Is just fine. And I’m going to go ahead and say it’s just fine in any circumstance. That’s not to say it’s always safe. Or never fueled by depression. By “fine,” I mean understandable and okay. Like a man drinking a fifth of whiskey on a midnight train after his old lady threw him out when he caught her at the center of a bukkake session. Hey, I don’t know, there're some sick people out there. Sometimes drinking heals wounds. Other times it causes liver scarring. That’s not the point here though, folks. It’s that drinking solo can be absolutely swell.
Too many people bash on unaccompanied substance use. “Oh dude, you’re pathetic,” or “You did what? You smoked a buh, buh, blunt by yourself?!” My advice? Don’t listen to these people. They’re what I call naïve and young. You might call them Betas. Anyway, when the sun is out and the folks’ liquor cabinet is full, why not indulge in a little reenactment of The Graduate? Except in my case I threw in a little Big Labowski, for White Russians were my poison of choice. Oh, and on another note, had I shied away from this general practice, half my writing would suck tits. Oh wait.
The FACT of the matter is that the lone drinking man only screams distress when he does it with a frown. Seriously, if he’s drinking with a smile, he’s happy. Often, however, he is neither smiling nor frowning because he can’t feel his face. And if you’re Scott Mckay, your face will look as if it were made of wax that had been slightly overheated as to melt most notably in the areas of the eyes and mouth – not to be taken as a frown. Unless tears are coming out of the eyes. Another piece of valuable advice, take necessary precaution when approaching a lone drinker who may be crying. I’ve never witnessed this (they’ve always been drinking with others when the waterworks turned on), but especially if they’re a stranger, probably don’t want to touch that. You don’t know what the fuck’s the problem! But if you see the, perhaps even rarer public display of HEARTY (and even sporadically challenging ^^) singles drinking across the ol’ bar, this is what you do.
She’s a gorgeous, high class woman not in a red dress, but in a black one that when she stands in front of the sunlight her legs are silhouetted and you notice that she’s not only enjoying a martini with extra olives, but she’s doing so sans underwear. Don’t stare at that. This is Lone Ranger 101, dick. So she’s sitting there, angled so as to better people watch – all the more important you time eye contact at the right instant. Mid beer pound, glass at a forty five degree tilt, and you decide to give her a glance, oh no! she’s winked at you! While sliding an olive into her mouth! Coughing and choking at your first singles match lost! you run to the men’s room trying not to cry. But when you come out, everyone’s transformed into pigs except her, and because you just bought a condom in the restroom, she forgets everything to go have sex with you.
Now, if it’s a bro, easy, “Hey yo bro! whatchu drinkin, man? Why’n’tchu come ova ’eah an’ talk abaaahd it wit me?!” If you’re a woman, pretty much even easier. No New Jersey Guido accent necessary. Don’t wink at the poor bastard though. Unless he looks smooth enough to know what to do about. In which case you'd kinda wonder why he’s drinking by himself anyway, though, right? Right? If da sonuvabitch can pull hoes like Coby? Kobe? Colby? What’s da fuckin spelling ova heah?!?
That guy Ian, who wrote all the James Bonds books? He was good. Earnest Hemingway, meh, some good, some okay. Don’t wanna hear it Jimmy. You're a Hermione fan right? I mean Hemingway? Drinking while you’re doing stuff is always nice, too. I like drinking while doing my homework so when my vision starts to fail along with any motor skills, and it’s not even half done... Study break. For the rest of the evening. Yestahday. Just unpacking some shit for the folks at their new house. Had a coupla coffees, nice and wired up, zoo-too-doo, and then 11:09 rolls around, and I’m like Mah!!?!! Coulda fix me up a white Russian, hey!
“What time is it?” she says.
“Ten after eleven, mah. Why? Wussamattah?” I says.
[Way too much sopranos and guido fascination.* More in About the Author]
“Okay, I make you one,” she say.
So she stops making the drinks for me after two, which means I’m on my own. I use the measuring jigger for about one more before tossing that out and man-handling this half gallon of Smirnoff. Also a little side tip. Stop using heavy cream/half and half/whole milk after about three. Harder to drink, and it’ll make you barf. I opted for good ol’ 2%, and by number seven or eight, I found myself drooped over our couch listening to the Beach Boys. Mah said “Let me go Home” made her want to cry, but she wouldn’t take my advice to start day drinking. We went to the mall where I dropped a little over a hundo on running shoes and other stupid shit. When am I going to run? You kiddin me? Anyway, I was drunk as shit, and all too happy to return home where I shed my clothes to the draws and stepped carefully into the pull and then getting on a floatie thing. Retrieve the drink, and I’m cool. Literally and figuratively. Cool cool cool wHip. Don’t really remember what happened between getting out and waking up in bed so I assume I fell asleep around six thirty, and now I can’t sleep and it’s 2:07 in the morning. If there weren’t an actually gate separating this community from the rest of society I’d go out and chill with the hoodrats. And then pop models. Instead, I’m gonna hop downstairs and look in the fridge and probably not eat anything. I hate doing that. Good night.
*I mean, they’re like unicorns, I’ve never really seen one (dancing), but I know they exist.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
GUIDE TO SORORITYBABIES
They've been called sheep, chickens, all kinds of barnyard animals, but, BUT, to many, they are like wolves. "Don't be silly Cyrus!" Moi? Non! They not only love traveling in packs, but absolutely rely on this survival tactic to slay whomever, whenever. Guys, if you think we're the predators and they're the prey, then ah shorely hafta chuckle atchu. Of course this study doesn't take into account athletic upperclassmen studs, I'm talking generally about male freshmen versus female freshmen. Now, there's always a few "lone wolves" but these are often the most dangerous, like the silverback gorilla of the sub-saharan cloud forests. These foxes will not only deny you conversation, but most likely date only athletes or married working men. Cheerleader profile might be a good example. In any case, dealing with these women could often be more dangerous than juggling vials of anthrax.
Back to the pack theory. Take this example. A pack of beautiful young women enter a room with a scattered array of frat daddies. Whether the male population shows it or not, they've noticed a shift in air pressure, the room just got a little warmer as if someone built a camp fire by the entrance. One asshole gets the idea that he's hot shit and approaches The Pack,
"Aye, wussup ladiez, finnin to play zome drinking gamez?"
Spokeswoman/bitch rolls her eyes, turns away ever so slightly to break eye contact, "Ah juss wanna plah [play] some bear puuhngg"
"Oooo, me too, Stacy!" chimes in a flanking fembot.
"Ugh, Becky, I wanna play with that So Cal boy with long hair and tight jeans..." and on goes the horror.
But wait, our lone ranger overcomes sudden adversity because he read a Guide!
"Anyone else wanna play a randy game over here? Come on, it'll be fun! plus look at all those bored stud muffins sitting over there! Let's go introduce you ladies... maybe we can dance a little later"
Hold up, mister. Hold the fucking phone. No one said anything about dancing. And if you even dare to hit the dance floor you better bring the right equipment:
Either A) a girl to dance with
Or B) Dance moves so sick, so sagar, that you're actually capable of tearing the place down solo.
