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.

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

They Call It Mellow Yellow

Thanks for stopping by!

Who's The Boss?

I've previously mentioned my Dalmatian, Caesar in the story "Hosed," but please indulge me for a moment and allow me to give you a little bit of background on that demon bastard of a dog,

Just before I married my ex-wife, Medusa, her aunt had purchased a Dalmatian puppy that Medusa fell in love with and she absolutely, positively had to have a Dalmatian puppy of her very own. I said no. She begged me. I said no again. She argued with me. I still said no. This went on for days. She broke down in tears, so I stuck to my guns; I don't negotiate with terrorists. That's all absolute bullshit, of course. Once Medusa turned on the water works, I completely folded and gave in. I surrendered so fucking fast that you'd think I was French. I promised her that she could have the puppy as my wedding gift to her and that when we came back from our honeymoon, we would go to the breeder and she could pick out the puppy that she wanted.

We went and got married and took off on a little whirlwind tour of the Mid-Atlantic coast; it was the honeymoon from hell. It was a honeymoon haunted by hurricanes, terrorized by demonic ponies and stricken with plagues of biblical proportions; a foreshadowing of the years to come. When we returned home, I took Medusa over to the breeder so that she could pick out her puppy, as promised. I suggested to her, over and over again, that it would be wise to pick out a female, as they are usually smarter, more docile and easier to train than males, but she had her heart set on a little boy and I do have to say that the little guy that she picked out was an amazing example of the breed, as far as coloring and spotting went.

We decided to let the puppy name himself, which is a tradition of mine and after a few days of strutting around the house as if it were his kingdom, with his head held high and an attitude of imperial disdain, we decided to name him Caesar.

Afer a few more days, I realized that Caesar was almost completely deaf and that he showed an extraordinary amount of aggression for a puppy. I wanted to take him back to the breeder and exchange him for a different puppy. Medusa disagreed, We fought about it. A lot. Eventually, I wore her down and I won; the puppy was going back.

We called the breeder, explained the situation and loaded Caesar into the car. Medusa held the puppy and whimpered the entire way there. When we arrived at the breeder's, she turned on the tears and refused to get out of the car, but after she calmed down a little, she relented and exited the vehicle.

Medusa reluctantly gave Caesar back to the breeder and we went to look at the other puppies that were still available. That was when Medusa decided to go for the gold and she turned the tears on again. It ws like a fucking faucet. She was so attached to that defective puppy that she just couldn't let him go. She looked at me as if I had just killed her best friend.

Without a word, I turned around, grabbed Caesar, put him in the car and we took him back home.

In time, our defective little puppy turned into a defective dog, a terrible dog, the worst dog that I've ever owned. Caesar was aggressive and unpredictable; as his hearing loss increased, so did his aggression and unpredictability. He had other issues as well, he constantly dribbled urine everywhere, he literally climbed the walls to chase bugs, he barked at shadows, became enraged by them and would try to attack them. Caesar jumped through the glass portions of both our front and back doors in order to chase neighborhood cats and he did this several times. If he found food, he ate it, including the top layer of our wedding cake as it defrosted on the kitchen counter th day of our first anniversary. That cake was horrible when it was fresh, so I can only imagine how bad it would have been after sitting in the freezer for a year. I also noted that Caesar hadn't finished it off. Smart dog. In a way, I was pretty thankful that he'd saved me from having to eat it, so I really wasn't all that mad at him for that particular episode. Caesar also liked to destroy things; anything and everything. Still, the dog was a complete and utter lunatic.

I have always trained my own dogs and they have always been well behaved. I had never had a problem with a dog before, but with Caesar, I had hit the proverbial brick wall. Everyone I knew had advice to offer and we tried everything tat everyone suggested;  we were aways open to suggestions, but nothing that we tried seemed to work.

That dog was completely of of control.

My friend Will was always telling me that I had to assert dominance over Caesar and I did, all day long. I would get him to lay down and roll over (I had trained him using hand signals, as I do with all of my dogs) and I would very lightly pinch his throat with my fingers, much like an Alpha dog would do with its jaws. Will didn't think that I was going far enough and he wanted me to take it to another level.

"You have to be more assertive with him," Will told me.

"What do you mean?" I asked him.

"You have to hump him," Will said. "That's what the Alpha dog would do and that's what I do with my dogs."

