So I got a new job. I'm kind of on the fence about it, namely because I don't know what the hell I'll be doing. I know it's for DHS Case Management and that I'm working under a lady who is the boss for the eastern half of Iowa. I guess I'm just going to be doing whatever she needs me to. Sounds more like an internship than a real job though. I keep envisioning a Devil Wears Prada scenario. All I know is that now I have to move to Cedar Falls/Waterloo, and I am not a fan of that area.
Waterloo/Cedar Falls is where I went to college as an undergrad from 2002 until 2006. I did make some nice friends there and got an education and what have you, but all in all it was still boring as hell. I'm too fucking lame to create a situation in which I can slack off, actually be social, and be a little bit of a rebel. College for me was a giant void of shit, when you look at the picture as a whole. No sex, no drugs, no rock and roll. The closest I ever came was bumming a cigarette from a transvestite after the Rocky Horror Picture show. Such a badass am I. I'm not the kind of person who was borrowing a condom from my RA, instead I'm borrowing a copy of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.
It kind of bothers me that college was a lot less...eventful then I had hoped. I don't have any bad memories of the town because I didn't make any memories to begin with. My entire stint at college was a big fucking blur. I remember nightly hallway talks and the occasional theme party, but that's about it. No class stood out, no event burned into my psyche. Everything else about UNI is a festive gray blob of shit that just kind of runs together. I often wonder if my other friends from college feel the same way, and if that's why they don't see or talk to each other anymore. The real and bigger worry for the future is that I really don't anticipate making any new memories in Cedarloo.
I just realized I'm typing in a way that a British person would speak. That means I've been watching to much "Skins" today. Damn that's a good show. It's a British teen drama but it's so much better than anything you'll find on MTV. Which makes it an ever bigger travesty that MTV is going to create their own version and fuck it all up.
Anyway back to shitloo. I know I'm moving into just another void of nothingness. No memories, no friends, no fun, no change, no life. People can bitch to me about how I'm not really looking, but in order for me to do that there has to be something worth looking for. That's not to say Ames is great either. I'm already in the void, but moving to Cedarloo means I'm swimming toward the deep end. To bad God Almighty can't toss me a hot red-headed life guard.
Whenever I start a new chapter in my life I dream. Literally. Whilst I sleep my subconscious offers up interpretations of how things will be. Visions of faceless people I'll be meeting. Places I'll be going. And I always end up pleasantly surprised at how similar or not so similar (shout out to Matt) that experience was from my dream. (Before I started working at the Newton nursing home I dreamt it would be shit and my dream came ever-so true). But this time, no dreams. No visions of good or bad, no faceless co-workers going out to happy hour drinks, no nightmares of lay-offs. Nothing. Boring. L onliness.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
In the Band
You guys ever see that thing on stage when the drummer or the guitar player or some shit breaks a stick or a pick and tosses it out to some girl in the audience he wants to bang? Meanwhile, you’re so caught up in the moment you think it’s awesome. But in reality the band member basically threw a piece of trash and shit at a person's head. I did that once.
I was playing in the high school marching band and I did that! We are playing some drum show on the street, you know that fucking movie “Drumline?” We are doing that fancy drumming shit. I’m standing there playing the bells or xylophone or some wooden keyboard thing that special needs kid could play and my sticks are these small wooden shafts with yarn balls on the end. So I’m standing there wearing a vinyl black jacket with a bulldog school logo on it and a black bandana on and I am just wailing on these things like a jack-ass.
So I’m sitting there playing and I’m in the moment when one of my sticks breaks in half. And I’m so in the fucking moment and so close to the audience that I just turn to the nearest person and toss my god damn broken xylophone stick at them, hitting them in the damn chest. The only thing that could have made the situation worse was if I said “Hey kid, catch,” like I’m the god damn Mean Joe Green of the high school marching band. That’s how much of a fag I am. It wasn’t even some little kid who I inspired to one day play in the band! And it wasn’t some hot girl who was getting all wet from my xylophone playing. I tossed my broken mallet at some middle –aged man. He was fucking dumbfounded. I then just grabbed a new stick and went back into playing my nerd groove. That’s how much of a loser I am.
I was playing in the high school marching band and I did that! We are playing some drum show on the street, you know that fucking movie “Drumline?” We are doing that fancy drumming shit. I’m standing there playing the bells or xylophone or some wooden keyboard thing that special needs kid could play and my sticks are these small wooden shafts with yarn balls on the end. So I’m standing there wearing a vinyl black jacket with a bulldog school logo on it and a black bandana on and I am just wailing on these things like a jack-ass.
So I’m sitting there playing and I’m in the moment when one of my sticks breaks in half. And I’m so in the fucking moment and so close to the audience that I just turn to the nearest person and toss my god damn broken xylophone stick at them, hitting them in the damn chest. The only thing that could have made the situation worse was if I said “Hey kid, catch,” like I’m the god damn Mean Joe Green of the high school marching band. That’s how much of a fag I am. It wasn’t even some little kid who I inspired to one day play in the band! And it wasn’t some hot girl who was getting all wet from my xylophone playing. I tossed my broken mallet at some middle –aged man. He was fucking dumbfounded. I then just grabbed a new stick and went back into playing my nerd groove. That’s how much of a loser I am.
Friday, July 16, 2010
No ifs, ands, or buts, these kids got GUTS
Do you guys remember that Nickelodeon show GUTS? That was like the one show on television that ever made me think, "hmmm, maybe I should become an athlete." Do you know why? Not for health reasons, not to get on TV, but so I could win a piece of that fucking glowing Aggro Crag. The kid who won the most events on the show, usually by being tied to a bungee cord, flung around the studio, and starving off the feeling to puke on the audience, would win this ridiculous piece of glowing radioactive foam rubber. It was green and probably gave you cancer, but to a 9 year old who had yet to discover masturbation, that was one of the coolest things on television that you could win. Fuck the Schwin bike, I wanted a giant glowing piece of shit. That's how much of a dumb shit I was growing up. And while we are on the subject of Nickelodeon Game Shows, WHY THE FUCK COULDN'T THOSE IDIOT KIDS ON LEGENDS OF THE HIDDEN TEMPLE EVER PUT TOGETHER THE FUCKING SHRINE OF THE SILVER MONKEY CORRECTLY?!
Nowadays my unobtainable prize isn't a glowing piece of the Aggro Crag, but to instead be able to hold a decent conversation with a god-damn girl! Which, like the irradiated piece of the Aggro Craig, probably will one day give me cancer.
There have only been a few times in my life where I have felt really comfortable striking up a conversation with groups of women. Normally it's hard for me just to speak to just one girl face to face, but I have to really be in top form to try and charm 3 or more ladies. Unfortunately, most of these experiences usually end up with me having my pants off, and not in a good way.
I remember back in high school one night my senior year during a football game. Was I a football player? Hell No. Playing football in high school is one of the fucking dumbest things a person could do in my opinion. You are playing a god damn contact sport with testosterone filled 17 year old boys who can't decide whether they want to smash something, eat something, or hump something. Those are the only three options for a 17 year old guy when he enters a new situation. He asks himself, "Do I eat it? Do I smash it? Or do I try and hump it?" New school text books? Guess I'm smashing them. New Asian transfer student? If I eat her I'll just be hungry for more later. If I smash her she would probably mess up my American Eagle shirt. Guess I should try to hump it. I am about to tackle this Quarterback! I think I'll smash him, shove his face into the ground to make him eat dirt, then I'll hump him while we are all piled up and fighting for the ball. So no, I was not a football player.
Cheerleader? Shit no. Although I was probably better looking than many of the other cheerleaders at my school. Algona High School Cheerleaders at the turn of the new century were a hump free zone for 17 year old guys. Nope, I was a fucking band geek.
Being in marching band for me fucking blew. I was and still am a massive human being. Gravity tends to bend to my will when I walk. So when football nights came around it was up to me and my physics-bending abilities to take all the god damn percussion instruments, load them onto a cart, and pull the fucking things half a mile down to the football field. We are talking xylophones, marimbas, bongos, drums, cymbals, and any other piece of shit you could cobble together and make noise from. One year we even had god damn break drums, from cars, that we PLAYED.
So it would be up to me to haul the god damn cart down from the school building to the football field, unload it, play the fucking instruments, repack the cart, and haul it uphill back to the god damn school. It fucking destroyed both my back and my soul, especially since I never even got a god damn thank you for doing it all four years.
So the last night my senior year I do the whole hauling bit, but this time I can actually walk afterward. So I'm feeling kind of good. I go back to the band room to change out of my marching uniform and into my street clothes so I can go hang out and enjoy the rest of the football game, complete with smashing and humping. I find my shirt and my tennis shoes, but no jeans. Someone took my fucking pants. But I was still feeling good and I knew my pants would turn up sometime that next Monday so I kept my marching band pants on. These pants were flimsy, loose, and the suspenders that held the pants up hooked onto your marching jacket, which I was not wearing.
So here I am, a band geek in tennis shoes, a white t-shirt, and fucking marching band pants that I needed to hold up with my hands to keep from falling down around my ankles, and I decide at that time to be a fucking social butterfly. Why I picked this moment above others, I'll never know. I could have waited for basketball season, or when I had access to a damn belt, but no. So I walk down from the school back to the football game and I see a few girls from my class. I'm walking along and for some reason they say hi to me.
These girls had never said hi to me before. I'm sure they probably figured that if they said hi to me, just once in their lives, then I would probably skip them the day I came in to shoot everyone. They were probably thinking, "If we just say hi to him once, then when he goes ape-shit maybe he'll spare our lives!" But I, like a dipshit, took it as a sign from the gods that hey, I must be kinda cool now in their eyes! Yep, I was a deity of coolness in marching band pants.
I start talking to these girls. I think I remember their names were Katie, Amber, Natalie, and two others who slip my mind. Anyway I'm standing there talking to them, about what I don't remember. Because while I am standing there shooting the shit, my mind is fully focused on keeping my god damn marching band pants up around my waist. But I just stood there smiling, talking, and continuously hiking my pants up. Obviously they noticed because they kept looking at me like I was a creepy weirdo who had pants falling down, which I was. So I'm sitting there talking when all of a sudden one of my other classmates runs up behind me, pulling down my marching band pants.
I've seen my share of de-pantsing, but this one was for the history books. Not only was he able to get my pants out of my hands, but he also managed to take the underwear down with them. It was a full on flashing for the girls standing in front of me. I remember looking down, seeing my tiny member being assaulted by the cold October night breeze, and then my eyes went wide.
I quickly covered my genitalia with my hands, looked up to see a gaggle of giggling girls, and my classmate, the de-pantsing culprit, running away. I began running after him, my pants still around my ankles. I'm using my right hand to cover my junk, my left hand to try and pull my underwear and pants back up, and my legs to catch and beat the shit out of my classmate. I somehow manage to do all three tasks and I actually catch up to the little fucker. I grab onto his shirt and begin to go into 17 year old boy mode by smashing his face in, but then my god damn pants fall down...again. At least this time my Simpsons boxers stayed up. I struggled to keep my marching band pants up, and in doing so lost my grip on the little turd.
I thought to myself, fuck it. I hiked my pants up as far as they could go and walked back to the group of girls. By then the little shit classmate noticed I had given up. He ran up to me and said, "Hey, you almost caught me!" I, still in shock, replied, "Yep....well....see you later!" I then walked away, with my head between my legs and my arms trying not to let my pants fall down again.
Years later I am in college. I am at the Other Place drinking with some friends...from my Men's Glee Club...sigh. You can see that the nerdiness train never left the station. Anyway, I see the same girls sitting in booth! I think to myself, they have to have forgotten about me loosing my pants and my tiny penis, it was years ago. Unfortunately I had once again forgotten to wear a god damn belt! Did I let that stop me? Hell no! So they are sitting at a booth and I am talking it up, leaning on the table, sipping on a Blue Moon with an orange slice like I am hot shit, and my pants once again falling down.