A + B, however should = C) sex
Here's a rule of thumb my roommate, who i won't mention (Jaeger), believes in: If a young lady dances with you for three or more songs in a row... she wants to sleep with you. And by sleep with, I mean have sex with and THEN sleep or whatever. While I'd like to share this belief, I've seen it fail for many men, and I really don't think girls necessarily follow this code. Ah but you're just a young freshman, didn't dance a lot in high school, never really "grinded." Well you're in for a treat. But like trick or treat, because if you're not careful, if your mind wanders... you will grow a boner. Just a few things to look out for: Thin dresses without panties will destroy you. jeans are usually the safest, if she's in sweats run away. Beware that too much ass to crotch grinding can also cause irritation and or chafing.
In the case that your meat loaf decides to come alive, there is indeed an advanced maneuver to save yourself from... i don't know, awkwardly dry poking the poor girl? I feel like some of 'em absolutely enjoy it. Take it like this, your package is there, you both know that, but when she senses activity, she'll do one of two things: A) with both hands, reach back, and grab your pockets/belt/ass, and pull in so you're goin nowhere. If B) she reduces or shifts bodily contact uncomfortably, you need to act (hopefully before it gets to that).
Don't tell her it's your camera/phone/wallet, lol. Instead, initiate the roll out. There are a couple ways of achieving what should end up in face to face dancing which should give you time to deflate. (ew, that was kinda dirty, even for me). So, from the top, say she's a short one, manage to work your hands up either side of her body, maybe avoiding the armpits, but eventually up her arms to grab her hands. Now, simply spin her around, smile or do whatever in an effort to look cute/cool. Six times out of ten this should work. For a taller girl, you can do something a little more creative. I tried this on a girl too short and almost fell, so you might not nail it the first four times, but obstacles are like roadblocks, just get in another lane. (wtf, bad joke) Okay, so you've got standard ass to crotch, she's grinding your ding dong to a pulp, and you gotta act. You need to get her into just the right position where you can kinda put your right (strong) leg 'round hers, and then kinda spin into a sort of standing scissor position. Might help if your hands are on her waist. For balance. With this one you gotta be careful not to knee her in the vagina, or at least not too hard. Also keep in mind your flesh flute might now just be up against her thigh; this is as far as i can take you, young padawan, the rest is improv. (try using the force).
In the likely case that a PYT comes around, keep her separated from the pack. Hopefully this far into a night the pack has dispersed, but there's often a few stragglers, let's say, who haven't been offered dick, or are lesbian, and they are walking red flags. Avoid these heathens to avoid a block on your cock. If you find yourself in their position, either divide and conquer, or find something to drink until all feeling is gone. Keep in mind, an awkward night can be better than a lonely one! Someone on tv said that =/ And always practice safe sex ^_^
Back to the pack theory. Take this example. A pack of beautiful young women enter a room with a scattered array of frat daddies. Whether the male population shows it or not, they've noticed a shift in air pressure, the room just got a little warmer as if someone built a camp fire by the entrance. One asshole gets the idea that he's hot shit and approaches The Pack,
"Aye, wussup ladiez, finnin to play zome drinking gamez?"
Spokeswoman/bitch rolls her eyes, turns away ever so slightly to break eye contact, "Ah juss wanna plah [play] some bear puuhngg"
"Oooo, me too, Stacy!" chimes in a flanking fembot.
"Ugh, Becky, I wanna play with that So Cal boy with long hair and tight jeans..." and on goes the horror.
But wait, our lone ranger overcomes sudden adversity because he read a Guide!
"Anyone else wanna play a randy game over here? Come on, it'll be fun! plus look at all those bored stud muffins sitting over there! Let's go introduce you ladies... maybe we can dance a little later"
Hold up, mister. Hold the fucking phone. No one said anything about dancing. And if you even dare to hit the dance floor you better bring the right equipment:
Either A) a girl to dance with
Or B) Dance moves so sick, so sagar, that you're actually capable of tearing the place down solo.
A + B, however should = C) sex
Here's a rule of thumb my roommate, who i won't mention (Jaeger), believes in: If a young lady dances with you for three or more songs in a row... she wants to sleep with you. And by sleep with, I mean have sex with and THEN sleep or whatever. While I'd like to share this belief, I've seen it fail for many men, and I really don't think girls necessarily follow this code. Ah but you're just a young freshman, didn't dance a lot in high school, never really "grinded." Well you're in for a treat. But like trick or treat, because if you're not careful, if your mind wanders... you will grow a boner. Just a few things to look out for: Thin dresses without panties will destroy you. jeans are usually the safest, if she's in sweats run away. Beware that too much ass to crotch grinding can also cause irritation and or chafing.
In the case that your meat loaf decides to come alive, there is indeed an advanced maneuver to save yourself from... i don't know, awkwardly dry poking the poor girl? I feel like some of 'em absolutely enjoy it. Take it like this, your package is there, you both know that, but when she senses activity, she'll do one of two things: A) with both hands, reach back, and grab your pockets/belt/ass, and pull in so you're goin nowhere. If B) she reduces or shifts bodily contact uncomfortably, you need to act (hopefully before it gets to that).
Don't tell her it's your camera/phone/wallet, lol. Instead, initiate the roll out. There are a couple ways of achieving what should end up in face to face dancing which should give you time to deflate. (ew, that was kinda dirty, even for me). So, from the top, say she's a short one, manage to work your hands up either side of her body, maybe avoiding the armpits, but eventually up her arms to grab her hands. Now, simply spin her around, smile or do whatever in an effort to look cute/cool. Six times out of ten this should work. For a taller girl, you can do something a little more creative. I tried this on a girl too short and almost fell, so you might not nail it the first four times, but obstacles are like roadblocks, just get in another lane. (wtf, bad joke) Okay, so you've got standard ass to crotch, she's grinding your ding dong to a pulp, and you gotta act. You need to get her into just the right position where you can kinda put your right (strong) leg 'round hers, and then kinda spin into a sort of standing scissor position. Might help if your hands are on her waist. For balance. With this one you gotta be careful not to knee her in the vagina, or at least not too hard. Also keep in mind your flesh flute might now just be up against her thigh; this is as far as i can take you, young padawan, the rest is improv. (try using the force).
In the likely case that a PYT comes around, keep her separated from the pack. Hopefully this far into a night the pack has dispersed, but there's often a few stragglers, let's say, who haven't been offered dick, or are lesbian, and they are walking red flags. Avoid these heathens to avoid a block on your cock. If you find yourself in their position, either divide and conquer, or find something to drink until all feeling is gone. Keep in mind, an awkward night can be better than a lonely one! Someone on tv said that =/ And always practice safe sex ^_^
ON ASIAN PEOPLE
Now, for you white readers, just to clarify what you should already know. There are two breeds of Asian at UW. I'm not talking about race or anything like that; no the FOBs versus, for lack of a better term, Asian Americans. Of course most of the FOBs are citizens, but you know what I mean. Those bros and bronettes that hang out at Odegaard, the HUB, pretty much anywhere white people aren't (Foster, Law, etc.). On the other hand, one could argue they're doing a better job maintaining their Asianness while us AA's (pun intended) are sellouts to the white man. Fuck that. Because listen, while white girls don't tend to like Asian men, those Asian-ass chickens are exceptionally friendly. I don't know, but moving on, I've noticed that many of the Asian hipsters dress kind of like Ichiro out of uniform. If not metro in this sense they'll either dress almost "scene" which is supposedly a different strand of "emo" without the emotional bit? (My knowledge of pop culture, well contemporary cultures i should say, is very limited. like an old white man's. My dad, for example.). But if none of the above is true, you'll see them dressing like anyone else. If they think they're real hood, they'll sport Jordan, LRG, MAYBE Southpole, but Asian men tend to be yuppies descended from yuppies (first generation business workaholics that conquered the American Dream).