"You hump your dogs?" I asked, incredulous.

"Only to assert dominance," he replied.

"You hump your dogs," I accused.

"Well..."

"I'm not humping my dog," I said. "No way, no how."

"That's what you need to do," Will said.

"Maybe that's what you need to do, but I can assure you that my needs are entirely different," I said. "I prefer the company of women, which is why I married one. You, on the other hand, are single and have four dogs, That and your words today lead me to believe that your "needs" are entirely different from mine.

The argument about whether I should hump my dog or not raged on for months. Every time that Will came over to my house, he argued his point of view and he would go on about how he humped his dogs all of the time and that I should hump my dog, if I knew what was good for the dog and my own peace of mind. Will was the most emphatic of my friends when it came to Caesar and he was just relentless about it; he never let up.

"Hump your dog," he said. "It will be a good thing."

Can someone please explain to me how fucking your dog could ever be considered a good thing?

I steadfastly refused to hump my dog. The peanut butter trick might be one thing, but fucking your dog is something else entirely.

One quite memorable time when Will was over, Caesar was misbehaving more than he usually did, Will started in on his old dog humping spiel all over again.

"I am not fucking my dog," I said for the umpteenth time.

"You're not fucking your dog," Will told me, "You're asserting dominance over the animal. Do you want me to do it for you?"

Well, I guess that Will had finally had enough of Caesar and something in his mind must have snapped, because Will suddenly jumped up and without another word, before I could even make a move to stop him, Will stood up, grabbed Caesar by the collar, got behind the dog and started humping him.

I couldn't believe it, that motherfucker was really humping my dog.

Holy shit!

You know, I've seen some really strange shit in my life, but this... this... I had no words for this shit and if that doesn't tell you how shocked I was, I don't know what would. I just... Fuck it.

I was stunned, the entire scene was surreal. Will was fucking my dog. No, that sick, crazy bastard was pumping away at my dog like a piston engine in overdrive. Sure, Will's clothes were still on, but that doesn't matter and it doesn't change the traumatizing event that I was forced to bear witness to; that freak was fucking my dog and I wasn't happy about it. Jesus, I think I have PTSD.

Apparently, Caesar wasn't happy about it either/

As fast as lightning, Caesar's head flew around and he bit the living shit out of Will's balls. Sank his teeth right in and let me tell you, it was somethung to behold. Too bad that's not what really happened.

The truth is that Caesar bit Will's hand, but saying that it was his balls just seems to invoke some sort of cosmic karmic justice, whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean. Caesar had taken a deep bite out of Will's hand and Will squealed like a little bitch. Blood was gushing everywhere and Will wasn't doing anything about it, he was just letting it drip onto my carpet. Not cool. I thought that was very inconsiderate of him. I mean, the guy tries to screw my dog and then when he gets what's coming to him, he has the audacity to bleed all over my stuff. Again, not cool.

Someone's going to have to clean that shit up and that someone is me. I'm the one who is going to get stuck with cleaning up the mess that Will's poor life choices made. How is that fair to me?

Asshole...

I helped Will clean his wound and then I bandaged his hand. It's a good thing that Caesar didn't bite his balls, because I'd have let Will bleed to death before I touched his junk, Seriously. Like, if we're ever in the woods together and a poisonous snake bites your dick, you're completely fucked. Hey, just letting you know where you stand.

Will apologized to me and acknowledged that the responsibility for the bite was his and that trying to hump my dog was a foolish thing to do and that he'd learned a valuable lesson.

And that valuable lesson was...

Don't fuck my dog.

Thanks for stopping by. I hope you've enjoyed what you read.

If you liked this story, Please give this one a chance:

Did You Really Just Say That?

Fondue You

When I was a child, there weren't as many restaurants around as there are today. Casual dining was unheard of; going out to dinner was always a special occasion and you were always treated sumthin' fancy. You'd get all gussied up in your Sunday best and hit the town. The choices were pretty limited when it came to dinner and it usually came down to the steak house, the Italian restaurant or the Chinese place. The US in the 1970's was pretty lame when it came to food. It was a lot like television before cable came along.