I find myself once again trying to work a crowd and work my Wranglers at the same damn time. I'm sitting there talking and I notice all their eyes are looking past me. It is then I realize that my ass crack is open and facing the table of frat guys behind me. I also feel something inside the back of my pants. It's sharp and uncomfortable. While keeping my pants up with my right hand, I begin to search around my asshole area for my left hand. There is a slender yellow straw nuzzled in my ass crack. I pull it out, verify it's at least not somebody's cock, and toss it to the floor. The girls begin to laugh again. I hear one of the girls whisper to another, "It's kinda like that last time." Fuck me. I decide to cut my losses, walk the fuck away, and get drunk.
The girls left shortly after my embarrassment, but the frat guys remained. Now I never redeemed myself in the eyes of those girls, but I did get those fucking frat guys back. Being in a high school marching band or men's chorus may be nerdy, but it does have one benefit. It's filled with other nerds...other nerds ready to have your fucking back when you are wronged. I got a few of my glee club buddies to watch for the frat guys to leave their table to get another round of beers, then we struck. In six seconds flat we ran from one end of the bar to the other, put our hands down the front of our pants, brought up our hands with a mass of pubic sweat and smegma stink on them, and we quickly rubbed our plague infested hands on the rims of their beer glasses. We then ran back to our designated table and those fuckers were none the wiser. They drank a mixture of bush light and crack stank like it was fucking Ambrosia, a legendary food of the fucking Greek Gods. It was marvelous. So the next time someone thinks of fucking with me or other geeks, just remember that geeks have friends, and as long as we can keep our pants up, we will have our revenge. Mwahahahahaha!!!
Nowadays my unobtainable prize isn't a glowing piece of the Aggro Crag, but to instead be able to hold a decent conversation with a god-damn girl! Which, like the irradiated piece of the Aggro Craig, probably will one day give me cancer.
There have only been a few times in my life where I have felt really comfortable striking up a conversation with groups of women. Normally it's hard for me just to speak to just one girl face to face, but I have to really be in top form to try and charm 3 or more ladies. Unfortunately, most of these experiences usually end up with me having my pants off, and not in a good way.
I remember back in high school one night my senior year during a football game. Was I a football player? Hell No. Playing football in high school is one of the fucking dumbest things a person could do in my opinion. You are playing a god damn contact sport with testosterone filled 17 year old boys who can't decide whether they want to smash something, eat something, or hump something. Those are the only three options for a 17 year old guy when he enters a new situation. He asks himself, "Do I eat it? Do I smash it? Or do I try and hump it?" New school text books? Guess I'm smashing them. New Asian transfer student? If I eat her I'll just be hungry for more later. If I smash her she would probably mess up my American Eagle shirt. Guess I should try to hump it. I am about to tackle this Quarterback! I think I'll smash him, shove his face into the ground to make him eat dirt, then I'll hump him while we are all piled up and fighting for the ball. So no, I was not a football player.
Cheerleader? Shit no. Although I was probably better looking than many of the other cheerleaders at my school. Algona High School Cheerleaders at the turn of the new century were a hump free zone for 17 year old guys. Nope, I was a fucking band geek.
Being in marching band for me fucking blew. I was and still am a massive human being. Gravity tends to bend to my will when I walk. So when football nights came around it was up to me and my physics-bending abilities to take all the god damn percussion instruments, load them onto a cart, and pull the fucking things half a mile down to the football field. We are talking xylophones, marimbas, bongos, drums, cymbals, and any other piece of shit you could cobble together and make noise from. One year we even had god damn break drums, from cars, that we PLAYED.
So it would be up to me to haul the god damn cart down from the school building to the football field, unload it, play the fucking instruments, repack the cart, and haul it uphill back to the god damn school. It fucking destroyed both my back and my soul, especially since I never even got a god damn thank you for doing it all four years.
So the last night my senior year I do the whole hauling bit, but this time I can actually walk afterward. So I'm feeling kind of good. I go back to the band room to change out of my marching uniform and into my street clothes so I can go hang out and enjoy the rest of the football game, complete with smashing and humping. I find my shirt and my tennis shoes, but no jeans. Someone took my fucking pants. But I was still feeling good and I knew my pants would turn up sometime that next Monday so I kept my marching band pants on. These pants were flimsy, loose, and the suspenders that held the pants up hooked onto your marching jacket, which I was not wearing.
So here I am, a band geek in tennis shoes, a white t-shirt, and fucking marching band pants that I needed to hold up with my hands to keep from falling down around my ankles, and I decide at that time to be a fucking social butterfly. Why I picked this moment above others, I'll never know. I could have waited for basketball season, or when I had access to a damn belt, but no. So I walk down from the school back to the football game and I see a few girls from my class. I'm walking along and for some reason they say hi to me.
These girls had never said hi to me before. I'm sure they probably figured that if they said hi to me, just once in their lives, then I would probably skip them the day I came in to shoot everyone. They were probably thinking, "If we just say hi to him once, then when he goes ape-shit maybe he'll spare our lives!" But I, like a dipshit, took it as a sign from the gods that hey, I must be kinda cool now in their eyes! Yep, I was a deity of coolness in marching band pants.
I start talking to these girls. I think I remember their names were Katie, Amber, Natalie, and two others who slip my mind. Anyway I'm standing there talking to them, about what I don't remember. Because while I am standing there shooting the shit, my mind is fully focused on keeping my god damn marching band pants up around my waist. But I just stood there smiling, talking, and continuously hiking my pants up. Obviously they noticed because they kept looking at me like I was a creepy weirdo who had pants falling down, which I was. So I'm sitting there talking when all of a sudden one of my other classmates runs up behind me, pulling down my marching band pants.
I've seen my share of de-pantsing, but this one was for the history books. Not only was he able to get my pants out of my hands, but he also managed to take the underwear down with them. It was a full on flashing for the girls standing in front of me. I remember looking down, seeing my tiny member being assaulted by the cold October night breeze, and then my eyes went wide.
I quickly covered my genitalia with my hands, looked up to see a gaggle of giggling girls, and my classmate, the de-pantsing culprit, running away. I began running after him, my pants still around my ankles. I'm using my right hand to cover my junk, my left hand to try and pull my underwear and pants back up, and my legs to catch and beat the shit out of my classmate. I somehow manage to do all three tasks and I actually catch up to the little fucker. I grab onto his shirt and begin to go into 17 year old boy mode by smashing his face in, but then my god damn pants fall down...again. At least this time my Simpsons boxers stayed up. I struggled to keep my marching band pants up, and in doing so lost my grip on the little turd.
I thought to myself, fuck it. I hiked my pants up as far as they could go and walked back to the group of girls. By then the little shit classmate noticed I had given up. He ran up to me and said, "Hey, you almost caught me!" I, still in shock, replied, "Yep....well....see you later!" I then walked away, with my head between my legs and my arms trying not to let my pants fall down again.
Years later I am in college. I am at the Other Place drinking with some friends...from my Men's Glee Club...sigh. You can see that the nerdiness train never left the station. Anyway, I see the same girls sitting in booth! I think to myself, they have to have forgotten about me loosing my pants and my tiny penis, it was years ago. Unfortunately I had once again forgotten to wear a god damn belt! Did I let that stop me? Hell no! So they are sitting at a booth and I am talking it up, leaning on the table, sipping on a Blue Moon with an orange slice like I am hot shit, and my pants once again falling down.
I find myself once again trying to work a crowd and work my Wranglers at the same damn time. I'm sitting there talking and I notice all their eyes are looking past me. It is then I realize that my ass crack is open and facing the table of frat guys behind me. I also feel something inside the back of my pants. It's sharp and uncomfortable. While keeping my pants up with my right hand, I begin to search around my asshole area for my left hand. There is a slender yellow straw nuzzled in my ass crack. I pull it out, verify it's at least not somebody's cock, and toss it to the floor. The girls begin to laugh again. I hear one of the girls whisper to another, "It's kinda like that last time." Fuck me. I decide to cut my losses, walk the fuck away, and get drunk.
The girls left shortly after my embarrassment, but the frat guys remained. Now I never redeemed myself in the eyes of those girls, but I did get those fucking frat guys back. Being in a high school marching band or men's chorus may be nerdy, but it does have one benefit. It's filled with other nerds...other nerds ready to have your fucking back when you are wronged. I got a few of my glee club buddies to watch for the frat guys to leave their table to get another round of beers, then we struck. In six seconds flat we ran from one end of the bar to the other, put our hands down the front of our pants, brought up our hands with a mass of pubic sweat and smegma stink on them, and we quickly rubbed our plague infested hands on the rims of their beer glasses. We then ran back to our designated table and those fuckers were none the wiser. They drank a mixture of bush light and crack stank like it was fucking Ambrosia, a legendary food of the fucking Greek Gods. It was marvelous. So the next time someone thinks of fucking with me or other geeks, just remember that geeks have friends, and as long as we can keep our pants up, we will have our revenge. Mwahahahahaha!!!
Thursday, July 15, 2010
I Told You This May Not Be Funny Sometimes
One of my first human service volunteer jobs was at the Black Hawk County Youth Shelter. I was volunteering there for one of my human service classes. I only needed to do about 100 hours. I remember being about 25 hours in when one of the worst things to ever seriously happen in my life occurred. It is a short-term stay shelter for teens awaiting placement into foster homes. The fucking place is probably condemned now, but I doubt it.
The layout of the shelter was as follows; you drive on a dirt road for about 10 miles to get to the place. You turn in and immediately see the detention center connected to it, the two buildings shared a gym. You walk in the front door to a very small waiting area covered in dust and adorned with three wooden folding chairs. In front of you there is a large metal door, electronically locked from the outside. You knock, and the staff let you in. The doors to the facility are all locked from the outside to keep people out. However, if you are a resident on the inside you are free to leave as you please. The only thing the staff could do would be to call the police after you left. So you walk into the main living area. The door to your left is the gym, a TV area in front of you, a rack of shoes along the wall to your right, lastly a front desk guarding two separate hallways a few feet to your right.
It was October, cold, and night was beginning to come earlier in preparation for Halloween. I remember one night, about 9PM, a car pulled up to the building. It was a rusted out El Camino that still had flecks of the original silver paint on the roof and hood. It was full of trash. Out of the car came two people. They were dirty and smelled like stale crackers. It was a mother and her son, he had no shoes.
She wanted to leave her son at the shelter, saying she could not care for him anymore. However there were laws and policies the shelter had to follow. They had no choice but to turn the boy away. The thing I remember the most was that the actual working members, the ones actually being paid, were such fucking pussies that they didn't want to deliver the bad news to the mother and the boy with no shoes that they couldn't stay there. Instead, they had me do it.
I remember sitting with them in the entry way and letting them know how sorry I was but her son could not stay there that night. I said maybe they could come back tomorrow during the day and the staff could call a few services for them, but the mom said that was not an option. The mom started to cry, while the boy with no shoes just stared down at the puke-colored carpet under our feet in the entryway. I went back inside to give them a few moments, secretly hoping they would leave so I wouldn't have to face them again. A few minutes later and they were still there. I asked the lady in charge if I could at least give the boy some shoes. The shelter had a at least two dozen pairs that had been donated and were sitting along the wall right as you walked into the main housing area. She said no.
I walked back into the entryway and gave them the address for Youth and Shelter Services. I called their night telephone line and left a message. That was the end of it. Who knows what happened to the El Camino driving mom and her son with no shoes. It's a memory that vividly sticks in my mind more then seven years later. It's not funny, I know, but it's the truth, and that, in reality, is the true purpose of me writing this blog.