The best is when I approach an Asian person that I've determined to be fresh [off the boat], and they not only speak to me in flawless English, but ultra-hip vernacular I'm accustomed to (I got a handbook coming out for you that are just smidge less hip). I do a little double take, maybe stutter a little before realizing, this guy is a white dude disguised as a yellow dude! And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where we have to watch out.
I'm not kidding! Listen to this conspiracy theory ladies and gentlemen. An Asian/White mutt that I know has told me, unjokingly (though I think it's bullshit) that come year 2012, the Asians, namely the Chinese, will basically go nuts and overthrow the American government.
Yeah, stupid right? especially since I saw about half a Chinese person at the fucking China Mexico soccer game, which by the way, was awful soccer. Chinese people can't play that. Nor are they doing a good job hosting the Olympics. I don't want our fucking athletes getting azmar out there! How is a dude supposed to sprint with a gas mask on?
Anyway, back on track. Asian people like most things white people do, except for some things exceptionally white - crocs, wearing shoes indoors, Richard Gere, etc. Outdoor wear is huge among Asians with their expensive North Faces. We don't think Japan or sushi are special, but Asians do like modifying and customizing their automobiles. The funnies thing though, is that the full Asian men I've talked to have an infatuation with white girls. I don't blame them, they're great, but I can't bring myself to discriminate (beggars can't be choosers). It's not just that they bask in white girls' glory, but it's as if they're the internet guy in Mariah Carey's "Touch My Body" video when he snaps out of his fantasy and is reduced to the timid nerd he is. No offense Asian guys. Hey, I'm no lady killer. Asian markets like Uwajimaya, but even the more underground ones like Viet Wah, have been discovered by white people, and they can't get enough.
So I guess there aren't many things whites and Asians can disagree on, but that's because whites discovered all the awesomeness Asia had to offer and vice versa (I love Patagonia).
Check out the blog below which is not too unlike the the stuff white people like one.
http://www.asian-central.c
The best is when I approach an Asian person that I've determined to be fresh [off the boat], and they not only speak to me in flawless English, but ultra-hip vernacular I'm accustomed to (I got a handbook coming out for you that are just smidge less hip). I do a little double take, maybe stutter a little before realizing, this guy is a white dude disguised as a yellow dude! And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where we have to watch out.
I'm not kidding! Listen to this conspiracy theory ladies and gentlemen. An Asian/White mutt that I know has told me, unjokingly (though I think it's bullshit) that come year 2012, the Asians, namely the Chinese, will basically go nuts and overthrow the American government.
Yeah, stupid right? especially since I saw about half a Chinese person at the fucking China Mexico soccer game, which by the way, was awful soccer. Chinese people can't play that. Nor are they doing a good job hosting the Olympics. I don't want our fucking athletes getting azmar out there! How is a dude supposed to sprint with a gas mask on?
Anyway, back on track. Asian people like most things white people do, except for some things exceptionally white - crocs, wearing shoes indoors, Richard Gere, etc. Outdoor wear is huge among Asians with their expensive North Faces. We don't think Japan or sushi are special, but Asians do like modifying and customizing their automobiles. The funnies thing though, is that the full Asian men I've talked to have an infatuation with white girls. I don't blame them, they're great, but I can't bring myself to discriminate (beggars can't be choosers). It's not just that they bask in white girls' glory, but it's as if they're the internet guy in Mariah Carey's "Touch My Body" video when he snaps out of his fantasy and is reduced to the timid nerd he is. No offense Asian guys. Hey, I'm no lady killer. Asian markets like Uwajimaya, but even the more underground ones like Viet Wah, have been discovered by white people, and they can't get enough.
So I guess there aren't many things whites and Asians can disagree on, but that's because whites discovered all the awesomeness Asia had to offer and vice versa (I love Patagonia).
Check out the blog below which is not too unlike the the stuff white people like one.
http://www.asian-central.c
BEER PONG
I had a request to write about our beloved game Beer Pong, which all you hoodrats know how to play in some form. It's funny though how everyone thinks their rules are the best, but hey, this is a sport where honor should be upheld. That's why the term"house rules" were made, right? So if I'm drinking in your abode, probably spilling in your abode, I'll be more than happy to beat you in your abode with your rules. But I didn't come here before you all to write about the rules of the game, but instead point out some of the finer points that we all cherish as often as we loathe.
Beer Pong is a sport. It's a ball game. People spectate, scream, and drink beer. Hallelujah. But what else does any great sport like hockey, basketball, football, or soccer have? I'm sorry, need. It's shit-talking. Skill in any sport is multi-dimensional and any good player must be well-equipped in as many aspects of the game. So. You don't necessarily have to be good at talking shit, but if you don't, you better be good at zoning it out. This is what I like to call a classy player (don't worry, not referring to myself. that player dossier is coming up), especially so when they let they're skills do the talking (ie Reggie Miller, Ichiro, perhaps. Although this might be due to his ESL status. In fact, in Japan he might just be a stone cold butcher of a smack-talker). And maybe a little, "scoreboard" every now and then is far more demoralizing to opponents than constant banter, which leads to my preferred style of play, if you will.
This is also goes for my partner of choice (no homo), who often might be a little too pugnacious with words. But I like it. Anyway, when you're exceptionally witty, and the opponent's exceptionally bad, why not add bolts, wood glue, and maybe some plaster to the coffin that you put them in? I once had a brilliant soccer coach who, to an extent, made me into the extremely tough, and masculine man that I am today. He told us that it's not always enough to beat a team to whet one's thirst for I don't know, glory? A "win" isn't always as satisfying as a "routing," or a "smashing," or my personal fav's "bloodbath," and "slaughter." When my team dominates a table for a night, it's a slaughterhouse, a massacre so much more so because on top of losing, and failing to defend the sacred table, losers are humiliated verbally. Now, I don't want to scare any of you potential losers. I mean opponents, because I like to think I'm a reasonable guy who knows when and where the time and place to talk some nitty gritty shitty is appropriate. And the beauty of the whole thing is that all that beer you've been drinking is only loosening the tongue more so resulting in hotter jokes, sweeter disses, and essentially shrinking amount of relent. It's kind of a shame that the amount of smack often seen on the BP table isn't as prevalent in professional sports. Can you imagine LeBron James screaming about what a pussy the pussy was that he just threw down on? Ah that was would be a treat! But back on topic, folks. Don't be intimidated by this ridiculously gay online blog (I hate that word. Why would I use a word a I hate?), because I like to tell myself that I'm also a humble bro, but I also believe that, like boldness, drink causes peoples' levels of humbleness to fluctuate more than your mom's weight. I mean come on, if it feels good for me to gloat in your ugly face after splashing your last cup, isn't it my right? I was going to say "god-given" right, but maybe "skill-driven's" better. Anyway, random thought. Oh, and readers, there's a reason football players do those chest/shoulder jump bumps. Because they're fuckin sweet. Both to watch and to do. Um, trying to think of crafty way of wrapping this up... nothin'.
