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:

If the Shoe Fits

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.

Bitch.

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... 

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.

Fuckers.

"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

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.

Snap.

Dafuq?

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.

Snap.

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.

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.

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.

If you enjoyed this story, please give this one a chance:

Kill it with Fire

Premonition

Have you ever felt a bit off, as if something were wrong and you just couldn't put your finger on it? A warning of sorts. A premonition. A portent of things to come. You know that something's going to happen, but you don't know what. You just know that it isn't going to be good.

One day, my friend and many times roommate Luke and I were immersed in our usual post-work decompression ritual of getting stoned. Neither one of us said a word, we just passed that big red bong of mine back and forth and to and fro. We were smoking in silence, melting into the couch, a simmering stoned. Generally, we tried to smoke ourselves into a near comatose state before we decided what to order for dinner.

I had been feeling a little strange that day; a bit off and the feeling had come on quite unexpectedly. It was a feeling of dread and impending doom, crushing me in it's embrace. It was a sense of foreboding, a sense of impending doom. Nothing seemed right, I couldn't put my finger on it, but I had the feeling that my world was about to be turned upside down.

The silence was suddenly shattered by the ringing of the telephone, a ringing which seemed to me so desperate and foreboding. Luke and I looked at each other and the look that he gave me was an odd one, as if he sensed it too. The sound was off, more likely, we were both just really stoned.

The phone was next to Luke and he reached for it.

"Don't answer the phone," I said forcefully and much louder than I had intended to. "Don't answer that phone."

The phone continued to ring.

"Why not?" Luke asked me.

And ring...

"I don't know why," I said, "But something's not right and whatever it is, it has something to do with that phone call, so don't answer it."

Luke looked at me as if I'd completely lost my mind.

And then I suddenly knew.

"Because my mother is on the phone and if you answer that phone, she's going to tell me that my father is dead and if you don't answer the phone, my father can't be dead yet, so don't answer the damn phone.

Ring, ring...

"You've completely lost your mind," he said. "No more pot for you, you're cut off. You can't possibly know that. Your mother isn't going to be on the phone and your father isn't dead. You're out of your mind and you're high."

Luke reached over and picked up the phone, "Hello?"

Luke's face froze.

"Hello, Mrs. M.," Luke managed to croak out and then I saw a strange look come over his face as he handed the phone to me. I pressed the phone to my ear and spoke into it.

"Mom?" I asked. My worry had found focus and was dialing in. "What's wrong?"

My mother explained that there had been an accident and that my father had passed away. Evidently, he had been in the hospital for a little while, but no one had thought it important enough to tell me. That made me feel so much better. My father had been heavily sedated and was fast asleep in his bed. Against hospital policy and doctor's orders, his nurse had left the sides of his bed down, left the room, closed the door and then gone to lunch.

My father had rolled over in his sleep and he fell out of his bed. His catheter was violently dislodged as this happened and he fell heavily to the cold, hard tile floor below.

He started to hemorrhage, bleeding out in those long eternal moments between seconds, frightened and alone. I'm sure it was a terrifying and lonely death.

My mother told me of the scene that she had found when she entered the room; the pool of blood that he was laying in, so much of it; a entire life's worth. She told me too, of the hand prints. The bloody hand prints that she had seen on the sheets and the bed, where my father had tried to pull himself up, fighting until the end, but he never had a chance; it was over too fast.

I asked my mother when it happened and the time frame that she gave me corresponded to the same time that I had started feeling strange. I began to wonder if I had known the moment that my father had passed away and I'm pretty sure that I did know, I just hadn't recognized it for what it was. Strangely enough, the last time that I had seen my father, I knew it would be the last, that I would never see my father again, not alive, anyway. I don't know how I knew, I just did, I was convinced of it then and I still am today. I was so convinced that I would never see him again, it was impossible to get me to believe otherwise and it turned out that I was right. I wish I hadn't been, but I was.

Have you ever experienced anything like that?

If you enjoyed this story, please give this one a chance:

In My Father's Footsteps

Need a good laugh, instead? I've got you covered:

They Call Me Bae

The Fugly Duckling

Before I start, I'd like to thank Lisa and Kristina, who proofread for me and catch most of my typos and grammatical errors. Ladies, I'm way too lazy to do it without you. If there ever is a book and I become rich and famous, I'll buy you each a doughnut. Fame and fortune won't change me. I promise not to forget the little people.

“You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from.” 