The layout of the shelter was as follows; you drive on a dirt road for about 10 miles to get to the place. You turn in and immediately see the detention center connected to it, the two buildings shared a gym. You walk in the front door to a very small waiting area covered in dust and adorned with three wooden folding chairs. In front of you there is a large metal door, electronically locked from the outside. You knock, and the staff let you in. The doors to the facility are all locked from the outside to keep people out. However, if you are a resident on the inside you are free to leave as you please. The only thing the staff could do would be to call the police after you left. So you walk into the main living area. The door to your left is the gym, a TV area in front of you, a rack of shoes along the wall to your right, lastly a front desk guarding two separate hallways a few feet to your right.
It was October, cold, and night was beginning to come earlier in preparation for Halloween. I remember one night, about 9PM, a car pulled up to the building. It was a rusted out El Camino that still had flecks of the original silver paint on the roof and hood. It was full of trash. Out of the car came two people. They were dirty and smelled like stale crackers. It was a mother and her son, he had no shoes.
She wanted to leave her son at the shelter, saying she could not care for him anymore. However there were laws and policies the shelter had to follow. They had no choice but to turn the boy away. The thing I remember the most was that the actual working members, the ones actually being paid, were such fucking pussies that they didn't want to deliver the bad news to the mother and the boy with no shoes that they couldn't stay there. Instead, they had me do it.
I remember sitting with them in the entry way and letting them know how sorry I was but her son could not stay there that night. I said maybe they could come back tomorrow during the day and the staff could call a few services for them, but the mom said that was not an option. The mom started to cry, while the boy with no shoes just stared down at the puke-colored carpet under our feet in the entryway. I went back inside to give them a few moments, secretly hoping they would leave so I wouldn't have to face them again. A few minutes later and they were still there. I asked the lady in charge if I could at least give the boy some shoes. The shelter had a at least two dozen pairs that had been donated and were sitting along the wall right as you walked into the main housing area. She said no.
I walked back into the entryway and gave them the address for Youth and Shelter Services. I called their night telephone line and left a message. That was the end of it. Who knows what happened to the El Camino driving mom and her son with no shoes. It's a memory that vividly sticks in my mind more then seven years later. It's not funny, I know, but it's the truth, and that, in reality, is the true purpose of me writing this blog.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Today's Post is Brought to You by the Letters F, U, C, and K
Before I begin, if you are related to me in anyway please for your own sake do not read this . I implore you, stay the fuck away. You do not want to hear what I have to say. You will fucking regret it. Because this post is about a time I ALMOST got laid. Is it funny? Sure. Is it awkward? Yep. Is it mentally crippling and disgusting to anyone reading it? Oh hell yes. In fact, why is anyone reading this?! Go away and let me mourn my loss of hot ass in peace.
So I’m with this girl my freshman year at UNI. She was damn good looking, a little stuck up, but I could deal with that. Let’s call her “L.” L and I had hung out before and had fun with groups of friends. L had gone to high school at a catholic school. So when she got to UNI she was sexually repressed, yet still level headed. I think she lacked the daddy issues and income it would have taken to make her a stalker slut, however. L had just broken up with her on and off again boyfriend for the hundredth time. So to celebrate her independence she got involved with the UNI Theater. She became a member of the backstage crew for the fall play. So the last night of the play, it was the show with that song “Mack the Knife” in it, I go with a group of friends to watch.
My friends and I arrive early to talk to a few people. L walks up to me and we flirt a little and have a nice conversation. She then says, “Oh shit. I forgot my black shirt in my dryer back at my apartment. I need it for set changes!” I jump on this opportunity to help her out and win “brownie points,” which I was hoping to later cash in for “sit on my face and tell me that you love me” points. Lucky for me my truck was not too far away, so I volunteer to drive her back to her apartment.
I drive her back and we go inside. She goes to the dryer and pulls out her shirt. She then begins to take her current shirt off and exchange it for her black one. I then say to her, “I’ll be a gentleman and turn around with my eyes closed.” I do just that. As I’m standing there I hear her say the words, “It’s ok to look.” Holy Shit.
I turn around, but keep my hands over my eyes. I then freeze. To this day I have no idea why I froze, I just did. I guess I still wanted to maintain my gentlemanly aura. “Chivalry lives with me,” I thought! I pictured myself as a fucking gallant knight with a glandular problem. So I remained motionless, never opening my eyes to see what wonders lie before me. I just stood there, like a giant fucking loser pussy, not making a move. I must have stood there for several minutes. For all I know this girl could have stood there topless for minutes, just waiting for me to look at her breasts and then begin to ravish her. Instead she was topless with the air conditioning pouring down on her and freezing her perfect ass off. Who the fuck knows. Anyway, a few minutes go by and I hear her sigh and say, “We better be getting back.”
I open my eyes, and there she stands, fully clothed in the black knit that all backstage hands had to wear so the audience could better pretend they didn’t actually see people moving the ottoman between set changes. We go back to the theater. She gets to work backstage and I sit in the audience. I can’t remember a god damn thing about the play because I was sporting a massive boner through the entire performance. I just remember that “Mack the Knife” song. But to me the lyrics were something like, “Oh the shark has, pretty teeth dear, and it shows me massive breasts. Oh just a hot ass, that she has dear, she doesn’t keep it out of sight…thank god. When I bite down, on her neck oh, sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex…tugboat down by the river don’t ya know, sex sex sex sex sex sex sex, could that someone be sex sex sex.” Then in my mind Louie Armstrong says “Take it snatch!” and I’m practically jerking off in both my imagination and my cargo pants.
The play ends and I go to meet up with her backstage after the curtain call. She asks for a ride back to her place, and I, once again only thinking about the how cool she will think I am when I show her how chivalrous I can be, oblige. I give her my jacket. We walk to my truck. I open the door and help her in. We then drive back to her place. She sits on the couch and invites me to sit down next to her. I sit and we start talking.
She begins to nuzzle up next to me, even beginning to kiss my neck a little. I start getting that little horny tingle in my pants. That’s when I realize that tingle is not only my dick, but also my cell phone. One of those two things is getting a text message. I had put my cell phone on silent before the play had started, but it was still on vibrate and sitting in my pocket. Thank fucking God it had not vibrated during the play while I was sporting a giant oil rig in my pants. My phone would have vibrated, my rig would have exploded, and not even BP would have been able to clean up the mess.
I fish my phone out of my pants before my crotch turns into “There Will be Blood.” L would not have been excited to drink that milkshake. So I get my phone and read my new text message. It’s from my guy friend, let’s call him “S”. He asks what I’m doing and I quickly type back, “With L, fuck off.” He replies with the text message, “have her suck your dick, she did it for me last week and was great at it.”
At this point L sees I’m distracted and she asks who was texting me. I tell her it was S fucking with me. I’m sitting there thinking he is playing a joke. L leans her C cup breasts over me and reads the message. She then says, “Oh yeah. I gave him a blow job, but that was all we did. He was an asshole.” I am stunned, disgusted, and still horny all at the same time.
I didn’t really want to know what other guys she had messed around with. I knew she had been with her old boyfriend and that was already way too much information for me. But learning that she had sucked off one of my friends, despite him being an asshole…that was a lot to take in. I quickly scooted myself over to the left side of the couch and turned on the TV. The religious channel came on. I tried to kill the mood by asking her questions about Catholicism, questions like “So how do you make the sign of the cross?” and “Which of the Old Testament plagues was your favorite?” At first she didn’t get the message, which was evidenced by her trying to rub her hand over my jeans in the general area of where my still erect oil rig was. I was preparing for a junk shot. Luckily the program switched over to that pink-haired lady ranting about, thank Jesus, abstinence. Nothing kills the mood like a guilt trip from a pink-haired nun on the TV.
L stood up and said she was getting sleepy. She went upstairs to her room, but then yelled down for me not to leave yet. I didn’t know what to think. A few minutes later she asks me to come upstairs. I put my phone back into my pocket and go upstairs. There stands L, wearing this smoking hot blue nightgown. The fucking pink-haired nun had failed me. L lies down on her bed with her face in the pillow. Without a single word exchanged between us I lean over and began to massage her back. I was fucking hypnotized by the pussy.
Your friends always tell you, “don’t put the pussy on a pedestal.” But when you put the pussy in a silken blue see-through nightie and add a pair of tits, all bets are off. I start massaging her and we're messing around for a bit, until my cell phone vibrates once again. I once again pull it out to avoid an oil spill and I read my message. It is from S again, asking how it was. My brain once again fills with visions of this girl going down on my friend, who also probably has a bigger dick then me. I don’t feel like being compared to anyone dick-wise, nor do I want to kiss anything that has had its’ lips wrapped around anything belonging to S.
I don’t take the time to reply back. Instead I lean down and whisper in L’s ear, “I should get going.” I get up and I go to the front door. She says goodnight and kisses me on the cheek. I give her a hug and tell her it was great hanging out with her and I look forward to doing it again soon.
I rush home to wash off the seemingly real feeling of S’s dick off of my cheek and neck where L had kissed me. I spoke to L every so often, but we never even really saw each other in person after that. She transferred to Minnesota, married her old boyfriend, and got fat. Thanks Facebook. Meanwhile I got fatter, moved back in with my parents, and can't find a decent job to save my life. Fuck.
Now I normally like to end my stories with a little wrap up or tie in that takes us back in a humorous way to the beginning, so here goes. Fuck anyone related to me who is still reading at this point. I hope you now all see me in a new light, and are throwing up at this very moment because of it. You all owe me extra Christmas presents this year because you fucking disobeyed me.
So I’m with this girl my freshman year at UNI. She was damn good looking, a little stuck up, but I could deal with that. Let’s call her “L.” L and I had hung out before and had fun with groups of friends. L had gone to high school at a catholic school. So when she got to UNI she was sexually repressed, yet still level headed. I think she lacked the daddy issues and income it would have taken to make her a stalker slut, however. L had just broken up with her on and off again boyfriend for the hundredth time. So to celebrate her independence she got involved with the UNI Theater. She became a member of the backstage crew for the fall play. So the last night of the play, it was the show with that song “Mack the Knife” in it, I go with a group of friends to watch.
My friends and I arrive early to talk to a few people. L walks up to me and we flirt a little and have a nice conversation. She then says, “Oh shit. I forgot my black shirt in my dryer back at my apartment. I need it for set changes!” I jump on this opportunity to help her out and win “brownie points,” which I was hoping to later cash in for “sit on my face and tell me that you love me” points. Lucky for me my truck was not too far away, so I volunteer to drive her back to her apartment.
I drive her back and we go inside. She goes to the dryer and pulls out her shirt. She then begins to take her current shirt off and exchange it for her black one. I then say to her, “I’ll be a gentleman and turn around with my eyes closed.” I do just that. As I’m standing there I hear her say the words, “It’s ok to look.” Holy Shit.
I turn around, but keep my hands over my eyes. I then freeze. To this day I have no idea why I froze, I just did. I guess I still wanted to maintain my gentlemanly aura. “Chivalry lives with me,” I thought! I pictured myself as a fucking gallant knight with a glandular problem. So I remained motionless, never opening my eyes to see what wonders lie before me. I just stood there, like a giant fucking loser pussy, not making a move. I must have stood there for several minutes. For all I know this girl could have stood there topless for minutes, just waiting for me to look at her breasts and then begin to ravish her. Instead she was topless with the air conditioning pouring down on her and freezing her perfect ass off. Who the fuck knows. Anyway, a few minutes go by and I hear her sigh and say, “We better be getting back.”
I open my eyes, and there she stands, fully clothed in the black knit that all backstage hands had to wear so the audience could better pretend they didn’t actually see people moving the ottoman between set changes. We go back to the theater. She gets to work backstage and I sit in the audience. I can’t remember a god damn thing about the play because I was sporting a massive boner through the entire performance. I just remember that “Mack the Knife” song. But to me the lyrics were something like, “Oh the shark has, pretty teeth dear, and it shows me massive breasts. Oh just a hot ass, that she has dear, she doesn’t keep it out of sight…thank god. When I bite down, on her neck oh, sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex…tugboat down by the river don’t ya know, sex sex sex sex sex sex sex, could that someone be sex sex sex.” Then in my mind Louie Armstrong says “Take it snatch!” and I’m practically jerking off in both my imagination and my cargo pants.