Oh, but wait, there's something I want to get off my chest before I leave. Ladies (and i'm not going to name names. not because i don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, because I have no effin' clue who did it), I understand you need to use toilet paper when you pee. But please, please don't do whatever it is you do to clog my toilet. K, done, thanx, bye. ttyl.
Beer Pong is a sport. It's a ball game. People spectate, scream, and drink beer. Hallelujah. But what else does any great sport like hockey, basketball, football, or soccer have? I'm sorry, need. It's shit-talking. Skill in any sport is multi-dimensional and any good player must be well-equipped in as many aspects of the game. So. You don't necessarily have to be good at talking shit, but if you don't, you better be good at zoning it out. This is what I like to call a classy player (don't worry, not referring to myself. that player dossier is coming up), especially so when they let they're skills do the talking (ie Reggie Miller, Ichiro, perhaps. Although this might be due to his ESL status. In fact, in Japan he might just be a stone cold butcher of a smack-talker). And maybe a little, "scoreboard" every now and then is far more demoralizing to opponents than constant banter, which leads to my preferred style of play, if you will.
This is also goes for my partner of choice (no homo), who often might be a little too pugnacious with words. But I like it. Anyway, when you're exceptionally witty, and the opponent's exceptionally bad, why not add bolts, wood glue, and maybe some plaster to the coffin that you put them in? I once had a brilliant soccer coach who, to an extent, made me into the extremely tough, and masculine man that I am today. He told us that it's not always enough to beat a team to whet one's thirst for I don't know, glory? A "win" isn't always as satisfying as a "routing," or a "smashing," or my personal fav's "bloodbath," and "slaughter." When my team dominates a table for a night, it's a slaughterhouse, a massacre so much more so because on top of losing, and failing to defend the sacred table, losers are humiliated verbally. Now, I don't want to scare any of you potential losers. I mean opponents, because I like to think I'm a reasonable guy who knows when and where the time and place to talk some nitty gritty shitty is appropriate. And the beauty of the whole thing is that all that beer you've been drinking is only loosening the tongue more so resulting in hotter jokes, sweeter disses, and essentially shrinking amount of relent. It's kind of a shame that the amount of smack often seen on the BP table isn't as prevalent in professional sports. Can you imagine LeBron James screaming about what a pussy the pussy was that he just threw down on? Ah that was would be a treat! But back on topic, folks. Don't be intimidated by this ridiculously gay online blog (I hate that word. Why would I use a word a I hate?), because I like to tell myself that I'm also a humble bro, but I also believe that, like boldness, drink causes peoples' levels of humbleness to fluctuate more than your mom's weight. I mean come on, if it feels good for me to gloat in your ugly face after splashing your last cup, isn't it my right? I was going to say "god-given" right, but maybe "skill-driven's" better. Anyway, random thought. Oh, and readers, there's a reason football players do those chest/shoulder jump bumps. Because they're fuckin sweet. Both to watch and to do. Um, trying to think of crafty way of wrapping this up... nothin'.
Oh, but wait, there's something I want to get off my chest before I leave. Ladies (and i'm not going to name names. not because i don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, because I have no effin' clue who did it), I understand you need to use toilet paper when you pee. But please, please don't do whatever it is you do to clog my toilet. K, done, thanx, bye. ttyl.
GREEK MEN AND WOMEN
Listening to sorority girls can be the funniest shit ever (when it's not painful, that is). I'm speaking more specifically about when they talk about boys. It's especially funny though when comparing to how we, and i refer to my circle of exceptionally vulgar friends and myself, talk about girls. And it's important to note that "boys" and "girls" are too perfect in this context where more "mature" "men" and "women" shouldn't find themselves involved.
Guys, however, are always either subconsciously or fully aware and actively keeping eyes and ears open for ladies. But, and this doesn't apply to all men, they, we, often go about it so roughly and clumsily. I know Playboy writes articles on this kind of shit all the time, but i think my experiences add merit. And I know movies make jokes about this all the time, but they're funny because they're true. Take the following mock* dialogue for example.
Bro1: Dude, such a nice day today. I love it when girls wear those black pants. ooo and those booty shorts that say "pink" on the butt.
Bro2: Oh totally, brah! *some kind of fist pump/gesture to express excitement*
Bro3: Oh man, there was this one girl in my class. Totally eye fucked the shit outta her!!
Bro1: Oh yeah? what'd she do?
Bro3: Fuckin **** ignored me like I had the clap!
Bro 2: Uh, dud, don'tchu have the clap?
Bros1 & 2 chuckle heartily...
Bro3: Fuck you!... it's gonorrhea!
Bros1 & 2 bust a gut and so on.
And so what some people, or rather most people, would define as barbaric, lewd, or just plain nasty behavior is the backing of the very prominent (dark or light?) side of frat culture. And I'll concede I haven't heard what I'm almost too sure exists as an equivalent within sororities' doors. Nonetheless, I'll share one account that I found amusing, and another one based on my imagination! (It's gonna be pretty sick, but you know that ;)
BabyGirl1: Oh my god you guys, I just had such an awkward encounter *All exasperated-like, brushing hair away from her flustered face*
BabyGirl2: What happened?
*half-interested*
BabyGirl1: I just ran into. And like, he used to really like me, but then I stopped talking to him for a while... *long-winded yakkity yak*... and now Brock is totally cuter. And less metro.
BabyGirl3, who's hair BG2 is playing with and commenting how staticky it is: Ugh, don't you just hate that, when a guy gets cuter? Ugh
*Three-way pout-fest leads to my head exploding*
Now for what the other half of brain was envisioning at the moment, which actually takes place in a darker setting. Let's throw some candles in there.
Succubus1: Sup sluts,, where did yew shack last night?
Stacy: Bitch, I slept on their couch.
Succubus2: Pft, yah right, that's not what the tri chi's were saying, you nasty betch.
Stacy: Oh my god! Fuck you guys! why you gots to judge me all the time?!
Succubus1: Uh, duh, we live in a sorority
Stacy: What did those assholes say?
Succubus2: All I heard was "Bro-sandwich," something something, and then something "squirt, squeal, high five." It was pretty gross, actually.
*Stacy's crying, Succubus1 is smirking like Draco Malfoy, and the eavesdropping house mom is chortling into both hands and stamping her feet like a little school girl*
I could go on, but it would just escalate until the people at facebook shut me down. It's strange and fascinating in way, though, and ladies don't hate me for my ignorance. I'm just a Thtupid Boy. xoxo
*and by "mock" I mean extremely accurate and realistic paraphrasing of when fratters bro down.
Guys, however, are always either subconsciously or fully aware and actively keeping eyes and ears open for ladies. But, and this doesn't apply to all men, they, we, often go about it so roughly and clumsily. I know Playboy writes articles on this kind of shit all the time, but i think my experiences add merit. And I know movies make jokes about this all the time, but they're funny because they're true. Take the following mock* dialogue for example.
Bro1: Dude, such a nice day today. I love it when girls wear those black pants. ooo and those booty shorts that say "pink" on the butt.
Bro2: Oh totally, brah! *some kind of fist pump/gesture to express excitement*
Bro3: Oh man, there was this one girl in my class. Totally eye fucked the shit outta her!!
