Gentleman's Club

So I find myself out of town on a Saturday night in a town of 300 in a gentleman's club. I'm used to big cities. On a Tuesday afternoon there can be be 50 people in one of these clubs. Now it's Saturday night, I'm expecting quite a crowd. To my surprise there's only 12 people here. It's gets better, it's all nude. You can't imagine the benefits of an all nude club. Local law prohibits the selling of booze in all nude clubs. I know, benefit? The benefit is that right next door (the doors are literally 3 ft apart) there's a bar. So, you drink a beer; then go next door to look at tits, ass, and pussy. Then flip flop. The greatest part is that the whores have to go next door to drink as well.

I go next door in an effort to continue my buzz and who sits next to me? A whore. Immediately I feel as though I'm being interviewed. Bro had warned me that women in small towns are only looking for one thing, husbands. This explains the interview process. I politely explain to the young lady wearing the barest of essentials that I live with family out of town and am damn near the poverty line at 15k/year. In my mind this should've been enough to turn the young clothes shedder away. I guess I must be that good, because I could barely believe what happened next. She started buying ME drinks. This was the first time that I ever had a whore buy me a drink in a titty bar.

Since luck is on my side I decide that I may as well see exactly how far I can push it. Whore agrees to complete honesty and says she doesn't mind if I say exactly what's on my mind. 5 minutes and 2 drinks after meeting her I offer her $20 to have sex with me in the parking lot. Well I guess this is not etiquette in small town USA because she is put back just a little by my comment. She suggests that we get to know each other a bit and see where the night takes us. Under normal circumstances this would be fine, but I had been drinking for 10+ hours now. I know that my conscious time is limited now. I decide to go for it. Here I am getting stinky fingers and an over the clothes hand job in a tiny bar in a tiny town. I would love to report the rest of the evening, but unfortunately we shut down the drinking bar and the last thing I remember is scantly clad whore ordering me one more double shot. After that the evening is a blur. Maybe in the future I will ask Brother what happened at the end of that evening, but for now he was not much in the chatty mood. He had his hands full with cleaning up. Someone (he claims it was me) puked in his new truck and peed on the couch that I was sleeping on.

Silverware

As previously mentioned I left my happy home to visit family out of town. Of course because I haven't seen family in almost 2 years we're going to spend as much time together as possible. The funny thing about spending so much time together is that you notice weird things that maybe had previously gone unnoticed.

So apparently Lacy (sister in law) has a weird thing about using silverware in a restaurant and drinking from the glasses without a straw. I guess she doesn't have faith in an undocumented worker's ability to sanitize these items properly.

Fast forward a couple of hours and a bunch of beer. After much drinking, dancing and karaoke my brother decides to show me to another establishment in town....ALL NUDE TITTY BAR! There are some good details here that I may come back to later, but for now I'd like to focus on Lacy's germ phobia.

We're at this 'gentleman's club' for all of 15 minutes before a member of the staff shows my brother and his pretty young bride to a 'couples room'. I later found out that the couples room was little more than a 10x10 room with dim lighting, a dingy couch, and a one way mirror (so bro doesn't have to take his eyes off of other naked women while banging wifey in the ass).

So in my professional opinion beer is the cure for phobias. Lace, who was leery of silverware in restaurant that is most likely visited by a health inspector at least once a year had no problems with biting a jizz stained sofa purchased from a garage sale while Papa packed her shit. Problem solved. Obviously she just needs to drink more.

Airplane

First things first. Lets be honest, there's something unnatural about human beings flying 35,000 feet in the air. Seriously, unless you're stoned there's no good reason to be that high off the ground. That being said, I have a weakness for women. My weakness prevents me from saying 'no' to women. Any women really. In this particular instance it was my sister in law. She requested that I fling myself from my end of the country to her's in a giant aluminum cigar tube referred to as an airplane. This is where I would generally refer to her as a dumb bitch, but given that she remained safely on the ground while I took my precious life in my hands it's clear that in fact I am the dumb bitch in this scenario. Please sit back and enjoy this fantastic journey into my mind from 35,000 ft above this beautiful Earth of mine.