The play ends and I go to meet up with her backstage after the curtain call. She asks for a ride back to her place, and I, once again only thinking about the how cool she will think I am when I show her how chivalrous I can be, oblige. I give her my jacket. We walk to my truck. I open the door and help her in. We then drive back to her place. She sits on the couch and invites me to sit down next to her. I sit and we start talking.
She begins to nuzzle up next to me, even beginning to kiss my neck a little. I start getting that little horny tingle in my pants. That’s when I realize that tingle is not only my dick, but also my cell phone. One of those two things is getting a text message. I had put my cell phone on silent before the play had started, but it was still on vibrate and sitting in my pocket. Thank fucking God it had not vibrated during the play while I was sporting a giant oil rig in my pants. My phone would have vibrated, my rig would have exploded, and not even BP would have been able to clean up the mess.
I fish my phone out of my pants before my crotch turns into “There Will be Blood.” L would not have been excited to drink that milkshake. So I get my phone and read my new text message. It’s from my guy friend, let’s call him “S”. He asks what I’m doing and I quickly type back, “With L, fuck off.” He replies with the text message, “have her suck your dick, she did it for me last week and was great at it.”
At this point L sees I’m distracted and she asks who was texting me. I tell her it was S fucking with me. I’m sitting there thinking he is playing a joke. L leans her C cup breasts over me and reads the message. She then says, “Oh yeah. I gave him a blow job, but that was all we did. He was an asshole.” I am stunned, disgusted, and still horny all at the same time.
I didn’t really want to know what other guys she had messed around with. I knew she had been with her old boyfriend and that was already way too much information for me. But learning that she had sucked off one of my friends, despite him being an asshole…that was a lot to take in. I quickly scooted myself over to the left side of the couch and turned on the TV. The religious channel came on. I tried to kill the mood by asking her questions about Catholicism, questions like “So how do you make the sign of the cross?” and “Which of the Old Testament plagues was your favorite?” At first she didn’t get the message, which was evidenced by her trying to rub her hand over my jeans in the general area of where my still erect oil rig was. I was preparing for a junk shot. Luckily the program switched over to that pink-haired lady ranting about, thank Jesus, abstinence. Nothing kills the mood like a guilt trip from a pink-haired nun on the TV.
L stood up and said she was getting sleepy. She went upstairs to her room, but then yelled down for me not to leave yet. I didn’t know what to think. A few minutes later she asks me to come upstairs. I put my phone back into my pocket and go upstairs. There stands L, wearing this smoking hot blue nightgown. The fucking pink-haired nun had failed me. L lies down on her bed with her face in the pillow. Without a single word exchanged between us I lean over and began to massage her back. I was fucking hypnotized by the pussy.
Your friends always tell you, “don’t put the pussy on a pedestal.” But when you put the pussy in a silken blue see-through nightie and add a pair of tits, all bets are off. I start massaging her and we're messing around for a bit, until my cell phone vibrates once again. I once again pull it out to avoid an oil spill and I read my message. It is from S again, asking how it was. My brain once again fills with visions of this girl going down on my friend, who also probably has a bigger dick then me. I don’t feel like being compared to anyone dick-wise, nor do I want to kiss anything that has had its’ lips wrapped around anything belonging to S.
I don’t take the time to reply back. Instead I lean down and whisper in L’s ear, “I should get going.” I get up and I go to the front door. She says goodnight and kisses me on the cheek. I give her a hug and tell her it was great hanging out with her and I look forward to doing it again soon.
I rush home to wash off the seemingly real feeling of S’s dick off of my cheek and neck where L had kissed me. I spoke to L every so often, but we never even really saw each other in person after that. She transferred to Minnesota, married her old boyfriend, and got fat. Thanks Facebook. Meanwhile I got fatter, moved back in with my parents, and can't find a decent job to save my life. Fuck.
Now I normally like to end my stories with a little wrap up or tie in that takes us back in a humorous way to the beginning, so here goes. Fuck anyone related to me who is still reading at this point. I hope you now all see me in a new light, and are throwing up at this very moment because of it. You all owe me extra Christmas presents this year because you fucking disobeyed me.
Monday, July 5, 2010
The Science of Stalking
This past weekend I had the pleasure and the horror of attending the 80/35 concert in Des Moines, Iowa. I have been to my share of indie/alternative outdoor music concerts, such as Warped Tour and Pitchfork. However, 80/35 had something that many other concerts I've attended did not have, diversity. I'm not talking about skin, religion, or homosexuality. I'm talking about douche bags. It was a giant fucking melting pot of jackassery, complete with asshole parents leading about small children, pregnant women smoking weed, hippies on bikes, sluts with dogs shitting on the sidewalk, and shirtless frat guys, all prancing around and getting drunk off their asses.
I realized Sunday that I am a magnet for shirtless assholes in crowds. No matter where I stood during the Modest Mouse set tall, shirtless, sweaty men found it irresistible not to be able to walk past me. They would worm their way through the crowd and then, when faced with a choice between squeezing past the hot brunette girl in the bikini or me, the fat ass standing next to her, they would always pick the fat ass guy! Several times I found myself being chest raped by guys who were saturated with beer, sweat, and rain water. I would turn to the side to let them through so they could go back for refills on beer, but as they were walking past me it was like they made a point to grind their fucking pecs into my man boobs and their cocks into my front thigh. No matter which way I turned, left or right, I would come face-to-face with some drunken jerk-off. I was a revolving door of smelly man chest.
The most interesting part of my weekend was experiencing the feeling of having a stalker by witnessing the personal torment of one of my friends. I have come to the conclusion that I love the science of humans. It's why I went to college. One of my favorite topics is the interaction between the opposite sexes. Since I am about as appealing to women as the word "moist," I often have the opportunity to observe guys who actually have a chance with the fairer sex. I, however, am more likely to repel women and attract sweaty men. I should make a t-shirt that says, "I'm a chick magnet, but I'm facing the wrong way."
Now I've never had a stalker, or any woman pine for me for whatsoever, but I have had plenty of male friends who have experienced the horror of being pursued by the occasional insane chick. One of the best academic research techniques is where you observe people from a distance who do not know they are being observed, it's called Casual Non-Participant Observation. I often use this technique when I study the actions of my guy friends and the crazy women who want to fuck their brains out. I'm like an impartial pussy professor.
I now have a hypothetical formula that seeks to understand insane female stalkers. The formula is as follows:
(T(PR+VL+I)DI)-A)+R
___________________
SF
T is for Time. Time means two things. First off Time is the era we live in. My experience of friends going through stalker issues began back when I was eight years old. In 1993, however, chick stalkers did not have the means of communication they have today. The average female stalker could only drive by your house, follow you to work, and call you on a land-line phone. In the case of me at 8 years old, I got to watch my 10 year old friend be perused by some crazy girl at church camp. The guy later married and divorced a girl who had the exact same first name. Yikes.
Nowadays time (T) has given way to technology that has become the downfall for any guy trying to avoid the errant insane woman. Facebook and cell phones are just two of the examples. A girl can meet you Friday night, facebook friend you Saturday morning, and be sending you naked cell phone pictures of herself wearing nothing but a dog collar and a tampon string hanging out of her cooch by 2:00 that afternoon. The internet even allows women to stalk from a distance. You can be living in New York and a woman in Portland could be Googling you as we speak!
Time (T) also means that female stalkers have to much fucking time on their damn hands. These are girls who have no fucking life outside of wanting to feel loved by someone they just met last Tuesday. They spend most of the day texting the guy they feel will take them away from the shit world they have created for themselves, when this time could be better spent looking into getting a new job, taking a class, or getting their ovaries removed to assure that they don't reproduce. The ultimate problem is the time these girls spend stalking guys ends up being compounded by the number of actual guys they end-up stalking throughout their lives in total. This leads us to Time (T) being multiplied by Penis Ratio (PR).
PR stands for Penis Ratio. The more times (T) an insane chick has made a guy cum, the deeper into insanity hell she falls. If you are currently being stalked by a girl, odds are you are not the first person she has stalked. The girl has probably stalked other guys. The problem is you are most likely nicer than the other guys. The previous dudes she had the hots for probably had no qualms about getting wasted and taking her internal temperature with a meat thermometer. They then ejaculate in her ear, let it dry, then ram it in her butt and make her walk home afterward. They never call stalker girl again and she gets depressed. The stalker girl then begins the stalking cycle again, thinking her next new guy will have respect for her after she lets him give her a Cleveland Steamer. Of course this never-ending string of men had to start somewhere, this takes us to the first guy she was fucked up by, known as Virginity Loss (VL).
Virginity Loss is VL. Once again VL is multiplied by time (T). Now I can't say for certain when most women who end up becoming insane stalkers lose their virginity, but I have to assume it was either really early in their lives or really late. It goes back to the compounding of how many semen spouts they pump off. A girl who starts early may be more likely to engage in sexual behavior (this has been actually researched by professionals). A girl who lost her virginity late may also be making up for lost time, dick-wise.
I is income. For some reason girls who become stalkers have crazy amounts of income. This is also why they have so much damn time. They either have rich parents, or have jobs where they make insane amounts of money. They don't have to work so much, which gives them more time (T) to buy a set of binoculars and follow the object of their insane affection around. I have known guys where the girls are so into them that they try to get the guys to love them by buying them large TVs, cars, and nice clothes. Some guys are assholes and will milk that money train for a while. Nicer guys get freaked out, but will still keep the television.
All of this shit is then multiplied even further by DI, or Daddy Issues. The more a girl's father was distant, neglectful, or non-existent can have an effect on how much a girl is willing to sacrifice her self-respect. Look at Lindsey Lohan, her dad wasn't even around until she made money, then he took her money, got her all drugged up, and now refuses to enter into my vicinity so I can bash him in the head with a pick-axe. But no matter what daddy does, you eventually become massively unappealing to men...once again look at Lindsey Lohan, leading to attraction (A).
Attraction is A in this equation. Most guys with stalkers have the displeasure of having absolutely no attraction (A) to their stalkers at all. This happens before the girl punches out the first other female she sees you looking at. This happens before the stalker begins to rant to the guy about how cute her cats are or how much she loves Twilight movies and the guy pretends to listen. This sense of attraction even happens before the first time the girl pretends to stretch her arms up for that "accidental" first nipple slip that happens five minutes after she met you. Attraction (A) happens the first time the guy sees his soon to be psycho follower walking into the bar or down the ballpark stairs wearing low riding tangerine colored pants with the words "sexy" on the back being swallowed by ass fat. Other guys may think this is hot, but when those guys try to hit on the female stalker she freaks out and tells them she has a boyfriend...the guy she is trying to currently stalk. Of course this stalking ho may actually feel the man she is chasing is indeed her boyfriend once the guy makes the mistake of joining into a conversation with her, leading to reciprocation (R).
Reciprocation, or (R), is the one factor a guy who is being stalked can actually control. The more a guy is willing to listen to his stalker's bullshit conversations, or reply to her text messages, or refuse to post the naked pictures sent to him on the internet, the more this insane women thinks she is going to spend the rest of her insane life with "the guy that finally understands her." Many stalkers need to be bluntly told to fuck off. Restraining orders can be your best friend. A lack of assholishness on the guy's part can cause the woman to feel "strung along," to the point that when the guy finally does break it off she will probably try to murder him in his sleep.