Bro1: Oh yeah? what'd she do?
Bro3: Fuckin **** ignored me like I had the clap!
Bro 2: Uh, dud, don'tchu have the clap?
Bros1 & 2 chuckle heartily...
Bro3: Fuck you!... it's gonorrhea!
Bros1 & 2 bust a gut and so on.
And so what some people, or rather most people, would define as barbaric, lewd, or just plain nasty behavior is the backing of the very prominent (dark or light?) side of frat culture. And I'll concede I haven't heard what I'm almost too sure exists as an equivalent within sororities' doors. Nonetheless, I'll share one account that I found amusing, and another one based on my imagination! (It's gonna be pretty sick, but you know that ;)
BabyGirl1: Oh my god you guys, I just had such an awkward encounter *All exasperated-like, brushing hair away from her flustered face*
BabyGirl2: What happened?
*half-interested*
BabyGirl1: I just ran into
BabyGirl3, who's hair BG2 is playing with and commenting how staticky it is: Ugh, don't you just hate that, when a guy gets cuter? Ugh
*Three-way pout-fest leads to my head exploding*
Now for what the other half of brain was envisioning at the moment, which actually takes place in a darker setting. Let's throw some candles in there.
Succubus1: Sup sluts,
Stacy: Bitch, I slept on their couch.
Succubus2: Pft, yah right, that's not what the tri chi's were saying, you nasty betch.
Stacy: Oh my god! Fuck you guys! why you gots to judge me all the time?!
Succubus1: Uh, duh, we live in a sorority
Stacy: What did those assholes say?
Succubus2: All I heard was "Bro-sandwich," something something, and then something "squirt, squeal, high five." It was pretty gross, actually.
*Stacy's crying, Succubus1 is smirking like Draco Malfoy, and the eavesdropping house mom is chortling into both hands and stamping her feet like a little school girl*
I could go on, but it would just escalate until the people at facebook shut me down. It's strange and fascinating in way, though, and ladies don't hate me for my ignorance. I'm just a Thtupid Boy. xoxo
*and by "mock" I mean extremely accurate and realistic paraphrasing of when fratters bro down.
RANDOM MUSINGS
There were a few things that caused me a just a hair of angst this past week (other wise I'm pretty much bullet proof to negative energy). Let me first forewarn you, the reader, that this might not be such a funny or entertaining read (jk, of course it's going to be. imagine this note to be like Dylan's spit - hot fire). But honestly, let me try to be serious for a few minutes here. I'll first start by saying a couple things that appeal to me can be abbreviated "HG." Hot girls, and half gallons are but a few examples (High Gravity, however, is not my cup o joe), but the focus of this entry could be said to be towards girls (in general, not just hot ones). Ladies, if you're reading this, well, I don't know, maybe just try to keep in mind the genre this caters to is dubbed "fratire." (fratty satire). That's not to say it's going to be [intentionally] chauvinist, but more an attempt to analyze the often erratic behaviors of my gender's better half.
Last friday we had a cocktail party where most guests and hosts drank themselves stupid. No surprises there, but sometime during the aftermath whilst things were dying down, some ladies, and this is so much more pardonable than i make it out to be, got the idea (which I'm not altogether exempt of myself) to take advantage of drunk boys' meat. Not that kind of meat, silly! I'm referring to the wealth of deli meats (and cheeses) that occupy our fridge so helplessly that a handful of succubi (not in the true sense of course) ravaged that shit like Ray J to Kim Kardashian. (too early?) It's more funny than frustrating, but the funniest is when you catch 'em red-handed and they clumsily and innocently scatter like chickens that seen a wolf. I mean ladies, really, it doesn't take sobriety for me to find my way around making a sandwich for your munchies, just holla. I'm probably making one for me anyway. Huh, I guess that's it for that one.
Other rants you shouldn't care about. Lil Wayne. Some people love him, some people hate him. I think his music's sweet. Much of the debate over this sizzurped-out gremlin of a star deals with the age old fight of lyrics vs hot beatz. Well the fact is, while there are arguably plenty of sweet beats underground and lyrics-focused shit, it's the beats that make your pelvis move around (especially when booze are involved), that sell like hot cakes. Songs like Lollipop, Low, or Take you There, aren't supposed to make you go, "OOOHH, shit! you hear that analogy/euphemism/hyperbol
George Foreman grills. Fuckin A I wish this fucking thing wouldn't burn just the top of my chicken without fully cooking the center.
Neighbors who go to bed too early. Go away. We're loud and young.
And gender inequality. Yes, thin ice is my favorite ground to tread on (that's lie meant to make me sound tough). The demographic of our society that we might be familiar with as Grown-Ups, that is, generally people our parents' age, might feel differently because it exists in the workplace and so on. Well I'm having trouble seeing where men hold the upper hand in our age group. Okay, besides in sports. More women are going to college, and that's totally cool. I'm in college, and there still aren't enough (I'm just bad with women). I won't go into the details of how men are abUSEd because there's a fine line between ranting and complaining like a little bitch. I didn't cross it, did I? At the same time though I think i'm just skimming the surface of a deeper tradition men and this notion of chivalry are supposed to uphold. Oh, that reminds me of a funny nugget. So this PYT who was dancing with some creepy dude in Cabo gave me this look of desperation/discomfort. Drink gives birth to boldness, and i remember foggily that, before i knew it, my arm lowered betwixt the two dancers causing her to scamper to safety (haha, scamper) and him to bemusedly try to decide whether to give chase or get in my face. Well, his hesitation and half-assed step forward was enough for Kris to give him a good shove to the chest (you had to be there, just good wholesome comedy) and nearby staff to close in. Dude was just lucky we don't live in the medieval period or samurai era because he would looked like a bleeding porcupine instead of an embarrassed gringo.
In conclusion, I'll concede that this was written by "Old Man Walter," but maybe next week will see "Happypants Funboy's" writing, eh?
*or if you're me, about half a beer deep
Last friday we had a cocktail party where most guests and hosts drank themselves stupid. No surprises there, but sometime during the aftermath whilst things were dying down, some ladies, and this is so much more pardonable than i make it out to be, got the idea (which I'm not altogether exempt of myself) to take advantage of drunk boys' meat. Not that kind of meat, silly! I'm referring to the wealth of deli meats (and cheeses) that occupy our fridge so helplessly that a handful of succubi (not in the true sense of course) ravaged that shit like Ray J to Kim Kardashian. (too early?) It's more funny than frustrating, but the funniest is when you catch 'em red-handed and they clumsily and innocently scatter like chickens that seen a wolf. I mean ladies, really, it doesn't take sobriety for me to find my way around making a sandwich for your munchies, just holla. I'm probably making one for me anyway. Huh, I guess that's it for that one.
Other rants you shouldn't care about. Lil Wayne. Some people love him, some people hate him. I think his music's sweet. Much of the debate over this sizzurped-out gremlin of a star deals with the age old fight of lyrics vs hot beatz. Well the fact is, while there are arguably plenty of sweet beats underground and lyrics-focused shit, it's the beats that make your pelvis move around (especially when booze are involved), that sell like hot cakes. Songs like Lollipop, Low, or Take you There, aren't supposed to make you go, "OOOHH, shit! you hear that analogy/euphemism/hyperbol
George Foreman grills. Fuckin A I wish this fucking thing wouldn't burn just the top of my chicken without fully cooking the center.
