How You Doin’ Blondie?


A Rose By Any Other Name…
April 14, 2008, 12:19 am
Filed under: Life, Men, Reflections, sex, thoughts | Tags: , , ,

Went to a strip club with my friend the other day, and when I stepped outside for some fresh air, I noticed some prick had parked his Dodge Viper right in front, in the fire lane. He wasn’t anywhere in sight, and obviously thought his car was too precious to park in the spaces reserved for us mere mortals. So I just kind of stood there and stared at the car, fuming silently. My friend was standing next to me, having a cigarette, and is apparently clairvoyant because he reached over and rubbed my shoulder while saying, “Calm down baby, just relax, don’t say anything,” (obviously his wife has made him sit through Steel Magnolias, he knows how Southern girls are). I quelled the urge to point out that the Viper parked by the curb wasn’t worth as much as any of my automobiles, and I turned to walk back inside. My path was immediately blocked, however, by a man striding brusquely through the doors wearing an outfit he purposely bought a size too small so as to showcase his physique. I took one look at the guy, and his tribal arm band tattoo, and I leaned in and whispered in my friend’s ear, “All the tea in China, that’s his Viper.” My friend rolled his eyes, kissed my mouth gently, and then shushed me; but we both turned to watch where this guy went. Sure as shootin’, Slab Bulkhead swaggered right on down to that Viper and threw a pack of cigarettes through the open sunroof. I groaned loudly and my friend pinched my ass and said “Shhh baby, watch this.” As Butch Deadlift is making his way back into the club, my friend does one of those cool, aloof, guy-nods in the direction of the Viper and says “That your ride, man?” (A  question which elicited the mother of  all eye-rolls from me, which went largely unnoticed as Splint Chesthair had obviously already made the incorrect assumption that I was one of the dancers and thus unworthy of legitimate conversation). Stump Beefknob then stopped, and without any hesitation or trepidation at all, of any kind whatsoever, replied, “Nah man, that’s my mom’s. I drive an XJ-8.”

Then he went back inside.

I waited for my friend to finish his cigarette and then we followed suit. Later in the evening, we got to talking about Dirk Hardpeck and I realized my initial irritation had been replaced with a sort of reluctant respect. The guy might have been a douche-bag, but he had the stones to admit his was driving his mother’s car. I don’t know many guys whose precious ego could sustain that kind of blow – and Gristle McThornbody made the omission in such a nonchalant, almost dismissive manner.

As obnoxious to the core as I’m sure he is; big ups to Blast Thickneck for being a momma’s boy and owning it. You go on now and do your thing, Brick Steelflex.

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The Proverbial Question
April 11, 2008, 2:10 pm
Filed under: Life, love, Questions, Reality, Reflections, thoughts

How do you throw in the towel in a battle with yourself? This isn’t a rhetorical question, I’m not waxing poetic – I genuinely do not know the answer to this question.

Do you sell all your possessions? Do you give the green light to that over-zealous Realtor whose been circling overhead ever since you had that property appraisal done?

Do you give your brother perhaps the greatest gift he’ll ever receive, the black 2007 Chevrolet Corvette Z06 some guy you vaguely remember bequeathed to you in his will? Do you lie when he asks where you got it from? Do you have it garaged until he comes back from Iraq?

Do you sell your G-Class to that hip-hop star down the street who really has no apparent source of income aside from polishing his neck jewelry, but has been lavishing praise upon your monstrosity of an SUV ever since you got it?

Do you finally buy that Ducati Supersport 1000DS you’ve been lusting after for years but never quite had the balls to buy? Do you buy a sidecar for your 80lb best friend/dog? Does the sidecar detract from the coolness of the Ducati? Do you even care at this point?

Do you sell, sell, sell, like it’s a fucking swap meet because the sight of all these THINGS just makes you fucking sick?

What do you do with all the money? Do you buy a Kevlar blanket and new body armor for every single last fucking soldier in your brother’s unit? Do you throw money hand over fist at the non-profit organization, Soldiers’ Angels, you’ve been a member of ever since that fucking horrible day your brother came home with that jar head haircut? Do cry at night because you miss your brother so, so much, and you love him so, so much and you feel like the most selfish, spoiled whore in the world for sleeping on silk sheets while he’s picking sand out of his teeth and dodging mortar attacks?

Do you toy with the idea of enlisting yourself? What would you do with Cody? Who would take care of him? What about those neighbors of yours, the elderly couple who bake things for him? You think they’d keep him while you’re gone?

What if you die? Will it be worth it? Will it mean you’ve at least done something, stood for something, been something other then a fucking wealthy, pretty, waste of space?

Are all these questions things that you’ve very seriously considered? Very, very seriously considered? Are you just about ready to throw in the towel?

Yes, yes you are.



So I’m channeling an adolescent male’s sense of humor, sue me
April 5, 2008, 9:27 pm
Filed under: Entertainment, fun, Life, lust, Men, Reflections, sex | Tags: , ,

 



I Really Don’t Like The Fit Of This Shoe…

Harken back, if ye will, to the days of old when I was kind of half-assed chasing my single neighbor, S…it turns out, things might not have been as dead as I thought they were. I was at the local dive bar with another guy, and we were canoodling (does that word sounds as stupid as I think it does?), and who should walk in and sit on the other side of the bar, but S. himself. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, so I turned to wave or something, but he wouldn’t look up or acknowledge me. So I figured ok, cool, guess I “didn’t see him”. So my guy and I carry on, but I can feel S. just boring holes into me with his stare. Eventually we left, and for some inexplicable reason, I felt like I’d done something really underhanded to S…I dismissed the feeling, until today. Saw S. three times today, in the span of about an hour. I waved and tried to make eye contact all 3 times, he ignored me. The second time I saw him, he was driving past my house while I was sitting on the porch. He waved at the neighbor walking past on the sidewalk, but he didn’t wave at me. He didn’t even turn his head in my direction. The third time I saw him, he was less then 20 yards away from me, watching his dog urinate on a tree. I waved, but he “didn’t see me”. He ignored me. Completely.

Fuck. I’m being taught a lesson.

I feel like an asshole.



Whore Redux

Today; “Search Engine Terms: define whore”.

Really?

It was vaguely amusing, now it’s just mildly insulting.

…Oh and honey? If you’re concerned enough to research the formal definition, you’ve probably already been immortalized by Joe Francis.



Somewhere Otis Redding and Lou Rawls are Weeping Quietly

I’m telling you, this urban demographic and their music industry, it’s a Grammy  goldmine! It’s a regular chart-topping factory! Especially with this character I’ve been hearing about lately, this “Fat Joe,” my he is quite the wordsmith. I stumbled upon another gem of his, this one entitled “Still Not A Player,” featuring Monsieur “Big Pun.”

Does this gentleman have a fan club? How might I gain membership?

 

 

And yes folks, he really did just say “I’m not a player, I just fuck a lot.”



Everybody Here

If I’m reading Michael Stipe correctly, I think the idea is that everybody has a burden they feel they have to carry, the trick is getting the fuck over it.

“No one remembers and nobody cares”

Preach it, brother Stipe