― Cormac McCarthy, No Country For Old Men

I've finally started writing my second book. I haven't actually written a first book yet, but I've been writing it and it will include quite a few of these stories. Anyway, I've actually put that first book on hold, in order to write the second book, which really isn't my second book, because there's already a second book that I haven't been writing either, so maybe this one would really count as my first book if I finished it first? Or my second? Or third? Whatever. Fuck math.

I've been writing these insane stories about my dating life, post-divorce. I'd been trying to decide which dating story to tell first and I was drinking the crazy Kool-Aid of memory, when this story popped into my mind. I haven't thought about this night in many years, in fact, I'd almost completely forgotten it, but it's a tale that's ready to be told. This story isn't really about dating, per se, it's more the tale of a hookup or a one night stand.

The 80's were young, but in full swing. It was a Halloween night in Greenville, North Carolina, a raucous college town and home of Eastern Carolina University. At the time, ECU was considered to be the number one party school in the nation, which I assure you had absolutely nothing to do with my choosing to go there. It was purely coincidental. I swear. Cross my evil little heart. My roommate and friend Mike (whom I knew from summers in Atlantic City) and I were getting ready to hit the bars along with our friend Dean and we were prepared to do some serious drinking. For us, drinking was more than just a recreational sport, it was a professional pursuit. However, we still had a bit of pre-party partying to do before we could go out. Once the three of us were well past wasted, we headed for town, walking (stumbling, staggering; whatever), because we knew that we were too impaired to drive. Once in town, we joined the line to get into Rafters, our favorite bar. I should mention that we were all wearing costumes, although I can't seem to remember what any of them were, although I do recall wearing an army cap or hat of some sort. Shit, it could have been a fucking yarmulke, for all I know.

As we were waiting in line to get into the bar, the three of us were bullshitting and passing a flask of Evan Williams back and forth. It slowly started to dawn on me that I was shitfaced drunk, so I double hit the flask and passed it on. Out of nowhere, this flash of hideous electric orange appeared between us and accosted Dean.

Dean was the pretty boy out of the three of us; blonde hair, blue eyes and fair skinned - a typical WASP dreamboat. I was the opposite; tall, dark and muscular, a typical Italian guy and I got by on bullshit and charm, ringing many a Southern Belle during my tenure at ECU. Mike was a Jewish boy from North Jersey and he looked the part. Short, stocky, pale and hairy. Mike got by on fast talk and by being a novelty item. Honestly, what spoiled, rebellious, Southern Baptist debutante doesn't want to impress her daddy with the news that his precious baby girl is fucking a Jew? Maybe her sister that's fucking the black guy? I dunno...

Anyway, let's get back to the Electric Orange. The Electric Orange was apparently a female. Surprise, surprise. I thought it might have been an invasion of the fucking pixies. The Orange was short, thin, and she had a shock of almost iridescent orange hair. My eyes traveled downward, scanning her body; decent tits, nice ass. I looked up at her face and I blanched. That face. Holy fucking shit, Batman! That fucking face. The Orange was horrifically ugly. No, she was beyond ugly, she was fugly; freckled, speckled and looking like some sort of demented, drunken pixie. She said something to Dean and he said something back to her. Dean laughed, put his hands on the Orange's shoulders and spun her around to face me.

She wasn't as ugly as I'd originally thought. No, it was much worse than that. She was so fucking ugly that she had to sneak up on a mirror. So fucking ugly that if she went to the beach, cats would try to bury her. Seriously, this girl was so fucking ugly, she could have made blind kids cry.

Dean looked at me, winked, smiled, and said, "Steve, this is Jamie Lynn."

Of course she is. There's nothing like a good ol' Southern trailer trash name to help perpetuate a stereotype.

Dean pushed Jamie Lynn towards me.

"Jamie Lynn likes you," Dean continued. "You should take her back to the dorm and fuck her,"

Gee, thanks for the intro, bro. Dean didn't really think that I was going to fuck this girl, did he? Seriously, if I was that fucking drunk and she was still that fucking ugly, how bad would she look in the harsh light of morning and the brutal truth of sobriety? My eyes scanned Jamie Lynn again. Well, she did have a decent body. Fuck it, I'm in. I quickly pushed all logic aside, as all of the blood in my brain drained into my dick, leaving my mind incapable of cohesive thought.

I laughed and said, "Hi," to Jamie Lynn.

Jamie Lynn responded by pulling down the brim of my hat.