Neighbors who go to bed too early. Go away. We're loud and young.
And gender inequality. Yes, thin ice is my favorite ground to tread on (that's lie meant to make me sound tough). The demographic of our society that we might be familiar with as Grown-Ups, that is, generally people our parents' age, might feel differently because it exists in the workplace and so on. Well I'm having trouble seeing where men hold the upper hand in our age group. Okay, besides in sports. More women are going to college, and that's totally cool. I'm in college, and there still aren't enough (I'm just bad with women). I won't go into the details of how men are abUSEd because there's a fine line between ranting and complaining like a little bitch. I didn't cross it, did I? At the same time though I think i'm just skimming the surface of a deeper tradition men and this notion of chivalry are supposed to uphold. Oh, that reminds me of a funny nugget. So this PYT who was dancing with some creepy dude in Cabo gave me this look of desperation/discomfort. Drink gives birth to boldness, and i remember foggily that, before i knew it, my arm lowered betwixt the two dancers causing her to scamper to safety (haha, scamper) and him to bemusedly try to decide whether to give chase or get in my face. Well, his hesitation and half-assed step forward was enough for Kris to give him a good shove to the chest (you had to be there, just good wholesome comedy) and nearby staff to close in. Dude was just lucky we don't live in the medieval period or samurai era because he would looked like a bleeding porcupine instead of an embarrassed gringo.
In conclusion, I'll concede that this was written by "Old Man Walter," but maybe next week will see "Happypants Funboy's" writing, eh?
*or if you're me, about half a beer deep
CABO SPRING BREAK 2008: PART 2
I thought night two was quite uneventful in the light of night three, which could have landed me in a number of (more) dangerous places. El Squid Roe was the scene of just about every BO, and the second night of loathing saw an exceptionally hard BO. All I have to say, once again, is that luck was on my side, and i thank goodness for the handful of Betas who literally saved my blacked little behind. Apparently, and this is their account(s), Mike (is there a picture of this), myself, and Banshee took a taxi to their hotel where who do find but MY twin from another mother, Kris. He's wondering around their hotel, blind drunk, and happens to stumble upon us. Cool cool, i throw a couple cushions on the floor and call it a night while the other three share a fold-out. So luck struck twice that morning.
The third night was a much uglier, and harrowing experience i only hope my Spartan son(s) get to undergo. I basically got hazed by a couple of Mexicans.
(I think) This was the night of the booze cruise and for some odd reason i was wearing Kris' B Roy jersey. Ah yes, for some reason he and i were among the only drunk kids on that damned boat. Which was awesome, cheers Robbie. I would finish a drink and another would be sliding its way towards me before i could throw it away. The one girl who would dance with me got my beer bottle to the head too many times. Men peed off the bow. Get Buck in Here played twice. Three-Asian hyphey circle. And finally a competition where a few of us tried to see who could lean over the side the furthest with the result being us straight hanging over the edge. Returning to dock was a sad time indeed, but not as sad as when i found myself in a taxi van all alone save three Mexican dudes. I know, i deserved to be cut. Anyhoo i got to el Squid. By myself. And proceed to get blacked with a guy named Joe. Memory terminated.
Memory resumed. I have no idea what time it is, but guess it's at least three-ish, and i find myself back outside the gate of hotel from night one. Far more grim a sitch. The night watchman behind the counter not only decided not to be my friend anymore, but I couldn't speak a word of Spanish, nor much English. So I'm sitting their, another night watch comes over, kinda friendly, not enough to let me in, but whatever. Casey saunters up, all alone. God knows where hes been, and i think i'm saved. I had after all should have been allowed in, for the two nights previous Tyler had paid for two nights. Maybe they had to be consecutive. Anyhoo, outside-the-gate henchman let's Casey in right in front my sorry ass, and by this point I've lost all hope. I guess i walked a short distance up the alley and found a plot of dirty side walk where i thought fit to lie face down in. I was in shorts and T, but this time luck reared her ugly head in a different manner.
Casey somehow gets my attention and tosses a pair of sweats, a sweat shirt, and a light blue tank top. This served as my pillow. I think the exterior henchman wouldn't allow me to sleep on the humble plot of land, so i was forced to opt for plan c (or d depending on your idea of a nice place to sleep). The beach was far as fuck, so passed the booth i took a right where what do i find? An abandoned, sandy, trashy lot. The barbed wire fence had fallen in a short way down, and the little guy who many of haven't heard called Survival Instinct yelled at me, "Brosky," pointing yonder, "ya see that wall? go over there, put the tank top down, and sleep there." I was in no position to argue with this total bro, and so, the next morning around seven when the sun was rising i awoke to a dried out weed, "rise and shine mother fucker!" I peed on him and the wall in case any stray dogs get the wrong idea. After all, i lean like a cholo. Fortunately guest hours were on, and i strode drunkenly passed the front desk up into the room to sleep next to Andy. One thing that stood out vividly in my memory is that after waking up around ten i looked into the mirror to find a pathetic site. In my cracked and chapped lips i had dirt ingrained. But hey, what'd they make showers for, eh?
So i think it was after this night that i didn't start drinking for a reasonable while, but when i did it was happy hour the main spot, and we made it rain pretty good over there. *Almost forgot night four. Party van back to Betas hotel, get pwned for a bit by security/front desk. One crafty Beta gets us inside the hotel, but not quite into a room to crash in. Get split up with another group, and end up walking that damned length of beach, you know, that stretch where there's no hotels. The locals' beach as i called it. Three of us walked back, neither Scott nor me knowing whether El Diablo Arturo would kick us. in the balls. No, but we got in flawlessly (except for one detail i don't want to talk about) and i slept on a sweet little cot mattress. I thought this night was calm(er) compared to the others, but i did wake up with that powerful hangover, which brings us back to the pitiful present where Seattle's cold, and school begins once again. Good night, and good luck.
The third night was a much uglier, and harrowing experience i only hope my Spartan son(s) get to undergo. I basically got hazed by a couple of Mexicans.
(I think) This was the night of the booze cruise and for some odd reason i was wearing Kris' B Roy jersey. Ah yes, for some reason he and i were among the only drunk kids on that damned boat. Which was awesome, cheers Robbie. I would finish a drink and another would be sliding its way towards me before i could throw it away. The one girl who would dance with me got my beer bottle to the head too many times. Men peed off the bow. Get Buck in Here played twice. Three-Asian hyphey circle. And finally a competition where a few of us tried to see who could lean over the side the furthest with the result being us straight hanging over the edge. Returning to dock was a sad time indeed, but not as sad as when i found myself in a taxi van all alone save three Mexican dudes. I know, i deserved to be cut. Anyhoo i got to el Squid. By myself. And proceed to get blacked with a guy named Joe. Memory terminated.
Memory resumed. I have no idea what time it is, but guess it's at least three-ish, and i find myself back outside the gate of hotel from night one. Far more grim a sitch. The night watchman behind the counter not only decided not to be my friend anymore, but I couldn't speak a word of Spanish, nor much English. So I'm sitting their, another night watch comes over, kinda friendly, not enough to let me in, but whatever. Casey saunters up, all alone. God knows where hes been, and i think i'm saved. I had after all should have been allowed in, for the two nights previous Tyler had paid for two nights. Maybe they had to be consecutive. Anyhoo, outside-the-gate henchman let's Casey in right in front my sorry ass, and by this point I've lost all hope. I guess i walked a short distance up the alley and found a plot of dirty side walk where i thought fit to lie face down in. I was in shorts and T, but this time luck reared her ugly head in a different manner.
