drinks and that's when things started to get a little weird.

To be continued...

If you enjoyed this story, try this one:


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.