Flying at 6 in the morning on a Wednesday seems like a fantastic idea. In fact, it was. There were all of 30 people on an airplane designed for at least 300. So far so good. Window seat. 2 open seats next to me. No one bother me what so ever. But of course given my luck this won't last long. Two middle age women decide that the seat right in front of me will be the best place for them stink, ramble mindlessly, and destroy peace and quiet is directly in front of me. It's okay, certainly the flight will be over before I know it, right?

I'm not sure if it was one or both of these fat slobs, but someone starts dropping ass like A-bombs on Hiroshima. This is by far the foulest odor I have ever tasted (yes, it was so bad I could taste it). WHY OH WHY WON'T THE MAGIC NIPPLE IN THE CEILING GIVE ME ANY MORE OF THE PRECIOUS OXYGEN THAT I NEED???

I did manage to fall asleep or pass out from greenhouse gasses being produced by cows in front of me. Whatever the cause I was blissfully dreaming of pussy in a strange place (the midwest). I'm awoken by the voice of god. Turns out that it was actually the pilot, not god. Common mistake I'm sure. "Just want to let everyone know that we're at 37,000 ft & everything is fine." What kind of fucking idiot wakes me up to tell me that everything is fine? This is the beginning of the end. Thoughts follow.

• fuck it! I have to smoke RIGHT NOW!
• Really, if cows can shit themselves what would the punishment be for me to smoke just one cigarette?
• I knew I should've gotten stoned.
• A was wrong. 5 is not too early to start drinking on a Wednesday morning.
• Is that retard on the other side of the isle seriously reading a newspaper article about plane crash from week before?
• I guess beer will have to do. Stewardess!
• You don't accept cash? I'm willing to give you $10 for a $4 beer. I think you can make an exception.
• Cash is apparently only good for all debts public & private IN the USA not ABOVE the USA.

At this point I was having what I can only assume was a panic attack. I've never had one before, but certainly that's what was going on here. I was looking longingly at the tiny window and thinking that I should start scratching at it like a dog that wants to come inside. Also, I decided that my skin was entirely too restrictive and that I should find a way out of it as well. Seriously. I could literally feel my soul trying to escape from this perfect specimen of man flesh that I am.

Now I decide regardless of consequences that I am going to smoke right here right now. Reaching for my life saving smokes I realize that the borrowed iPod in my pocket has a clock on it. I only have 15 minutes to go. I opt not to test airline security and just wait to smoke.

On the ground. Thankfully. Of course everyone's first question: How was your flight? I relive the experience for anyone that will listen. Luckily someone takes pity on me and gives me a Paxil for my return flight. I have never taken anything for anxiety before, but what the hell it can't be any worse than what I've already been through.

Return flight. I start getting anxious on the way to the airport. I guess the 6 or so beers weren't enough. I will take my happy pill as soon as I'm in the airport. I want to be sure that I give it time to work.

Returning flight is much more crowded. Oddly enough my anxiety is melting away though. Thought follow again:

• There's a lady sitting next to me. I wonder if she'll fart. Who cares? (Magic pill is amazing)
• Never in my life have I been so at ease. I may need to get some more of these.
• Lets test how well this works. Having thoughts like: Is that a bird cruising towards engine? Are the wings supposed to flex like that? Have I seen him on America's Most Wanted? All thoughts net the same response: Who cares!?!

Happy pill lasted almost entire flight. Next time I know to take two. IPOD was able to entertain me with unusual game involving a bouncing ball for last 30 minutes of journey. Finally on the ground safe and sound. I will NOT travel by plane again; at least not without the aid of modern medicine.

Guest Author

I wish D would get off his llllaaaaazzzzzyyyyy butt and make me laugh already. Since (as he makes very clear) I am not as funny as he is.

But you know what is funny? Turning away from the video chat for less than a minute and finding D jerking off when I come back.

Happy 21rst

disclaimer: Some of the details in this particular tale had to be filled in by others because my memory failed me. I will denote the parts that were told to me in italics.

Twenty One. It's a big one. My close friend Stinky offers to get everyone together to celebrate this milestone and also plan an evening for the ages. You wouldn't think of Stinky as being someone you'd want to plan a night out, but damn if he didn't come through.