Shitty Friends (SF) is the last, and probably most important factor for a female stalker. An insane female stalker would probably not have the nerve to throw herself at a cocktrain of guys unless she had some equally insane friends. These shit friends are always there to offer sympathy when a guy screws and takes advantage of the stalker. The shitty friends gain pleasure in witnessing the man problems their poor stalker friend goes through, thinking that they can not have it nearly as bad. The shitty friends then make fun of the stalker friend her back, even after the stalker friend buys them drinks and clothes (I) and drives them places (T). These shitty stalker friends are so bad that they even encourage new and additional stalking by giving the insane stalker girl phone numbers of new guys for the stalker girl to throw herself at. Shitty friends are enablers and should be avoided just as much as the stalker. The sad part is these shitty friends often don't realize what they are doing until the stalker girl makes a hat out of the scrotums of all the guys that she thinks have wronged her.
I often wonder how it would be if I had my own female fancy me to the point where she would want to either fuck my brains out or cut out and frame my eyelids, or both. I've come to the realization of FUCK NO! First off, despite what some people may think after reading this post, I don't hate women. Yes, it's true many women are insane due to factors such as Time (T), Daddy Issues (DI), and Penis Ratio (PR), but there are in fact women out there who have earned my respect and/or attraction.In fact I have recently had a little crush on a girl in Ames.
There has been this cute girl at Family Video that I'm somewhat crushing on. I walked in one day and she was watching Hairspray and we talked a little bit about how we both liked dogs and musicals. Aside from the fact that she probably thought I was gay after that conversation, I had nowhere near the testicles to ask her out. Instead I just kept going into Family Video, waiting to see if she was working again so I could try and strike up a conversation. Every time she was there, I made it a point to get a movie so she could check out my movie while I checked out her hot body. The only problem is every time I got a movie, she didn't remember me, which shot my self-esteem to hell. Then I get stuck with a $2.59 movie that I really don't feel like watching such as Alice in Wonderland or Escape from New York. We have a weak conversation and I sulk away to go home and watch my movie alone. I then have to return it the next day because it is a 1 night rental. If the girl is working then I get another video, if not I pretend to look around and walk out. This now begs the question, am I myself a stalker? Well, let's look at the equation!
(T(PR+VL+I)DI)-A)+R
___________________
SF
Time- Hell yes I have time on my hands. I don't have a fucking job! I have all the time in the world to spend an hour in Family Video, watching this girl and waiting for a moment to talk to her.
Penis Ratio- I have a penis, but have never had the desire to have sex with a penis. However, with all the fucking cock that rubbed against me this past weekend, the ratio is still unfortunately high. However I do have a small penis to begin with, so maybe I can cut that ratio in half.
Virginity Loss- Oh Christ. So aside from my mouth and fingers I am a virgin. Which means if I ever do get laid I will be a late bloomer, trying to catch up for lost time. However, this notion will fail miserably because I'm a guy. I do end up speaking to my crush with my mouth and let's assume I point at her every once in a while with my dirty fingers that can't wear white any more, so more points in that category.
Income- This is where I am saved. I have 85 dollars to my name at the moment, and a credit card that is almost full with car expenses that I haven't been able to make more then the minimum payment on lately. I can't afford to take this girl out. Hell, I can't even afford to rent the movies that lead me to strike up a conversation.
Daddy Issues- Um...let's just skip this one
Attraction- Oh lord. The odds of this girl being attracted to me are probably pretty small. I'm sure the nipple slip I tried didn't help either.
Reciprocation- The girl will talk to me about whatever topic I bring up, but she can't remember me between conversations. Still I score points because she actually will talk to me in the first place.
Shitty Friends- My friends, I love them so. When I tell them about my attraction they laugh at me and offer no advice at all, which is what they are supposed to do :) Someone may say that this is not good friend behavior, but in the world of stalker equations this is fucking damn good friendship. They don't empathize or encourage me. They don't try to set me up with any of their friends, worried that I might begin collecting hair for voodoo sex toy dolls. They just kind of sit back and let me fail on my own. Those are true fucking friends; the friends who are aware of how, with their help, I may end up crossing the line into stalker-city with only my telescope to see through my lady neighbor's windows as my guide. I should make another t-shirt that says something like, "True friends are the ones that refuse to help you fail, but will still laugh their asses off when it happens."
It is painfully apparent from my own equation that I do indeed have stalker qualities. Have I mentioned that I have tried to Facebook and Goggle both the girl's first name (because I don't know her last name) and Family Video? I just wanted to make sure she didn't have a boyfriend...honestly...maybe. Well, in the end I have given up. When I actually get an income again I'm going back to fucking Netflix.
Please keep in mind that this is a equation based on a WOMAN stalker. If, in a parallel world, I was a woman, with friends who actually offered advice, where I had a higher then minimum wage job at Burger King, and where I had a step-father with boundary issues, then I world be e-mailing pictures of me naked in my bathroom mirror to someone as we speak.
A man stalker has probably never had sex, is not attractive to anyone, has no friends at all, and can not actually speak to women period. So in a sense I'm actually worse off being a man-stalker. Damn it. So what have I learned from this long period of self-reflection? I have fewer prospects, a weaker social constitution, and less self-esteem when compared to a washed up stalker slut.
Fuck........................................
I realized Sunday that I am a magnet for shirtless assholes in crowds. No matter where I stood during the Modest Mouse set tall, shirtless, sweaty men found it irresistible not to be able to walk past me. They would worm their way through the crowd and then, when faced with a choice between squeezing past the hot brunette girl in the bikini or me, the fat ass standing next to her, they would always pick the fat ass guy! Several times I found myself being chest raped by guys who were saturated with beer, sweat, and rain water. I would turn to the side to let them through so they could go back for refills on beer, but as they were walking past me it was like they made a point to grind their fucking pecs into my man boobs and their cocks into my front thigh. No matter which way I turned, left or right, I would come face-to-face with some drunken jerk-off. I was a revolving door of smelly man chest.
The most interesting part of my weekend was experiencing the feeling of having a stalker by witnessing the personal torment of one of my friends. I have come to the conclusion that I love the science of humans. It's why I went to college. One of my favorite topics is the interaction between the opposite sexes. Since I am about as appealing to women as the word "moist," I often have the opportunity to observe guys who actually have a chance with the fairer sex. I, however, am more likely to repel women and attract sweaty men. I should make a t-shirt that says, "I'm a chick magnet, but I'm facing the wrong way."
Now I've never had a stalker, or any woman pine for me for whatsoever, but I have had plenty of male friends who have experienced the horror of being pursued by the occasional insane chick. One of the best academic research techniques is where you observe people from a distance who do not know they are being observed, it's called Casual Non-Participant Observation. I often use this technique when I study the actions of my guy friends and the crazy women who want to fuck their brains out. I'm like an impartial pussy professor.
I now have a hypothetical formula that seeks to understand insane female stalkers. The formula is as follows:
(T(PR+VL+I)DI)-A)+R
___________________
SF
T is for Time. Time means two things. First off Time is the era we live in. My experience of friends going through stalker issues began back when I was eight years old. In 1993, however, chick stalkers did not have the means of communication they have today. The average female stalker could only drive by your house, follow you to work, and call you on a land-line phone. In the case of me at 8 years old, I got to watch my 10 year old friend be perused by some crazy girl at church camp. The guy later married and divorced a girl who had the exact same first name. Yikes.
Nowadays time (T) has given way to technology that has become the downfall for any guy trying to avoid the errant insane woman. Facebook and cell phones are just two of the examples. A girl can meet you Friday night, facebook friend you Saturday morning, and be sending you naked cell phone pictures of herself wearing nothing but a dog collar and a tampon string hanging out of her cooch by 2:00 that afternoon. The internet even allows women to stalk from a distance. You can be living in New York and a woman in Portland could be Googling you as we speak!
Time (T) also means that female stalkers have to much fucking time on their damn hands. These are girls who have no fucking life outside of wanting to feel loved by someone they just met last Tuesday. They spend most of the day texting the guy they feel will take them away from the shit world they have created for themselves, when this time could be better spent looking into getting a new job, taking a class, or getting their ovaries removed to assure that they don't reproduce. The ultimate problem is the time these girls spend stalking guys ends up being compounded by the number of actual guys they end-up stalking throughout their lives in total. This leads us to Time (T) being multiplied by Penis Ratio (PR).
PR stands for Penis Ratio. The more times (T) an insane chick has made a guy cum, the deeper into insanity hell she falls. If you are currently being stalked by a girl, odds are you are not the first person she has stalked. The girl has probably stalked other guys. The problem is you are most likely nicer than the other guys. The previous dudes she had the hots for probably had no qualms about getting wasted and taking her internal temperature with a meat thermometer. They then ejaculate in her ear, let it dry, then ram it in her butt and make her walk home afterward. They never call stalker girl again and she gets depressed. The stalker girl then begins the stalking cycle again, thinking her next new guy will have respect for her after she lets him give her a Cleveland Steamer. Of course this never-ending string of men had to start somewhere, this takes us to the first guy she was fucked up by, known as Virginity Loss (VL).
Virginity Loss is VL. Once again VL is multiplied by time (T). Now I can't say for certain when most women who end up becoming insane stalkers lose their virginity, but I have to assume it was either really early in their lives or really late. It goes back to the compounding of how many semen spouts they pump off. A girl who starts early may be more likely to engage in sexual behavior (this has been actually researched by professionals). A girl who lost her virginity late may also be making up for lost time, dick-wise.
I is income. For some reason girls who become stalkers have crazy amounts of income. This is also why they have so much damn time. They either have rich parents, or have jobs where they make insane amounts of money. They don't have to work so much, which gives them more time (T) to buy a set of binoculars and follow the object of their insane affection around. I have known guys where the girls are so into them that they try to get the guys to love them by buying them large TVs, cars, and nice clothes. Some guys are assholes and will milk that money train for a while. Nicer guys get freaked out, but will still keep the television.
All of this shit is then multiplied even further by DI, or Daddy Issues. The more a girl's father was distant, neglectful, or non-existent can have an effect on how much a girl is willing to sacrifice her self-respect. Look at Lindsey Lohan, her dad wasn't even around until she made money, then he took her money, got her all drugged up, and now refuses to enter into my vicinity so I can bash him in the head with a pick-axe. But no matter what daddy does, you eventually become massively unappealing to men...once again look at Lindsey Lohan, leading to attraction (A).
Attraction is A in this equation. Most guys with stalkers have the displeasure of having absolutely no attraction (A) to their stalkers at all. This happens before the girl punches out the first other female she sees you looking at. This happens before the stalker begins to rant to the guy about how cute her cats are or how much she loves Twilight movies and the guy pretends to listen. This sense of attraction even happens before the first time the girl pretends to stretch her arms up for that "accidental" first nipple slip that happens five minutes after she met you. Attraction (A) happens the first time the guy sees his soon to be psycho follower walking into the bar or down the ballpark stairs wearing low riding tangerine colored pants with the words "sexy" on the back being swallowed by ass fat. Other guys may think this is hot, but when those guys try to hit on the female stalker she freaks out and tells them she has a boyfriend...the guy she is trying to currently stalk. Of course this stalking ho may actually feel the man she is chasing is indeed her boyfriend once the guy makes the mistake of joining into a conversation with her, leading to reciprocation (R).
Reciprocation, or (R), is the one factor a guy who is being stalked can actually control. The more a guy is willing to listen to his stalker's bullshit conversations, or reply to her text messages, or refuse to post the naked pictures sent to him on the internet, the more this insane women thinks she is going to spend the rest of her insane life with "the guy that finally understands her." Many stalkers need to be bluntly told to fuck off. Restraining orders can be your best friend. A lack of assholishness on the guy's part can cause the woman to feel "strung along," to the point that when the guy finally does break it off she will probably try to murder him in his sleep.