These days we have every type of theme restaurant that you can imagine and it seems as if every ethnicity is represented. Casual dining and chain restaurants dot every strip mall and fast food franchises churn out their swill on virtually every corner. Competition for your dollar is fierce and many corporate restaurants will go to absurd extremes in the name of guest service while other, smaller mom and pop places can be known for having a fuck you attitude. Good service runs somewhere in between the two.

I have worked in the restaurant industry for entirely too many years. Long years, brutal years, and yes, painful years of suffering, hustling and kissing ass for cash. I have worked high end and low brow, mom and pop, corporate and fine dining. I have mixed cocktails and concoctions for the fancy pants crowd and tossed beers down the bar in smoke filled dives. I've loved it and I've hated it. There have been moments where... Well, best not to say anything that might or might not one day be used as evidence against me. I have always been happy to escape the clutches of the business and yet, I keep getting sucked back in, like an aging lot lizard that can't live without the glory hole and the limelight. It's a crazy, fast-paced and stressful business that takes a special kind of special to not only endure it, but to thrive. Seriously, you just can't even begin to imagine the shit and shenanigans that go on behind the scenes in an industry where most of the employees are just a quick diagnosis away from being institutionalized.

I'm not kidding.

I've seen it all in this business, or at least I think I have, but it seems as if every time that I say that, I then see something even more fucked up than the last most fucked up thing that I saw and you know what? That's really fucked up. I say the same thing about the Internet all of the time and yet I still get surprised. Horribly surprised. The things I've seen that can never be unseen. I live my life a haunted man.

Hold on, I need a tissue. And meds. Oh yes, meds. Yes, lots and lots of meds.

And then some more.

Let me tell you a little story...

Many, many years ago, I worked at a small fondue restaurant in Florida that is a locally owned franchise of a small national chain and it is known as the ultimate romantic restaurant. There is just something about this place that gets a woman primed. It is intimate, romantic, discreet and expensive. If you can't get laid after a dinner at this place, there is something seriously wrong with you, like you have visible signs of leprosy something wrong with you, or maybe you're a Little Richard (for my foreign readers, Richard is a euphemism for dick which is a euphemism for penis, but let's just say cock, because Tourette's) with a tiny, two inch penis, or perhaps you're a chicken fucker or something else that is way the fuck out there in left field, because we both know you're a freak. What I'm trying to say is that it's just about impossible not to get laid after a romantic dinner like that and you would have to go to extraordinary lengths to screw it up.  And yet screw it up they did; I saw so many guys go down in flames. No chutes. No survivors.

Sealing the deal; it's not for everyone.

Flinging fondue was a great job, the restaurant was conveniently close to my apartment, the owners were awesome, it was staffed by lunatics, the clientele was super cool and somewhat strange, but most importantly, the money was great, as in cocaine and strippers great. That's not what I really spent my money on, it's just a comparison. I'm way too cheap to spend money on strippers. If I wanted to pay a woman money to pay attention to me, I'd get married.

I really loved working there and to this day, it remains one of my favorite jobs.

One of the few drawbacks about working there (other than the fact that my apartment had the aroma of a fondue restaurant, which is to say that it smelled like burnt peanut oil) was that every time that I met a girl and she found out where I worked, she always wanted to go there for dinner on our first date, so I ended up eating a lot of fondue, but at least it ensured a sure thing and nothing beats a sure thing except for maybe two sure things, but since I know I'll never get two sure things, I'll settle for one. I can't tell you how many times I have had the exact same date; dinner at the fondue restaurant with the same first date conversations, flirting and copious amounts of wine, followed by a short trip to my "special spot", the stone jetty at Haulover Beach and a romantic walk in the moonlight where I'd pull one of my signature moves and then finish it up with a quick drive back to my apartment to seal the deal. It was nice and it was a little something special for both of us; a nice romantic evening for her and another hash mark in the win column for me. Too much of the same thing though, even a good thing and I hate to say it, even too much of a sure thing can start to get a little boring, which it did and after a while it became my own personal Groundhog Day.

Click on the link above to watch the full movie on YouTube.

Fondue is a very time consuming meal where you actually have to cook your own food and pay for the privilege of doing so.

 To be honest, the only thing that you actually end up cooking yourself are the entrees.

I can make an amazing cheddar cheese fondue. If you'd like me to post the recipe, leave a comment below.

The cheese fondue is actually made tableside by your Waiter/Waitress.