Pregame: Of course we drank before we ever left, but I'm talking about the real pregame. Stink did his research. Literally. He researched books, websites, elders in the community; all in an effort to find the most obnoxious shot you can think of. To this day the smell of artificial cinnamon makes me nauseous. Now understand what S was up to here. He was looking for #1 shots that were actually 3 or more shots (example: 454 Big Block; 4 different shots of whiskey back to back) and #2 shit that no one had ever heard of. It doesn't stop here though, he combines 21 (theme of the evening) of the foulest shots you don't want to hear about onto a list. Done? Not Stinky. He prints list onto iron on paper and makes a t-shirt for me to wear on my special night. I guess in looking at the shirt he's realizing all that he already has invested and sets his mind to finding a way to offset the price of the evening. In true Stink fashion, he prints raffle tickets. There was no explanation on the previously mentioned shirt, just a fictitious website and $1,000 written huge across the top. Simple idea: Buy a shot for the birthday boy, buy a chance at a thousand buckaroos.

Game Time: I feel like an asshole wearing this t-shirt. I'm certain that someone will see right through Stinky's scam. (Mind you this could never be pulled off again. Fucking Blackberries!) I quickly overcome my nerves with booze. T-shirt on, 6-pack in, entourage of interchangeable assholes assembled; Let's do it.

First Quarter: Local tittie bar. Seems a likely place to start being that in the interchangeable assholes there are exactly zero women. Stink claims they will hold us back. Pay $5 cover for shithole where the girls wear stickers over there nipples (not kidding). I think we had been there for precisely two beers. Stink starts grabbing at my arm like a needy toddler and pointing at the stage like I'm missing something.

Stinky: You know who that is don't you?
Me: Some whore. Who cares? You like her? Go talk to her.
S: Dude, look closely. It's Genie from band.
(Public Service Announcement: If you're going to get hooked on drugs and work in a dive bikini bar, have some respect and go for one further than 10 miles from the high school you went to. I'm just saying.)
Me: This is too good.
Whole entourage of assholes charges the stage with $5 bills in hand. Sticker clad whore grabs Stink's $5 bill which he refuses to relinquish until she looks at his face. Blood rushes from whore's face as she looks at all of ours and realizes what has become of her life.
Entourage in Unison: Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha...................(this goes on for a while)
Whore leaves stage in tears.

Entourage is asked to leave. This may have proved to be the most expensive quarter. Given the five dollar cover charge it came out to more than a dollar a minute. Fuck that hole anyway. Nobody's going to buy me shots with naked women around anyway.

Second Quarter: Head to favorite country bar. Actually converted warehouse. For country bar, very cool. Dj booth is riddled with hanging bras. This is my kind of place. Even though it was a band girl she WAS naked and it reminds me that there are no women here. This is not the most approachable crew of assholes you've ever seen either. Thinking on my feet I call an audible, and one of my favorite whores, Stormy. Stormy has some of the most beautiful natural tits you've ever seen in your life and knows it. Not in a bad way though. She knows what she has on her hands and can't wait to share it with the world.

Now the shots are coming in at a pace that would kill even the most seasoned drinker. I danced with some women. The problem: The women weren't interested in dancing. Turns out they were only waiting in the beer line. Not sitting well with boyfriends. I'm relocated to the other side of the bar, it was a warehouse after all. Great! This side has a mechanical bull. Stormy and I ride the bull, together. I rode bitch. (I saw the pictures. Riding behind a girl with phenomenal tits. What did they expect me to hold on to?) Asked to leave. Apparently its okay to throw bra to Dj, but then you're supposed to put your shirt back on. Dammit Stormy. Whatever. At this point Stink was getting nervous that someone may have used an office computer to check drink lottery website.

I'm back. It was a good half an hour to get downtown (I took a sobering power nap).

Third Quarter: Downtown.

Stinky to Entourage: We can park in this garage and the casino right here will validate our parking just for coming in. (underlying theme of evening: Stinky is cheap & not above exploiting people with good intentions.)