Shitty Friends (SF) is the last, and probably most important factor for a female stalker. An insane female stalker would probably not have the nerve to throw herself at a cocktrain of guys unless she had some equally insane friends. These shit friends are always there to offer sympathy when a guy screws and takes advantage of the stalker. The shitty friends gain pleasure in witnessing the man problems their poor stalker friend goes through, thinking that they can not have it nearly as bad. The shitty friends then make fun of the stalker friend her back, even after the stalker friend buys them drinks and clothes (I) and drives them places (T). These shitty stalker friends are so bad that they even encourage new and additional stalking by giving the insane stalker girl phone numbers of new guys for the stalker girl to throw herself at. Shitty friends are enablers and should be avoided just as much as the stalker. The sad part is these shitty friends often don't realize what they are doing until the stalker girl makes a hat out of the scrotums of all the guys that she thinks have wronged her.
I often wonder how it would be if I had my own female fancy me to the point where she would want to either fuck my brains out or cut out and frame my eyelids, or both. I've come to the realization of FUCK NO! First off, despite what some people may think after reading this post, I don't hate women. Yes, it's true many women are insane due to factors such as Time (T), Daddy Issues (DI), and Penis Ratio (PR), but there are in fact women out there who have earned my respect and/or attraction.In fact I have recently had a little crush on a girl in Ames.
There has been this cute girl at Family Video that I'm somewhat crushing on. I walked in one day and she was watching Hairspray and we talked a little bit about how we both liked dogs and musicals. Aside from the fact that she probably thought I was gay after that conversation, I had nowhere near the testicles to ask her out. Instead I just kept going into Family Video, waiting to see if she was working again so I could try and strike up a conversation. Every time she was there, I made it a point to get a movie so she could check out my movie while I checked out her hot body. The only problem is every time I got a movie, she didn't remember me, which shot my self-esteem to hell. Then I get stuck with a $2.59 movie that I really don't feel like watching such as Alice in Wonderland or Escape from New York. We have a weak conversation and I sulk away to go home and watch my movie alone. I then have to return it the next day because it is a 1 night rental. If the girl is working then I get another video, if not I pretend to look around and walk out. This now begs the question, am I myself a stalker? Well, let's look at the equation!
(T(PR+VL+I)DI)-A)+R
___________________
SF
Time- Hell yes I have time on my hands. I don't have a fucking job! I have all the time in the world to spend an hour in Family Video, watching this girl and waiting for a moment to talk to her.
Penis Ratio- I have a penis, but have never had the desire to have sex with a penis. However, with all the fucking cock that rubbed against me this past weekend, the ratio is still unfortunately high. However I do have a small penis to begin with, so maybe I can cut that ratio in half.
Virginity Loss- Oh Christ. So aside from my mouth and fingers I am a virgin. Which means if I ever do get laid I will be a late bloomer, trying to catch up for lost time. However, this notion will fail miserably because I'm a guy. I do end up speaking to my crush with my mouth and let's assume I point at her every once in a while with my dirty fingers that can't wear white any more, so more points in that category.
Income- This is where I am saved. I have 85 dollars to my name at the moment, and a credit card that is almost full with car expenses that I haven't been able to make more then the minimum payment on lately. I can't afford to take this girl out. Hell, I can't even afford to rent the movies that lead me to strike up a conversation.
Daddy Issues- Um...let's just skip this one
Attraction- Oh lord. The odds of this girl being attracted to me are probably pretty small. I'm sure the nipple slip I tried didn't help either.
Reciprocation- The girl will talk to me about whatever topic I bring up, but she can't remember me between conversations. Still I score points because she actually will talk to me in the first place.
Shitty Friends- My friends, I love them so. When I tell them about my attraction they laugh at me and offer no advice at all, which is what they are supposed to do :) Someone may say that this is not good friend behavior, but in the world of stalker equations this is fucking damn good friendship. They don't empathize or encourage me. They don't try to set me up with any of their friends, worried that I might begin collecting hair for voodoo sex toy dolls. They just kind of sit back and let me fail on my own. Those are true fucking friends; the friends who are aware of how, with their help, I may end up crossing the line into stalker-city with only my telescope to see through my lady neighbor's windows as my guide. I should make another t-shirt that says something like, "True friends are the ones that refuse to help you fail, but will still laugh their asses off when it happens."
It is painfully apparent from my own equation that I do indeed have stalker qualities. Have I mentioned that I have tried to Facebook and Goggle both the girl's first name (because I don't know her last name) and Family Video? I just wanted to make sure she didn't have a boyfriend...honestly...maybe. Well, in the end I have given up. When I actually get an income again I'm going back to fucking Netflix.
Please keep in mind that this is a equation based on a WOMAN stalker. If, in a parallel world, I was a woman, with friends who actually offered advice, where I had a higher then minimum wage job at Burger King, and where I had a step-father with boundary issues, then I world be e-mailing pictures of me naked in my bathroom mirror to someone as we speak.
A man stalker has probably never had sex, is not attractive to anyone, has no friends at all, and can not actually speak to women period. So in a sense I'm actually worse off being a man-stalker. Damn it. So what have I learned from this long period of self-reflection? I have fewer prospects, a weaker social constitution, and less self-esteem when compared to a washed up stalker slut.
Fuck........................................
Friday, July 2, 2010
Casey vs. The Gay Waiter
A few years ago my friend Nathan and I decided to go to Olive Garden for my birthday. Now I fucking hate eating out for my birthday. Because we always have to go to those restaurants that make the birthday person have a fucking song sung to them, or sit on a fucking saddle at Texas Roadhouse. I would rather have the restaurant staff shut the hell up, do their damn jobs, and let me eat my fucking overpriced meal. It's not just birthdays, but also marriage proposals. If you are so fucking unoriginal that you need to propose in a fucking Hu Hot, then you need to be chemically castrated. And screw you bitch for saying yes, I hope you swallow the engagement ring that's sitting in the glass of white wine. My hatred of birthday restaurant spectacles is so fierce that my friends have actually told waitresses it is my birthday, when it isn't, just so they can see me squirm.
So this time around, however, my birthday was such a huge event that every other friend decided to bailout. I'm thinking to myself, hell yes, no birthday dinner! Well my friend Nate decided this was against the laws of nature and he took me to Olive Garden with the promise of a free appetizer. The shit I go though for jalapeno poppers. So dinner ended up being me and my friend Nate, two guys, having a romantic Olive Garden dinner. However, I decided if looking like a gay guy on a birthday date for an hour means free calamari rings, then I will deal. The only bad part was our waiter, who obviously got the wrong idea about my friend and I and our enjoyment of boobies.
So we are looking at our menus while sitting there shooting the shit when the waiter comes up. He asks us if we are ready. Nate orders first and then the waiter turns to me and says, "How about you big guy? You want something hot and spicy I bet." He ends the statement with what was supposed to be a sexy wink...I think. I ignore the comment and go on ordering.
Nate and I continue to talk, but the waiter, who is serving other tables in our side of the restaurant, keeps making a point to walk by our table as he is coming an going. I wouldn't have noticed, except he kept rubbing along past me, trying to look like he was struggling to get by me, but there was plenty of room to navigate through tables. I'll admit I'm the first person to take up a lot of space in a restaurant, or anywhere for that matter, but it's not like the dude had to turn sideways to get around me or anything. So after the 4th or 5th time Nate says to me, and the conversation goes as such:
Nate: "Dude our waiter is totally gay."
Casey: "Nate that's not nice, so he's a guy who is a waiter. Who cares if he's gay."
Nate: "Well yeah, but he is REALLY gay."
Casey: "Jesus Nate, so what. So he likes plowing guys back-field."
Nate: I think he wants your backfield.
Casey: Bullshit
Nate: Well it's pretty obvious
Casey: No one in my entire life has ever taken then initiative to hit on me. I don't think it's going to start with some apparently gay waiter at a shitty Olive Garden.
That's when the gay waiter brings our food. He comes up and sees my empty drink glass and lisps to me, "Would you like some more Dr. Pepper." You know that lisp that certainly not every gay guy has, but everyone that has that lisp is certainly gay. I, still not making a gay-dar connection, simply say sure. The guy takes my glass and while reaching makes sure his hand rubs up against my hand. He takes my glass away and that's when my eyes go wide. I turn to Nate and say, "Fuck. Hurry up an eat, we have to get the hell out of here."
Nate, being the asshole he is, takes the slowest and smallest bites of food ever. I, now freaked out and in a rush, say, "Nate, stop eating like your dad and start shoveling noodles into your mouth." Nate replies, "I bet you'd like to shovel that waiter's limp noodle into YOUR mouth." I finished eating in 3 minutes, it took Nate another 30. All the while I'm remaining seated, with gay waiter ass consistently brushing by my face. The gay waiter comes back and asks if we want dessert. Nate begins to look at the dessert menu and says, "Mmmm, this ice cream cookie thing looks good." Fucking Nate, never ate a restaurant dessert in his life and now he's willing to buy a 20 dollar bowl of ice cream, fudge, vanilla wafers, and chocolate sauce just to watch the waiter torture me more and try to get chocolate sauce on HIS vanilla wafer after going up MY fudge tunnel. I shouted, "Screw that, bring us a bill!"
The waiter frowns and leaves the table, bringing a bill a few minutes later. My bill, of course, has a little Thank You note and he makes sure to put his full name on the receipt, probably so I can look him up on facebook later and then we can meet up and he can put my face in his...book...I don't know I'm out of homo puns. Anyway I quickly ignore the note, throw down some cash, and sprint out of the Olive Garden, with Nate laughing his ass off and following me. I then later check my wallet and realize that I had a $20.00 meal, but I had thrown down a twenty, a ten, and a five dollar bill in my rush to get the hell out. I had tipped the gay waiter 75%. I'm just glad I didn't use my debit card, so he never found out my name. That's all I would have needed, a gay stalker.
What's the lesson here? Having a gay waiter is still better then sitting on that fucking saddle at Texas Roadhouse.
So this time around, however, my birthday was such a huge event that every other friend decided to bailout. I'm thinking to myself, hell yes, no birthday dinner! Well my friend Nate decided this was against the laws of nature and he took me to Olive Garden with the promise of a free appetizer. The shit I go though for jalapeno poppers. So dinner ended up being me and my friend Nate, two guys, having a romantic Olive Garden dinner. However, I decided if looking like a gay guy on a birthday date for an hour means free calamari rings, then I will deal. The only bad part was our waiter, who obviously got the wrong idea about my friend and I and our enjoyment of boobies.
So we are looking at our menus while sitting there shooting the shit when the waiter comes up. He asks us if we are ready. Nate orders first and then the waiter turns to me and says, "How about you big guy? You want something hot and spicy I bet." He ends the statement with what was supposed to be a sexy wink...I think. I ignore the comment and go on ordering.
Nate and I continue to talk, but the waiter, who is serving other tables in our side of the restaurant, keeps making a point to walk by our table as he is coming an going. I wouldn't have noticed, except he kept rubbing along past me, trying to look like he was struggling to get by me, but there was plenty of room to navigate through tables. I'll admit I'm the first person to take up a lot of space in a restaurant, or anywhere for that matter, but it's not like the dude had to turn sideways to get around me or anything. So after the 4th or 5th time Nate says to me, and the conversation goes as such:
Nate: "Dude our waiter is totally gay."
Casey: "Nate that's not nice, so he's a guy who is a waiter. Who cares if he's gay."
Nate: "Well yeah, but he is REALLY gay."
Casey: "Jesus Nate, so what. So he likes plowing guys back-field."
Nate: I think he wants your backfield.
Casey: Bullshit
Nate: Well it's pretty obvious
Casey: No one in my entire life has ever taken then initiative to hit on me. I don't think it's going to start with some apparently gay waiter at a shitty Olive Garden.
That's when the gay waiter brings our food. He comes up and sees my empty drink glass and lisps to me, "Would you like some more Dr. Pepper." You know that lisp that certainly not every gay guy has, but everyone that has that lisp is certainly gay. I, still not making a gay-dar connection, simply say sure. The guy takes my glass and while reaching makes sure his hand rubs up against my hand. He takes my glass away and that's when my eyes go wide. I turn to Nate and say, "Fuck. Hurry up an eat, we have to get the hell out of here."