Most of our customers would order the standard three course Combination Dinner for two which consisted of a cheese fondue appetizer, salads, and an entree platter that was a mixed bag of meats and seafood (chicken, steak, salmon and shrimp). Chocolate fondue for dessert was an a la carte item that was a must have and everyone ordered the chocolate fondue.

An intimate setting, lots of wine and some sweet, warm chocolate will get her motor running, even if you can't.

Romantic, isn't it? Meet my next ex.

The length of time spent on dinner in the restaurant would usually range from two to three hours, limiting the amount of tables that you could work in an evening and having an impact upon the tips you could earn and while the food was fairly expensive, we also pushed wine and that's where the real money was. Selling wine would pump up your check average and more importantly, your tips. If you could sell two or three bottles of wine to the majority of your tables, you were sure to go home with pockets full of cash (actually, you would make it to the bar with pockets full of cash, how much you'd still have left when you got home would be a different story and staying drunk can get pretty expensive). The only other way to make money there was by relying on your personality and by engaging with your customers, meaning that you had to be personable and, well, a little weird. You were a part of the experience, part of the entertainment, like your own little one man Off-Broadway Show. Oh, yeah. Sure. Let me fucking sing and dance for you. A little shuffle and fucking jive. Yeah, I can just picture myself getting all jiggy with it. I'll get started on choreographing a routine right now.

I got moves, mothafuckaz! I got mad fuckin' skillz.

And personable? Me? Whatthefuckever. Hell, I took a personality test once and the results came back negative. I think That I'm more of a curmudgeon than a personable person and I'm also pretty much convinced that I'm just a fucking asshole more than anything else. Have I ever mentioned that I also have the honor and the privilege of being the most well adjusted person that I know? And I could never be considered weird, right?

Shut the fuck up, it was just a rhetorical question.

So, while I might not have much in the way of a personality, I've certainly got bullshit in abundance. Bucket loads of bullshit, that is. Yes, yes indeed. Shit Slingin' Steve, that's me. It has a certain je ne sais quoi to it, don't you think?

One late afternoon, it was my turn to come in early to help open the restaurant up and get it ready for dinner service (we only served dinner). Coming in early was good, because it meant that you would be the first person to start making money and it also meant that theoretically you would be the first person out the door and headed home. I say theoretically because the reality of the situation was such that you could theoretically be the last person out the door and headed home as well. It would all depend upon when your last table chose to leave and if they decided to camp out, well, you were screwed. That's just the hazards of the business, life isn't fair and all of that shit, but if I'm making money, I'll stay until the end of time.

As an aside and in the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that the term "headed home" was really just a euphemism for going out and drinking all night.

As I was clocking in and getting ready to start setting up the restaurant, there were a rapid series of loud knocks at the front door, which was quickly answered by the owner, Dan (not his real name). He spoke to someone at the door for a few minutes and then he walked over to me and asked me if I felt like taking an early table, further explaining that they only wanted to order the chocolate fondue. Dan said that that the decision was completely up to me, he didn't care and that I didn't have to take care of them if I didn't want to. It didn't take me very long to set up the restaurant and I could certainly wait on a dessert table while taking care of everything else. Besides, it was extra money in my pocket with very little effort on my part and it was good customer service. I told Dan that it wouldn't be a problem. I mean, what could possibly go wrong?

Dan walked back to the front door and returned with a party of five in tow. Strutting like preening peacocks through the empty restaurant were three generations of the same family; an older couple, a younger couple and their cute little three year old son who was literally bouncing down the aisle howling chants of, "Chocolate! Chocolate! Chocolate!" over and over again and he definitely wasn't using his inside voice. His father began chanting along with him.

Seriously?

A three year old doing that is obnoxious enough, but a thirty-something year old grown man jumping up and down and screaming, "Chocolate!" at the top of his lungs belongs in the theater of the absurd.

Don't get me wrong, I've always done silly, stupid, funny and cheesy stuff with my kids, but this...

This...

Twenty years later and I still don't have words.

My waiter early warning system began to twitch. Bad. Really bad. Like when your balls really itch something fierce and you're with a bunch of people and you just can't scratch your fucking nuts and that makes the itch even worse type bad. Glory be.

It was pretty obvious that they were going to be a bit difficult.

I began to question the life choices that led me to this moment as my ever present and delightful smile began to crack and crumble.