Unfortunately I was not able to hold it together well enough to get past the door security. I went to shake hands with security only to realize that he in fact wasn't friendly, but had his hand extended in an effort to accept my id. Don't get me wrong. He was friendly. He could've just let me fall down. He caught me though.

I sit third quarter out. Assembly of assholes proceeds to go inside and enjoy my birthday. It's okay, I was probably due for another break.

Fourth Quarter: Assholes come back, parking and themselves validated and we continue to what would be the final bar. Just some shit hole, but it's in a college town and someone knows a bouncer. There are no shots left on the checklist so stink lets me do whatever people will buy (there are still more raffle tickets). It doesn't take long before a scene is made. The pack had been growing and shrinking as the night wore on, but all of the sudden it dawned on me that Stormy was no longer with us. Now this was a huge disappointment. I was all but guaranteed birthday sex. This doesn't sit well with me. Scene ensues. Known bouncer offers to take me outside to smoke a cigarette. It wasn't a store bought cigarette. This guy apparently likes to roll his own. Memory break ensues.

Bouncer to Stinky- We smoked a cigarette (wink wink) and D took off like a shot across a gravel parking lot.

It's unclear how much time had passed since the cigarette. What is clear is that someone is kicking my foot. This gentleman with a Bob Marley hairdo wants some money. This seems like a reasonable request, but I know that I only started the evening with a twenty dollar bill and I'm sure if I even still have it. What can I do? I ran. Again. He may or may not have been chasing me (entourage found this part hard to believe), but since I was the only one there.....I'm going with BM haircut chased me yelling: Give me $20.

I was able to lose guy and find a parking garage. The liquor is starting to wear off. I discover that in the wee hours of this March morning my only covering is a t-shirt with shots checked off and signatures. I'm cold. Like I said though, I located a parking garage. Certainly there's only one parking garage in a downtown and I will find Stink, right? No such luck. I did however find a radiator to curl up next to for another power nap. Again, unclear for how long. I decide being homeless isn't for me and that I would be more comfortable in a bed.

I venture out of the garage (after I was certain there was no other life around) and find a hotel. I try the door unsuccessfully, twice. This angers me. I decide the only way to go here is through the glass doors. Security guard (police officer earning over time) is not happy with this at all. Informs me that I in fact cannot stay in the hotel for the twenty bucks I have in my pocket. So this snobby bastard offers to make a single phone call on my behalf. My options were for that phone call to be to a taxi or to his buddies with the paddy wagon. The cab will be approximately 20 minutes. He allows me to wait inside on the promise that I do not pee on anything. My pants were evidence that I was no longer concerning myself with finding the proper facilities.

Cabbie wants cash upfront. I make the decision that the girl I'm seeing is the nearest safehouse that I can get to. The atm fee actually overdraws my account. I give the cabbie both twenties that I had and prayed that I could get to my destination.

The ride home: Again the entourage questions my memory of the next series of events, but I was there, so fuck'em.
Cabbie: Drinking will destroy your organs. Crack is much safer. (All the while driving 40 on a freeway posted for 65. Due to construction there are a total of two lanes and I'm certain I will not survive the ride home.)
D: I will keep that in mind next time, but I already gave you all the cash I have.
Crackhead: These fucking assholes drive too fast!
silence. another power nap? NO. CH is feeling chatty.
CH: Where's your coat? It's cold out here. (this is asked facing me)
D: I really don't want to die.

I'll be damned if some how I didn't survive this evening despite all odds. Cab fair came out to $39.70. Though I'm not religious, I'm certain someone was looking out for me this evening.

Post Game: Girlfriend (later to be named Mrs. & the Ex D) not impressed. Doesn't say (pause) anything. Just strips me, showers me, and puts me to bed. Just happy to have a bed I don't even try for sex.

Myself and assholes were all sworn, by Mrs. Ex D never to speak of this evening EVER! I'm not going to say it was comfortable immediately, but she got over it. Later the assholes and I did enjoy reliving the story, but never even in earshot of Mrs. Ex D.

Friday Afternoon

Woo (yeah I said it)! It's Friday and to make it even better it's a warm summer afternoon (100+ degrees) and the Jeep is stripped down (no windows, doors, or top). If ever there was a custom made day for chasing pussy this was it.