Nothing promises hot sex like a drunken dipshit. Fuck it. I'm a guy; even bad sex is better than no sex and she met the majority of my requirements. She was female, breathing and willing. That pretty much dots all of the i's and crosses all of the t's, doesn't it?

I grabbed the flask from Dean's hand and took a deep pull. I was going to need some serious liquid courage for this shit. I hit it again. I felt the warm liquid burn down my throat. I have the power!

The four of us wandered into the bar. We had a few drinks and Jamie Lynn and I got a little friendlier, making out in a darkened corner of the bar and away from any witnesses. I'm not a whore, but my dick used to be and my dick didn't care how ugly Jamie Lynn was; he was all like, "Feed me! Feed me!" Poor Dick, he's in recovery now, it's a twelve stroke program.

Jamie Lynn and I were were starting to get a little frisky, when she whispered in my ear, "Let's go back to your room."

You didn't need to tell me twice. I made the "I'm getting laid, now fuck off and find somewhere else to sleep" secret sign to Mike, grabbed Jamie Lynn by the hand and headed out into the night with my new study buddy. It was a long walk back to campus and time, along with the cooler, late night air, was starting to have a sobering effect upon me and that was something that I didn't want to happen. Oh, hell to the no. I knew that I didn't want to be anywhere in the vicinity of sobriety for this. Thankfully, there was more booze in my room. I hoped it would be enough. Jamie Lynn and I continued the walk of shame back to my room. Usually a walk of shame is what happens when you leave in the morning, wearing the same clothes from the night before, but in my bizarro world, everything happens in reverse.

We made it back to my room and things really started to heat up. I had a few more drinks to cure my anxious feelings of sobriety and Jamie Lynn and I did the dirty deed. I gave her the batter dipped corn dog, buttered the biscuit and then cleaned the cobwebs with the womb broom. At one point, she was complaining that her face was hitting the wall and I remember thinking that it couldn't possibly do any more damage than there already was and that if anything, it might actually be an improvement, so I made sure her face hit the wall a few more times, before I eased off. When we finished opening the gates of Mordor, I chased her off, telling her that I had an early class the next day and that I needed to get some rest, which was complete and utter bullshit. The truth was that she was so damn ugly, I was afraid that I might gnaw my own arm off in the morning, trying to escape from my own bed. I planned on sleeping in, going to class and then I was scheduled to work after school was done. I figured that I'd never see her again and no one need know my secret shame. Mike and Dean might know, but the threat of their bodies being found in the river would ensure their silence. Or not.

After Jamie Lynn left, I went back downtown and found Mike and Dean. We drank and tried to talk to girls until the bar closed and then we wandered back to the dorm, where we all passed out.

I woke up the next morning and it was a beautiful and warm Fall day. Unfortunately, I was horribly hungover and couldn't appreciate it. I kissed my bong good morning, hoping for a little relief, threw on some clothes, and I ran out the door, perpetually late for class.

After I was finished with classes for the day, I headed off to my job, as a delivery driver at a local pizzeria. I worked for a a couple of brothers, Greeks, who pretended to be Italian. I had one of the most popular jobs around and people were always happy to see me. Seriously, who doesn't love the pizza guy? I met a lot of girls, got a lot of phone numbers, made mega tips (although a lot of it was in coin). and I could always count on copping some free beer or some bong hits. At eighteen, I thought I owned the world and was living the life.

My shift started off slowly, with just a few random deliveries, I only made a few bucks, but I smoked a mind boggling amount of weed. Apparently, all of the stoners had spent their money on pot and only had enough change left to cover the pizza. No worries and thanks for the buzz, bro.

I was on my third delivery of the shift and I was headed over to one of the girls' dorms, which I loved delivering to, because it always provided an excellent opportunity for me to get shot down, or not. Even a blind man can find the right

I parked at the dorm, jumped out of my car and started to walk in the door when I heard a voice yelling my name. I looked around and didn't see anyone that I knew, but then the voice called to me again.

"Hey, Steve," the voice called. "Up here."

I looked up and to my absolute horror, she was much uglier than I remembered. I stood there speechless, my mouth hanging open, as I questioned the depths of my depravity the previous evening. I shrugged. It's not like this was my first rodeo. I ducked into the building.

I don't know how it is now, but back then, if you went into the women's dorms, you had to be signed in and escorted upstairs. This usually meant that the girl(s) that ordered the food would either meet you downstairs or come down once the RA called up. I approached the counter, put the pizza down and told the RA whom she needed to call downstairs.