Casey somehow gets my attention and tosses a pair of sweats, a sweat shirt, and a light blue tank top. This served as my pillow. I think the exterior henchman wouldn't allow me to sleep on the humble plot of land, so i was forced to opt for plan c (or d depending on your idea of a nice place to sleep). The beach was far as fuck, so passed the booth i took a right where what do i find? An abandoned, sandy, trashy lot. The barbed wire fence had fallen in a short way down, and the little guy who many of haven't heard called Survival Instinct yelled at me, "Brosky," pointing yonder, "ya see that wall? go over there, put the tank top down, and sleep there." I was in no position to argue with this total bro, and so, the next morning around seven when the sun was rising i awoke to a dried out weed, "rise and shine mother fucker!" I peed on him and the wall in case any stray dogs get the wrong idea. After all, i lean like a cholo. Fortunately guest hours were on, and i strode drunkenly passed the front desk up into the room to sleep next to Andy. One thing that stood out vividly in my memory is that after waking up around ten i looked into the mirror to find a pathetic site. In my cracked and chapped lips i had dirt ingrained. But hey, what'd they make showers for, eh?
So i think it was after this night that i didn't start drinking for a reasonable while, but when i did it was happy hour the main spot, and we made it rain pretty good over there. *Almost forgot night four. Party van back to Betas hotel, get pwned for a bit by security/front desk. One crafty Beta gets us inside the hotel, but not quite into a room to crash in. Get split up with another group, and end up walking that damned length of beach, you know, that stretch where there's no hotels. The locals' beach as i called it. Three of us walked back, neither Scott nor me knowing whether El Diablo Arturo would kick us. in the balls. No, but we got in flawlessly (except for one detail i don't want to talk about) and i slept on a sweet little cot mattress. I thought this night was calm(er) compared to the others, but i did wake up with that powerful hangover, which brings us back to the pitiful present where Seattle's cold, and school begins once again. Good night, and good luck.
CABO SPRING BREAK 2008: PART 1
Before today I thought i had experienced bad hangovers. The hangover can come in many different forms, whether it's headache, nausea, both, whatever. But the one from four cumulative nights of the hardest drinking i have ever accomplished had me not only wanting to die, but imagining (foolishly so) that i might actually die. What's a person to do when but a milligram of energy is left, sleeping is impossible, eating is impossible, hydration won't work, and the only road to recovery is time? But we'll come back to this subject later.
I knew not what to expect prior to visiting this wonderful, horrible, yet awesome party town at the tip of the Baja desert. I thought it might, and it is to a large extent, be just some commercialized, civilized little town where everyone spoke English and was nice to you. In reality, days were swell, nights were hell. And by nights i mean after the club, when sleep is the only thing on the blacked-out mind.
Being homeless in Mexico has taught me a number of things. There is very little that scares me now. I saved money. Couple of pretty sick comments if you ask me. Well listen, it's not what i originally intended, for like so many other Cabo-goers I had planned to stay in a room with too many people with the hopes of saving a few bucks. Two things i overlooked: night watchmen, and gates to keep drunkards away. The first night was a tricky little bitch, and i came away luckier than the two bros i was with. Arturo's the name of asshole numero uno that so effectively pwned us during the wee hours of the morning. The three of us are walking along the beach - it's pretty effin' cold mind you, and we expected to waltz right into the hotel where some sweet sorority women were staying. Stupid. Thing is, there were more than one person keeping unwanted's out of the hotel, but Arturo, with his ear piece and a brazen attitude strutted over to the three gringos clipboard in hand. Why is it that our "y" often sounds like Spanish's "j" but when Arturo says, "you're" it sounds like "jyour?" And instead of "yes," it's sort of a "jyess."
Anyway, that's besides the point, which is that Arturo was awfully skilled at stating the obvious: "Jyour not Shareel, jyour not Britt-any, jyour not Kayleigh (he could say this one), and joo are not Court-any." Hence three college boys sleeping on the beach, but no. We weren't giving up that easy were we? After sleeping on the windy beach for a couple hours we decide to better scope the perimeter of this damned hotel to end up trying the front door. Pwned, Arturo round two, "Jyour not..." ~4 AM, trek to the one and a half star establishment where our buddies that took a combination of busses and planes down were staying.
There's a wall just past the gate, and the scratches on my wrist will confirm scaling this bitch. Unfortunately i was caught upon landing on the other side. Terrified, especially so when the night watchman mutters something about la policia, i chase after the bastard (after warning Scott better not follow my lead), saying no no, senor this, i have amigos here, etc. Luck was the theme of this trip, and who shows up outside the gate Albers. Solomente, he approaches the gate, while I'm pleading in broken English, and long story short, he pays some 500 pesos so I can spend the night, while Scott and Kris watch from the other side of the gate. They return to the beach, tough bastards. That night watchman was a dumb, two-faced bastard. Somehow, after threatening to call the cops on me, he shook my hand after our chat, but two nights later he dismissed my sorry ass at the gate. That's another story. Later that morning we laugh and joke about what happened as expected and met up with the other peeps on the beach to resume drinking, debauchery, and twin-watching.
I knew not what to expect prior to visiting this wonderful, horrible, yet awesome party town at the tip of the Baja desert. I thought it might, and it is to a large extent, be just some commercialized, civilized little town where everyone spoke English and was nice to you. In reality, days were swell, nights were hell. And by nights i mean after the club, when sleep is the only thing on the blacked-out mind.
Being homeless in Mexico has taught me a number of things. There is very little that scares me now. I saved money. Couple of pretty sick comments if you ask me. Well listen, it's not what i originally intended, for like so many other Cabo-goers I had planned to stay in a room with too many people with the hopes of saving a few bucks. Two things i overlooked: night watchmen, and gates to keep drunkards away. The first night was a tricky little bitch, and i came away luckier than the two bros i was with. Arturo's the name of asshole numero uno that so effectively pwned us during the wee hours of the morning. The three of us are walking along the beach - it's pretty effin' cold mind you, and we expected to waltz right into the hotel where some sweet sorority women were staying. Stupid. Thing is, there were more than one person keeping unwanted's out of the hotel, but Arturo, with his ear piece and a brazen attitude strutted over to the three gringos clipboard in hand. Why is it that our "y" often sounds like Spanish's "j" but when Arturo says, "you're" it sounds like "jyour?" And instead of "yes," it's sort of a "jyess."
Anyway, that's besides the point, which is that Arturo was awfully skilled at stating the obvious: "Jyour not Shareel, jyour not Britt-any, jyour not Kayleigh (he could say this one), and joo are not Court-any." Hence three college boys sleeping on the beach, but no. We weren't giving up that easy were we? After sleeping on the windy beach for a couple hours we decide to better scope the perimeter of this damned hotel to end up trying the front door. Pwned, Arturo round two, "Jyour not..." ~4 AM, trek to the one and a half star establishment where our buddies that took a combination of busses and planes down were staying.