Nate, being the asshole he is, takes the slowest and smallest bites of food ever. I, now freaked out and in a rush, say, "Nate, stop eating like your dad and start shoveling noodles into your mouth." Nate replies, "I bet you'd like to shovel that waiter's limp noodle into YOUR mouth." I finished eating in 3 minutes, it took Nate another 30. All the while I'm remaining seated, with gay waiter ass consistently brushing by my face. The gay waiter comes back and asks if we want dessert. Nate begins to look at the dessert menu and says, "Mmmm, this ice cream cookie thing looks good." Fucking Nate, never ate a restaurant dessert in his life and now he's willing to buy a 20 dollar bowl of ice cream, fudge, vanilla wafers, and chocolate sauce just to watch the waiter torture me more and try to get chocolate sauce on HIS vanilla wafer after going up MY fudge tunnel. I shouted, "Screw that, bring us a bill!"
The waiter frowns and leaves the table, bringing a bill a few minutes later. My bill, of course, has a little Thank You note and he makes sure to put his full name on the receipt, probably so I can look him up on facebook later and then we can meet up and he can put my face in his...book...I don't know I'm out of homo puns. Anyway I quickly ignore the note, throw down some cash, and sprint out of the Olive Garden, with Nate laughing his ass off and following me. I then later check my wallet and realize that I had a $20.00 meal, but I had thrown down a twenty, a ten, and a five dollar bill in my rush to get the hell out. I had tipped the gay waiter 75%. I'm just glad I didn't use my debit card, so he never found out my name. That's all I would have needed, a gay stalker.
What's the lesson here? Having a gay waiter is still better then sitting on that fucking saddle at Texas Roadhouse.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
A Most Embarassing Experience
One of the worst things that has ever happened to me was being recognized and having my name shouted out in the middle of a porno store. If you have never been in a smut hut there is a certain amount of unspoken etiquette that needs to be followed. Always look down or at the wall. Never make eye contact with anyone. Don't shout anyone's name out. And use the buddy system. Being alone in a porno store is a no-no. You'll find yourself drowning in movie covers of 40 year old sluts pretending to be hot and naughty babysitters, if the feelings of loneliness and being pathetic don't kill you first.
So right after my 18th birthday my friends decided to take me to the nearest porno store. Unfortunately the closest store was in fucking Fort Dodge, Iowa. If Iowa was a person, Fort Dodge would probably be the person's asshole. It's dirty, small and cramped, and filled with shit heads. So you can imagine what a porno store in the asshole of Iowa would be like. Seventy-five dollars to buy a movie and they couldn't use five dollars of that to buy a mop. It was also one of those places that RENTED porn. You have to be some kind of freak with a life supply of latex gloves to want to mess with a rented porno DVD.
So we walk into the store and begin to laugh at the movies. I am facing the back wall with my rear end pointing toward the front door. I am debating over which movie would be funnier, Zorho, The Blair Wench Project, or Anal Princess Diaries (all are actual pornos by the way) when I hear that massive scream behind me. "CASEY HUFF, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?!"
I froze. Because no one wants to be recognized in a porno store. It's just one of those things that is bound to stop time itself and end the universe. I just stood there in shock. I slowly turn my head and see one of my friend's dads...who just also happened to be a pastor. Apparently he had seen my very recognizable truck outside of the front door and come in to see what was going on.
This leads me to another rule of going into your local adult book store, make your friends drive or park a few blocks away. Because when your 1989 blue Ford truck is the only one in town with a Goonies bumper sticker, you are pretty much screwed when you park it in front of any place of ill repute, like a porn shop, a brothel, or a Younkers.
What made matters worse was that I also knew the cashier of said porno shop. The guy was gay and related to my neighbors down the street. The guy sees the exchange between me and the reverend and walks over to me and says to the pastor, "Chill out guy, he's 18 and he's getting a birthday present!" He then takes a big black dildo, still in the package thank god, and places it in my hand with a smirk on his face.
I, still stunned, say nothing, just turn back to the movies, and wonder if Extreme Teens 28 is better or worse then Extreme Teens 19. I assumed my friend's dad just walked away because an eon later, when I finally looked back toward the door, he was gone. Leaving me with a possible shit in my pants and a dildo in my hands. I gathered up my friends and as we were leaving the gay clerk decided to hit on one of my friends. I was just relieved that I was not the one getting hit on by the gay guy whose main source of income involved handling semen soaked rental DVDs of horny housewives. My experience of being hit on by a gay person would not happen for a few more years, but that is a story for another day.
So right after my 18th birthday my friends decided to take me to the nearest porno store. Unfortunately the closest store was in fucking Fort Dodge, Iowa. If Iowa was a person, Fort Dodge would probably be the person's asshole. It's dirty, small and cramped, and filled with shit heads. So you can imagine what a porno store in the asshole of Iowa would be like. Seventy-five dollars to buy a movie and they couldn't use five dollars of that to buy a mop. It was also one of those places that RENTED porn. You have to be some kind of freak with a life supply of latex gloves to want to mess with a rented porno DVD.
So we walk into the store and begin to laugh at the movies. I am facing the back wall with my rear end pointing toward the front door. I am debating over which movie would be funnier, Zorho, The Blair Wench Project, or Anal Princess Diaries (all are actual pornos by the way) when I hear that massive scream behind me. "CASEY HUFF, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?!"
I froze. Because no one wants to be recognized in a porno store. It's just one of those things that is bound to stop time itself and end the universe. I just stood there in shock. I slowly turn my head and see one of my friend's dads...who just also happened to be a pastor. Apparently he had seen my very recognizable truck outside of the front door and come in to see what was going on.
This leads me to another rule of going into your local adult book store, make your friends drive or park a few blocks away. Because when your 1989 blue Ford truck is the only one in town with a Goonies bumper sticker, you are pretty much screwed when you park it in front of any place of ill repute, like a porn shop, a brothel, or a Younkers.
What made matters worse was that I also knew the cashier of said porno shop. The guy was gay and related to my neighbors down the street. The guy sees the exchange between me and the reverend and walks over to me and says to the pastor, "Chill out guy, he's 18 and he's getting a birthday present!" He then takes a big black dildo, still in the package thank god, and places it in my hand with a smirk on his face.
I, still stunned, say nothing, just turn back to the movies, and wonder if Extreme Teens 28 is better or worse then Extreme Teens 19. I assumed my friend's dad just walked away because an eon later, when I finally looked back toward the door, he was gone. Leaving me with a possible shit in my pants and a dildo in my hands. I gathered up my friends and as we were leaving the gay clerk decided to hit on one of my friends. I was just relieved that I was not the one getting hit on by the gay guy whose main source of income involved handling semen soaked rental DVDs of horny housewives. My experience of being hit on by a gay person would not happen for a few more years, but that is a story for another day.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Hot Late Night Action
Before I begin I want to make something perfectly clear. I like to crack jokes, poke fun, and generally try to find humor in many of the things I do. This, however, does not always mean then things I say or write will be amusing to you. It's my damn blog and I'm not here to entertain. I've often heard the remark made to me, usually from stuck up blond whores, that I am not funny or amusing. My reply to them is always, "Oh I'm sorry. I didn't know I was put on this planet for your amusement. I don't care if you think I'm funny, just like you don't care that I judge you on how many frat guys you screw. The only difference is my cracking jokes does not get me a vagina that looks like roast beef."
Anyway. So I had an interview in St. Louis this past week. On my way back I stopped in Iowa City to see some friends. It was good times. Iowa City is cool in that the campus is intertwined with this old shopping district. You can literally leave the biology building, walk a few hundred feet, and be in bar. It makes me think of my grandpa, who donated his body to the University of Iowa. A college frat kid studied and dissected Grandpa in the Biology Building, then proceeded to throw up because the frat kid was a pussy. After that the college pussy went 300 feet to a bar, drank, threw up again, looked like a pussy again, then got sympathy sex from some desperate ugly girl who probably ended up looking like my grandpa.
So my friends and I ate, hung out, watched movies, basically the shit I don't get to do anymore because I don't know anyone in Ames to hang out with, nor do I make the effort to get to know anyone. It got late and I ended up crashing on their couch. Now I am a deep sleeper. Apparently that same night I even slept through a tornado siren. So I'm sleeping on the couch and sometime in the middle of the night I start to have a dream that I'm making out with some girl. I don't get "wet dreams" but my libido definitely has an effect on my REM cycle. So I'm dreaming about getting hot and heavy when I suddenly realize that this dream chick is the worst kisser ever. It figures I would dream about making out, then get paired up with someone who sucks at it.
So then this girl starts to move up my face to my nose and eyes. I then feel a slight weight on my chest. Then I quickly think, "holy shit this isn't a dream." I jerk awake to find my friend's dog, sitting on my stomach, and going to town on my facial orifices. Damn it. The dog jumps down and runs to the couch across the room, and just looks at me with sad puppy eyes. I'm then thinking random thoughts to myself, "You're the sad one?! Do I sweat peanut butter? How many licks does it take to get to the center of me? What are they feeding this dog that makes me so delicious by comparison?"
So I, not willing to give the dog a second helping, turn on my side with my face nuzzled into the couch for protection. I hear the dog move, walk up to me, then proceed to lick the very top of my now showing ass crack and back. Mother fucker. Needless to say I just laid back and took it as this point. I could make a rape victim joke here but that would be in very poor taste. Rape is never funny, unless your Demi Moore raping Ashton Kutcher. Because I personally believe Ashton made a deal with the devil to become famous, and the devil got him back by making Demi Moore rape him every night. And that's why we stay away from the devil children. I could probably sell him my soul to find a job, but then what would he do to me? He'd probably force me to be licked by a dog every night with Demi Moore's head on it. Which is still a better deal overall compared to ending up with Demi Moore.
Anyway. So I had an interview in St. Louis this past week. On my way back I stopped in Iowa City to see some friends. It was good times. Iowa City is cool in that the campus is intertwined with this old shopping district. You can literally leave the biology building, walk a few hundred feet, and be in bar. It makes me think of my grandpa, who donated his body to the University of Iowa. A college frat kid studied and dissected Grandpa in the Biology Building, then proceeded to throw up because the frat kid was a pussy. After that the college pussy went 300 feet to a bar, drank, threw up again, looked like a pussy again, then got sympathy sex from some desperate ugly girl who probably ended up looking like my grandpa.
So my friends and I ate, hung out, watched movies, basically the shit I don't get to do anymore because I don't know anyone in Ames to hang out with, nor do I make the effort to get to know anyone. It got late and I ended up crashing on their couch. Now I am a deep sleeper. Apparently that same night I even slept through a tornado siren. So I'm sleeping on the couch and sometime in the middle of the night I start to have a dream that I'm making out with some girl. I don't get "wet dreams" but my libido definitely has an effect on my REM cycle. So I'm dreaming about getting hot and heavy when I suddenly realize that this dream chick is the worst kisser ever. It figures I would dream about making out, then get paired up with someone who sucks at it.
So then this girl starts to move up my face to my nose and eyes. I then feel a slight weight on my chest. Then I quickly think, "holy shit this isn't a dream." I jerk awake to find my friend's dog, sitting on my stomach, and going to town on my facial orifices. Damn it. The dog jumps down and runs to the couch across the room, and just looks at me with sad puppy eyes. I'm then thinking random thoughts to myself, "You're the sad one?! Do I sweat peanut butter? How many licks does it take to get to the center of me? What are they feeding this dog that makes me so delicious by comparison?"