Jamie Lynn beat the customer downstairs. She took one look at me, yelled my name, ran over, threw her arms around me and tried to shove her tongue down my throat. I felt like I was being kissed by an iguana. I was able to escape from her flying lip lock, but she came at me again. I took a step back and put up my hands. Jamie Lynn kept coming. I was trapped against the counter.

People were staring. That happens to me a lot. Entirely too fucking much, if I'm going to be honest about it.

Jamie Lynn smiled and announced to the room, "I want y'all to meet my boyfriend, Steve. We're in love."

Boyfriend? Love? What kind of bullshit was this? What the fuck was happening? Did I miss something here?

The room actually erupted in applause. White people are so fucked up sometimes.

Some of the girls came over and said hello to me and hugged Jamie Lynn, congratulating her as if she'd won a prize or something. Was I the prize? What was the prize for? Girl most likely to never have a boyfriend, or girl most likely to never get laid? Even worse, I had just been branded, pissed on,and  marked as fucking property in front of an entire room full of coeds. Word would spread and I was never going to get laid again. I would need to change my name, transfer schools, and go into hiding.

Karma. It's a motherfucking bitch.

After all of the excitement died down, the girl that ordered the food arrived and paid for her pizza. I tried to use that as a chance to escape, but Jamie Lynn blocked my way. She put her hands on her hips.

"Don't you have anything you want to say to me, Steve?" Jamie Lynn asked.

Throughout all of this, I hadn't had a chance to say a single word.

"I'm not who you think I am," I lied through my teeth.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

I quickly explained as sincerely as I could pretend to be, "I'm not Steve, I'm his brother Tony. We're twins. We both go to school here."

A look of pure embarrassment came over Jamie Lynn's face. Either she was so fucking stupid that my lie sounded plausible or she had never had someone drop such epic bullshit upon her before. Personally, I thought it was a combination of both.

"I'm... I'm so sorry...," Jamie Lynn spluttered. "I... I thought..."

"It's okay, it happens a lot. People get us mixed up all of the time."

Might as well lie some more. I couldn't believe that she was buying my bullshit.

"Would you do me a favor?" she asked me.

"Sure, Jamie Lynn, no problem."

"Would you ask your brother to call me?"

I told her that it wouldn't be a problem.

Jamie Lynn took a pen from the counter and wrote her name and phone number on the back of my hand. Fucking classic. There was even a little fucking heart over the 'i'.

I'd just been branded a second time and this time I wasn't even me.

Jamie Lynn thanked me and apologized again.

I told her not to worry about it and I turned to leave. Just as I reached my car, I heard Jamie Lynn call out, "Wait! How did you know my name was Jamie Lynn? I never told you my name."

Shit. I was busted. I pretended that I didn't hear her and I opened the door, jumped in and started the engine.

Jamie Lynn's voice called from behind me, "Steven! You stop right there you son of a bitch! You stop right there, right now, you lying bastard!"

Jamie Lynn started running.

I threw the car into gear, backed up and peeled out, narrowly missing a few stray students. Lucky motherfuckers.

I looked in my rear view mirror and that crazy bitch was chasing my car like a fucking cheetah running down a wounded wildebeest. I kept my eyes on her in the rear view mirror; Jamie Lynn seemed to be gaining on me. What the fuck? What was she, bionic? I gunned the accelerator. I was so focused on watching her chase after me that I didn't notice the curb, which I jumped, scraping metal all the way. Jamie Lynn kept coming. I turned the corner and floored it, laying down rubber and leaving Jamie Lynn in the dust.

I had escaped, but was I safe? I finished the night at work and when I got back to the dorm, I told Mike what happened. He laughed at my plight, but worried that we might be attacked by some crazy southern bitches. Southerners are not known for being reasonable people and you definitely don't want some crazy redneck bitch hunting your ass down; it's not going to end well for you. Mike thought it might be best if I left the state and possibly, the country. I feared for my life. If that girl found me, I was dead meat. Southern girls are a country mile past fucking crazy.

For the next few weeks, I lived the life of a paranoid lunatic. I refused to answer the door and whenever I had to leave my room, I checked to see if the coast was clear. I checked behind every bush and tree, inspected every nook and cranny, and pretty much grew eyes in the back of my fucking head.

It was all for naught. Thankfully, I lead a charmed life and I never saw Jamie Lynn again.

Fuck you, karma.

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