There's a wall just past the gate, and the scratches on my wrist will confirm scaling this bitch. Unfortunately i was caught upon landing on the other side. Terrified, especially so when the night watchman mutters something about la policia, i chase after the bastard (after warning Scott better not follow my lead), saying no no, senor this, i have amigos here, etc. Luck was the theme of this trip, and who shows up outside the gate Albers. Solomente, he approaches the gate, while I'm pleading in broken English, and long story short, he pays some 500 pesos so I can spend the night, while Scott and Kris watch from the other side of the gate. They return to the beach, tough bastards. That night watchman was a dumb, two-faced bastard. Somehow, after threatening to call the cops on me, he shook my hand after our chat, but two nights later he dismissed my sorry ass at the gate. That's another story. Later that morning we laugh and joke about what happened as expected and met up with the other peeps on the beach to resume drinking, debauchery, and twin-watching.
Introduction via Miscellaneous Ranting
When i applied to college i had little idea what i was getting into or what i wanted to get into. You know, like after school, when young people in my shoes are introduced to the "real world." I applied to some nine institutions, but failed to get into the top tierers. Stanford and Princeton were among those, but i had little realistic expectations with a 3.2 out of high school. I had legacy at the schools, but the point is i had a little, a very little urge to go into creative writing. Now, i kind of hate, no that's harsh, perhaps... vex at the idea of this liberal vagueness. You see that? i said, "vagueness," which i don't even think is a good word. But i'm a little drunk. Point: I don't like mainstream education. I recently visited an advisor here at the University of Washington, and he was pretty cool, agreed with me about my rather low gpa being "fine." But what I'm getting at is our discussion about "experiential learning," which sounded good in theory, but i have yet to be impressed by this notion. Hands on learning sounds good, but I'm fucking fed up with this conventional lecture/discussion section bullshit. Quarter after quarter I've sat through intro to mid level classes, some relatively "better" than others, but all with their minuses. I'm in a fucking class where we watch movies and analyze them. Sounds okay, right? WRONG! We got two hours of lecture monday through thursday - generally wednesday and thursday, but fuck! I'm ranting, but i just think it's awfully sick when i think to myself, in class, and would rather be working seven to three in construction. Work was for sure not without its minuses, don't get me wrong, but ass!
I hear a lot of hilarious and frankly nasty stories (repeated here, beware if you're too sensitive!) at work. I'm like a soft flower compared to most of the dudes at work, but that's neither here nor there. My foreman last summer was telling us in the job shack one lunch about his experience with pubic crabs. In our line of work going to the bathroom is something both undesirable yet still valued as time to rest. Honeybuckets get very disgusting, and even more so in the summer when the shit and piss, warm up to permeate their stench beyond their confines. Smoking is prohibited not only inside, but also over twenty feet around the things because of supposed methane danger. But what i'm getting at is that nasty things can find their way onto the seats of these sweatboxes. So, the foreman didn't get crabs from some skank, but rather from a freak bucket. That's not the end of it, though. The man hadn't known, obviously, that he'd contracted the little buggers, and apparently he managed to get one on his EYE. "scratchin' my balls, then rub my eye...fuckin bastard latched on right on my eye lid." By this point everyone's laughing tough, and then he described standing an inch from the mirror with a knife to dig that shit out.
Most of the other stories include nights with big girls or something along those lines, which are funny, but not something i like to hear about too often.
One time (actually many times, but this one's a little unique, a new experience) at work my toughness was tested by these effin' roughnecks. I had been working under a deck; a ramp where they would pour concrete onto. It's dark down there and i was bangin on some frame clamps, and found part of my thumb betwixt hammer and metal. At the time it hurt a little, but it was dark, and i couldn't really see what happened. Well, when i came out at ten for break, i noticed that there was a blood blister raised about a quarter inch off my left thumb. I did a double take, then asked the other dudes what a should do. Pop it one way or another was the common consensus. I was a little wary to do this, but it was raised so much so it was actually impeding my work. I took the advice of one guy who happens to be a cage fighter in his free time (he'd get juiced off supplements during break and lunch). I went over to the job shack where the first aid kit was, cleaned my thumb off a little with a wipe, looked at the throbbing bumb, and bit it apart with my two right canines. Blood squirted into my mouth, and after i realized it didn't even hurt that much and was being a huge wuss. Well, that's what a call a learning experience okay?! Other dudes have stories about nails going through various body parts, sawing body parts, etc. There was one dude working for the pouring crew (they only come to the site when we pour), who was about my age, maybe a little older, who wasn't wearing eye protection and got some concrete hardening fluid in his eye. He started tearing in the eyes, and eventually going to the job shack for rinser. I asked one of his co-workers, "isn't that shit water-based, non-toxic?"
"Yeah, he's just being a big cry baby."
*smile, spit*
I hear a lot of hilarious and frankly nasty stories (repeated here, beware if you're too sensitive!) at work. I'm like a soft flower compared to most of the dudes at work, but that's neither here nor there. My foreman last summer was telling us in the job shack one lunch about his experience with pubic crabs. In our line of work going to the bathroom is something both undesirable yet still valued as time to rest. Honeybuckets get very disgusting, and even more so in the summer when the shit and piss, warm up to permeate their stench beyond their confines. Smoking is prohibited not only inside, but also over twenty feet around the things because of supposed methane danger. But what i'm getting at is that nasty things can find their way onto the seats of these sweatboxes. So, the foreman didn't get crabs from some skank, but rather from a freak bucket. That's not the end of it, though. The man hadn't known, obviously, that he'd contracted the little buggers, and apparently he managed to get one on his EYE. "scratchin' my balls, then rub my eye...fuckin bastard latched on right on my eye lid." By this point everyone's laughing tough, and then he described standing an inch from the mirror with a knife to dig that shit out.
Most of the other stories include nights with big girls or something along those lines, which are funny, but not something i like to hear about too often.
One time (actually many times, but this one's a little unique, a new experience) at work my toughness was tested by these effin' roughnecks. I had been working under a deck; a ramp where they would pour concrete onto. It's dark down there and i was bangin on some frame clamps, and found part of my thumb betwixt hammer and metal. At the time it hurt a little, but it was dark, and i couldn't really see what happened. Well, when i came out at ten for break, i noticed that there was a blood blister raised about a quarter inch off my left thumb. I did a double take, then asked the other dudes what a should do. Pop it one way or another was the common consensus. I was a little wary to do this, but it was raised so much so it was actually impeding my work. I took the advice of one guy who happens to be a cage fighter in his free time (he'd get juiced off supplements during break and lunch). I went over to the job shack where the first aid kit was, cleaned my thumb off a little with a wipe, looked at the throbbing bumb, and bit it apart with my two right canines. Blood squirted into my mouth, and after i realized it didn't even hurt that much and was being a huge wuss. Well, that's what a call a learning experience okay?! Other dudes have stories about nails going through various body parts, sawing body parts, etc. There was one dude working for the pouring crew (they only come to the site when we pour), who was about my age, maybe a little older, who wasn't wearing eye protection and got some concrete hardening fluid in his eye. He started tearing in the eyes, and eventually going to the job shack for rinser. I asked one of his co-workers, "isn't that shit water-based, non-toxic?"
"Yeah, he's just being a big cry baby."
*smile, spit*
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