It was also pretty obvious that they were rich. You could just smell the money on them, they absolutely, positively reeked of it. I hoped that because we were going out of our way to accommodate them that I had a pretty good chance of getting a nice fat tip. So far it looked like mostly shaft.

I'm not exactly sure whom they were showing off for in an empty restaurant, but after the spectacle of their grand entrance, Dave tried to seat them in one of the booths on the main aisle but they would have none of it, complaining that the table might be good enough for the common riffraff, but it certainly wouldn't do for them. Y'know, because they were exalted royalty and shit. After flitting from seat to seat like Goldie Locks looking for the perfect chair that felt just right for her big, fat ass and after a few extra minutes spent fondling different tables, they finally found one that was deemed worthy of their greatness and just as they started to settle themselves in they realized that the little one was missing.

The mother freaked out.

"Where's my baby?" she shrieked. "Has anyone seen my baby?"

Well... maybe the dingo ate your baby...

Burp...

Great. Nothing like having to wait on arrogant, rich, entitled assholes who can't be bothered to take care of their children. This was going to be fun. Lots of fun. Lots of fucking fun. Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun. Fuck me.

We split up into search parties and everyone fanned out through the restaurant searching for the kid. After a few minutes, his mother found him hiding underneath one of the tables in the back and she actually bribed him to come back with her. This just kept getting better and better.

The elder gentleman, obviously the patriarch of the family, barked at me and ordered me to bring a booster seat for his grandson. I think he said something along the lines of, "Hey you, we need a booster seat over here."

Yeah. Sure. Fuck you, buddy.

I went to go fetch the booster seat like a good little bitch and then returned to the table, handing it to the child's father. Nobody bothered to thank me. Pretty fucking rude, if you ask me. Assholes.

I started to introduce myself, but the older guy quickly interrupted me. Dick move, buddy.

The older guy then proceeded to explain to me that they were on their way to the airport to drop off their son, daughter-in-law and grandson and that they were in a rush. He told me that he and his wife were regulars and that I must be new because I didn't recognize them (I had been there a year and I had never seen them before and Dan hadn't recognized them either). He and his wife had told the younger couple about how wonderful the fondue was and had promised to take them to dinner but had then never bothered, but figured they were at least entitled to have some chocolate fondue on their way out of town. Oh, and they were in a hurry, so could I, you know, hurry things along?

Okay, you're in a hurry, I get that, so shut the fuck up and order and stop wasting everyone's time by running your fucking mouth.

While he's droning on to me and I'm mentally picturing myself choking the living shit out of him, I look at the table and notice that his darling little grandson has dumped the contents of the salt and pepper shakers onto the table and he now has two little piles sitting directly in front of him. The little bastard looked at me, smiled smugly and shoved the piles of salt and pepper all over the table. That little shit. No one corrected him or said a word.

That's total bullshit. 

I bit my tongue. What the fuck did I get myself into this time?

I assured them that I can get them out of the restaurant quickly and believe me, all I want to do is get them the fuck out of the restaurant. I ask them if I can get them started with something to drink and they all ask for water with lemon and they want one for the kid, too, because of course, five glasses of free. Free work that I won't get tipped on. Plus the old guy, who also asked for coffee, because of course he needs a drink for both hands and because of course I haven't had a chance to make any coffee yet and when I informed His Majesty that I would be making a fresh pot and that it would take a few minutes he mentioned something about my being incompetent under his breath.

Fuck that motherfucker. I wanted to punch that arrogant sonofabitch in his arrogant pompous fucking pie hole but I kept my cool, did an about face and went off to get their drinks. I wanted to poison them and I would have, but that's a lot of bodies to hide and I drove a motorcycle. The logistics weren't looking good.

Oh, and we didn't have any fucking kids cups, either, but that was just too bad now, wasn't it? We just weren't that kind of restaurant. Contrary to popular belief, children and large pots of boiling liquids aren't always a very good mix.

I returned to the table with their drinks, passed them out, took their order and turned it into the kitchen. By this time the coffee was ready and I poured a cup and brought it out to the table where I noticed that the little bastard had gotten his filthy little hands on the sugar caddie and had torn open all of the sugar and Sweet & Low packets, dumped them out and scattered them all over the table. It was like he was playing in a sandbox of sugar. That shit was everywhere. Again, no one corrected him or said a word.