So I, not willing to give the dog a second helping, turn on my side with my face nuzzled into the couch for protection. I hear the dog move, walk up to me, then proceed to lick the very top of my now showing ass crack and back. Mother fucker. Needless to say I just laid back and took it as this point. I could make a rape victim joke here but that would be in very poor taste. Rape is never funny, unless your Demi Moore raping Ashton Kutcher. Because I personally believe Ashton made a deal with the devil to become famous, and the devil got him back by making Demi Moore rape him every night. And that's why we stay away from the devil children. I could probably sell him my soul to find a job, but then what would he do to me? He'd probably force me to be licked by a dog every night with Demi Moore's head on it. Which is still a better deal overall compared to ending up with Demi Moore.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
An internal what?
Two Saturdays ago I started to freak the fuck out. I am taking blood thinners, and one of the warning signs when something is going wrong is when there is blood in your poop. Well two weekends ago I was relieving myself from the previous night's pork loin and I get the sense something is wrong. I check and the kids I took to the pool are definitely not ok. So I go to the emergency room.
The doctor in the room is cool about it, the finger exam feels like an eternity. To calm me down he tells me a story, while rooting around in an "Exit-Only" part of my body. He says, "It's a good thing you came in here. Once a guy came in and he had an apple stuck up his shit pipe, this is nothing compared to that." His story does make me take my mind off things while I contemplated the physics of apple/rectum insertion. Size, color, shape etc. Would a granny smith apple cause irritation because of the increased sourness? Anyway, he was not able to find anything, but told me if there was more blood to come back in.
So a few days go by and there is no more blood. Then about 3AM Thursday morning I get up to do my business. This time the blood comes, I mean a lot of blood. I had taken the Cosby Kids to a pool of red Jello instead of water. So I drive myself back to the emergency room. I get admitted, put on the hospital gown, and again with a doctor and the finger. The emergency room doctor this time ordered some blood tests. So a few minutes later in walks this gorgeous lab technician. I mean she is a fucking 10.
Meanwhile I am in a hospital gown and strapped into a hospital bed with oxygen and heart monitors. We begin a little small talk. I start laying on the charm. I tease her about the animal stickers she has on her carrying kit for the kids, and the gracefulness of her ability to suck the life blood out of me. She tells me I am actually funny and is laughing and everything!
As she is starting to leave I ask her if the TV remote is anywhere on the floor. She can not find it, but she stretches up and turns the TV on for me. I didn't know turning on Telenovela could be so hot. She asks if she can turn it to a different channel for me, but she is not making eye contact with me when she asks. She is looking a little farther south. I say ok and she hits the channel button two more times and is starting to look uncomfortable. I then realize what the problem is...
A good geometric math teacher or billiards professional would have been able to see it right away, but it took me a few minutes. The angle of the hot lab tech's eyes, adjacent to the television, gave her a precise perpendicular look at my taint and penis. I am a naked fat guy under my skimpy hospital robe, giving the world a clear shot at my twig and apple bag (at least my apples were not up anyone's ass, but that did not help the situation).
I realized what the problem was and I quickly told her the channel she had just turned it to was fine and she was good to go. She ran out the door and I looked up to the TV to see what was on. At full volume, I now found myself watching an infomercial for a penis enhancing pump. I couldn't change the channel because there was no remote and I was strapped to the hospital bed. It was another half-hour before anyone came in. By then I had learned all about the Pos-T-Vac Penis Vacuum Therapy system. To bad I don't have a job, otherwise I'd be on my way to defeating future erectile dysfunction and present small penis size.
So it turns out I have an internal hemorrhoid. I need to take a bath once a day for it to heal. Luckily my bathroom is free from hot lab techs...and apples.
The doctor in the room is cool about it, the finger exam feels like an eternity. To calm me down he tells me a story, while rooting around in an "Exit-Only" part of my body. He says, "It's a good thing you came in here. Once a guy came in and he had an apple stuck up his shit pipe, this is nothing compared to that." His story does make me take my mind off things while I contemplated the physics of apple/rectum insertion. Size, color, shape etc. Would a granny smith apple cause irritation because of the increased sourness? Anyway, he was not able to find anything, but told me if there was more blood to come back in.
So a few days go by and there is no more blood. Then about 3AM Thursday morning I get up to do my business. This time the blood comes, I mean a lot of blood. I had taken the Cosby Kids to a pool of red Jello instead of water. So I drive myself back to the emergency room. I get admitted, put on the hospital gown, and again with a doctor and the finger. The emergency room doctor this time ordered some blood tests. So a few minutes later in walks this gorgeous lab technician. I mean she is a fucking 10.
Meanwhile I am in a hospital gown and strapped into a hospital bed with oxygen and heart monitors. We begin a little small talk. I start laying on the charm. I tease her about the animal stickers she has on her carrying kit for the kids, and the gracefulness of her ability to suck the life blood out of me. She tells me I am actually funny and is laughing and everything!
As she is starting to leave I ask her if the TV remote is anywhere on the floor. She can not find it, but she stretches up and turns the TV on for me. I didn't know turning on Telenovela could be so hot. She asks if she can turn it to a different channel for me, but she is not making eye contact with me when she asks. She is looking a little farther south. I say ok and she hits the channel button two more times and is starting to look uncomfortable. I then realize what the problem is...
A good geometric math teacher or billiards professional would have been able to see it right away, but it took me a few minutes. The angle of the hot lab tech's eyes, adjacent to the television, gave her a precise perpendicular look at my taint and penis. I am a naked fat guy under my skimpy hospital robe, giving the world a clear shot at my twig and apple bag (at least my apples were not up anyone's ass, but that did not help the situation).
I realized what the problem was and I quickly told her the channel she had just turned it to was fine and she was good to go. She ran out the door and I looked up to the TV to see what was on. At full volume, I now found myself watching an infomercial for a penis enhancing pump. I couldn't change the channel because there was no remote and I was strapped to the hospital bed. It was another half-hour before anyone came in. By then I had learned all about the Pos-T-Vac Penis Vacuum Therapy system. To bad I don't have a job, otherwise I'd be on my way to defeating future erectile dysfunction and present small penis size.
So it turns out I have an internal hemorrhoid. I need to take a bath once a day for it to heal. Luckily my bathroom is free from hot lab techs...and apples.
Three Weeks and Fail
Back in the last week of April I got a phone call from a college acquaintance of mine. He said he had a job for me. I, being starved for a career change, jumped on it. I interviewed for the position of a community liaison at a nursing home. I was hired a few days later and began work that next week. I had no training, it was one of those jobs where the boss hands you a blue three-ring binder and an empty flash drive and says go to work. I had no office, no computer, no work phone, nothing. Three weeks later my boss calls me into his office and lays me off. It turns out the day I interviewed they found out my position was being eliminated. No one thought to tell me, however.
I had already resigned from my last job. I called them to ask for my old job back, but some high school kid had already replaced me. It was comforting to know my job was so important it could have been done by someone 9 years younger than me, and that it only took them two weeks to find a replacement.
So since then I have been spending time between my parent's house...sulking, my apartment...sulking, and the Iowa Workforce Development office...pretending not to sulk. The first time I walked into the IWD office there was a well-dressed gentleman sitting at the edge of a table, clearly he had lost his job earlier that day and came right from the office that fired him. He probably should have gone home to gather his thoughts before because he just sat there in a daze. I noticed that in order to be seen by an advisor you needed to take a number and sit down. I, being the nice prince I am, noticed the man had no number.
I asked the man if he was waiting and needed a number. The man replied, "I've been here all god damn day and no one has helped me, now shut the hell up." I took a number and sat down. A few minutes later a lady calls my name and I look back to the nicely dressed man. He looks confused and says to me, "Guess I should have taken a number then, eh." I thought about giving him mine since he had been waiting. I didn't and thought to myself, "should have read the directions on the front door dip shit." I sit down and spend some time asking questions about my resume, applying for jobs, and unemployment. The lady was nice, but kind of manish. As I'm leaving the office I see the same well-dressed man is sitting with some hot younger blonde advisor, a solid 8 at least. She does that standing move where her cleavage somehow is the first thing to hit the full height of her body before any other part, and she goes to make copies. As I walk by the man says to me, "Those tits were worth the damn wait." I should have let the man go instead of me. Fucking karma.
I had already resigned from my last job. I called them to ask for my old job back, but some high school kid had already replaced me. It was comforting to know my job was so important it could have been done by someone 9 years younger than me, and that it only took them two weeks to find a replacement.
So since then I have been spending time between my parent's house...sulking, my apartment...sulking, and the Iowa Workforce Development office...pretending not to sulk. The first time I walked into the IWD office there was a well-dressed gentleman sitting at the edge of a table, clearly he had lost his job earlier that day and came right from the office that fired him. He probably should have gone home to gather his thoughts before because he just sat there in a daze. I noticed that in order to be seen by an advisor you needed to take a number and sit down. I, being the nice prince I am, noticed the man had no number.
I asked the man if he was waiting and needed a number. The man replied, "I've been here all god damn day and no one has helped me, now shut the hell up." I took a number and sat down. A few minutes later a lady calls my name and I look back to the nicely dressed man. He looks confused and says to me, "Guess I should have taken a number then, eh." I thought about giving him mine since he had been waiting. I didn't and thought to myself, "should have read the directions on the front door dip shit." I sit down and spend some time asking questions about my resume, applying for jobs, and unemployment. The lady was nice, but kind of manish. As I'm leaving the office I see the same well-dressed man is sitting with some hot younger blonde advisor, a solid 8 at least. She does that standing move where her cleavage somehow is the first thing to hit the full height of her body before any other part, and she goes to make copies. As I walk by the man says to me, "Those tits were worth the damn wait." I should have let the man go instead of me. Fucking karma.
It Starts
I am going to start receiving unemployment checks. I'm not happy about it but I've begun to accept it as an inevitability. The state sent me a one page green letter toady telling me how much they are going to give me. It's a fair amount for someone whose last job lasted only three weeks.
I finished my master's degree last December. I now get the letters MFCS behind my name. It is supposed to mean I am now a Master of Family and Consumer Sciences. I can never remember the letters, however. So when someone asks me what my Master's Degree is in I have to think to myself the following phrase "I am a Mother Fucking Cunnilingus Supreme...MFCS." Then I am able to remember what my degree is.
One time I accidentally whispered the words loud enough to an old lady at church who asked me what my degree was in. I think she was in disbelief as to what I said. I then replied louder, "Mother Fucking Cunt..." I then realized what I was saying and I just kind of quickly ran away. I probably could have told her something else to cover my ass because she was old and probably hard of hearing, but I'm not that quick of a thinker.
Don't worry if you haven't heard of Family and Consumer Sciences, no one has really. Basically a few feminists decided they didn't like their Home-Ech classes, so they branched out and took a bunch of stuff from other majors and combined them together...like cooking in a Home-Ech class. Anyway the major itself was ok, but since no one knows what the major is it's hard to get possible employers to understand that I want to work with people and not bake a chocolate cake.
I finished my master's degree last December. I now get the letters MFCS behind my name. It is supposed to mean I am now a Master of Family and Consumer Sciences. I can never remember the letters, however. So when someone asks me what my Master's Degree is in I have to think to myself the following phrase "I am a Mother Fucking Cunnilingus Supreme...MFCS." Then I am able to remember what my degree is.
One time I accidentally whispered the words loud enough to an old lady at church who asked me what my degree was in. I think she was in disbelief as to what I said. I then replied louder, "Mother Fucking Cunt..." I then realized what I was saying and I just kind of quickly ran away. I probably could have told her something else to cover my ass because she was old and probably hard of hearing, but I'm not that quick of a thinker.
Don't worry if you haven't heard of Family and Consumer Sciences, no one has really. Basically a few feminists decided they didn't like their Home-Ech classes, so they branched out and took a bunch of stuff from other majors and combined them together...like cooking in a Home-Ech class. Anyway the major itself was ok, but since no one knows what the major is it's hard to get possible employers to understand that I want to work with people and not bake a chocolate cake.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)