That's some great fucking parenting skills right there, folks.

I was perilously close to the edge. No amount of money could make up for this shit.

The old guy asked me if I had any straws for the baby to play with.

Oh shit... Oh no, you din't...

All rational thought went out the window. I fucking lost it. I snapped. Before I even realized what I was saying, I had blurted out, "What's the matter? You can't afford any toys?" 

I thought this guy's fucking head was going to explode; like he was going to have an aneurysm or something, His face turned beet red, veins popped out all over his forehead, his mouth fell open and then he freaked the fuck out. I mean he really freaked the fuck out.

"You sonofabitch," he spat at me, "You motherfucker. I demand to speak to the owner. I demand to speak to the owner right fucking now!"

"Yes, sir. I'll be more than happy to get him for you," I said with an evil smirk. Dude should have been thankful that I hadn't stabbed him through the eye with one of the fondue forks. Not only am I Italian, but I know people that know people who know other people that have some friends who might or might not know someone who may or may not be in the mob. but his cousin has a neighbor who knows someone that says he probably might be but he's not certain. 

I went to Dan's office in the back and I explained the situation to him. I think he may have been a little pissed off at me and I wasn't completely sure if he had believed my side of the story, but he had to at least half believe me because he already knew they were assholes. I started to worry about losing my job. I liked my job. I liked my job a lot. Not only did I like my job, but I made an obscene amount of money at my job and I really wanted to continue making that money which enabled me to not only ay for my basic necessities, but enabled me to live a fairly lavish lifestyle of expensive booze and cheap women. I decided that I did not want to lose my job.

Dan stormed out of the office and into the dining room. As he approached the family I could see that he was starting to get angry as he took in the full extent of the mess that covered the table. Better yet, the people had now switched tables, because the little bastard had managed to spill his glass of water, leaving a nasty, sticky paste of a mess, so they had changed tables and given the nasty little shit another sugar caddie full of "toys" to play with and which said little shit was currently in the process of tearing open and dumping upon the table.

Dan was so angry I thought his hair plugs were going to pop out. I swear I saw them bulging and ready to fly off like mini mortars on the Fourth of July. I'd never seen him this angry. 

I felt a tingle in my mangina. I wish I'd had some popcorn.

The rude, pompous and arrogant old fucker started to yell at my boss, but Dan cut him right off.

"Shut up and get out," Dan said. 

The old guy looked confused and then angry. His face wasn't red anymore, it was positively purple. He started to open his mouth to say something, but Dan cut him off before he could utter a word.

"Get out," Dan repeated. "Get out now. Take your things and take your brat and get the hell out of my restaurant. Now!"

I swooned. Dave was my hero. I wanted to marry him. I wanted to make his babies.

All of them started to shout at once but Dan would have none of it.

"Get out. Get out now, or I'll call the police and have you arrested." Dan was pissed. Go Dan! You sexy motherfucker.

"You'll be hearing from my lawyer!" screamed the cranky old fuck.

The old man threatened to sue Dan and Dan laughed in his face. The old man threatened to ruin him, the restaurant and little ol' me. 

I did a double take.

Who? Me? Huh? What the hell did I do? 

They mumbled and muttered and acted indignant and violated all the way to the door, but they got out. We never heard from their lawyer and we never heard from them again, either. Dan's business didn't get ruined either. As for me, I'd been ruined long before and frankly, I had no fucks left to give.

Bye, bye motherfuckers.

After they left, Dan and I looked at each other and we just shook our heads and laughed. He helped me clean up the mess that they had left and we were able to get the restaurant open on time.

The point that I'm trying to make here is that if someone bends over backwards to accommodate your ass, be gracious, thankful, well-mannered and appreciative instead of being rude, demanding, ill-bred and a complete douchebag. Make sure your children behave. If not, karma is going to turn around and bite you right in the dick and I'll be the one laughing about it.

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

Slide It In

Or, if you'd like to read something a bit more serious and with no foul language, check this out:

In My Father's Footsteps

Email Me: ramblings.from.the.short.bus@gmail.com

Thanks for stopping by!

One last thing, please leave a comment on the post, here on the blog, Stroke me ego or I swear I will find where you live, get naked and stand outside of your house.

Btw, what happens when you inject human DNA into a goat?

I got kicked out of the petting zoo...