2:45 Inspiration hits me like a ton of bricks. Instead of wishing everyone a happy safe weekend I tell everyone to fuck off and don't even think about calling me for anything less than free beer, IT'S PUSSY GET'N TIME!

2:46 click click click Goddam Jeep won't start. click click click FUCK!!!

2:47 What's the odds any of the people I just told to fuck off will give me a jump start? Eh, fuck those assholes, I'll call a tow truck.

Fast forward three and half hours, I'm at the dealer (where else are you going to go on a Friday night).

By this time I'm of course irate for a laundry list of reasons.

1. It's past 6 on a beautiful Friday and I have neither the sweet taste of beer or pussy on my lips.
2. Really? #1 seems like reason enough to be irate at this point.

The rednecks at the dealer take their sweet ass time coming to get my keys from me. When they finally get around to coming to get my keys I'm in no kind of mood for human contact. Now it's just a matter of getting home as quickly as possible and drinking till I forget.

This next decision was the first of a few poor decisions on that afternoon. I decide that I'm in fact not patient enough to wait for the courtesy shuttle. After all, it's only 105 degrees or so with the sun still high in the sky. I start hiking. I should mention that being the trusting soul I am that I took everything of any value out of the Jeep and am now carrying it like a hobo, on my journey. I only have about 3 miles to cover.

2nd poor decision for the afternoon: Maybe an eighth of a mile into my excursion I see one of my favorite bars. It's an oasis. There it sits all brightly colored, big giant patio, favorite tailgate games, misters, fans, and most importantly WHORES. For anyone who doesn't know, Friday is one the best nights for whores, especially Happy Hour Whores. I'm telling you from experience that casual Friday applies to not only dress, but morals. This fact is only intensified by drinking in the sun. To this day, I can't for the life of me tell you why I kept walking. My best guess is that I was that pissed off about everything leading up to this point.

Travel a bit further. Regret not stopping in heaven for just ONE drink. Start thinking if there's any chance of salvaging this night that I better call some stand by and line it up so that she'll be there after I get home and grab a quick shower. Well in true women fashion she won't just except my order and get off the phone, she wants to chat. Honestly I didn't mind. I wouldn't say that I was happy to have the company, but I would say that I was glad to have someone to pull me out of my own neurotic thoughts until I could wipe them away with alcohol.

3rd poor decision: Still on the phone crossing the freeway overpass I almost don't see the homeless person holding a piece of cardboard with Cliff's Notes version of his biography. Of course being the kind person I am, I promptly avoided eye contact and talked loud enough for him to hear that I was on the phone and did not wish to be disturbed. The reason for this poor decision I will blame on the phone call. Not 3 blocks from Mr. Panhandler and it dawns on me that I missed a golden opportunity to ask a homeless person a question that has bothered me since I could read: Where do homeless people get markers? Seriously. I get the cardboard. I'm fairly certain that I myself could put my hands on some pretty nice cardboard, but a MARKER. Do they get together at night and share a single marker? If so, where do they get together, they're homeless!

4th poor decision: I'm now half way between beggar and home. I stop and seriously ponder going back to ask my question. I didn't. Again, it was just one of those afternoons. Let me tell you though, this was even a tougher decision than walking past the bar. Really, this is the equivalent to learning the meaning of life in my mind.

The heat stroke may be setting in at this point. I can't think of any good reason that I would've made such a series of crappy decisions. No point in beating myself up though, I'm almost there.

5th & Final poor decision: The human body is a weird fucker. Here I am wedging myself between the security gates (designed for cars so there's no pedestrian gate) and the only reason I'm able to slide through is because I'm sweating like a whore in church. All of this sweating and the gate pushes on my bladder just right giving me an awesome urge to pee. Pee what? I've sweat out every ounce of water I've had that day, and I haven't cracked so much as A beer. Well I'm home, not out of the woods yet though. Still there's a matter of about 150 yards to my door. Do I go behind some bushes? NO. Those of you following me know that I have a healthy respect for not being labeled 'sex offender' for urinating in public (really, it happens). Not going behind the bushes proved to be the worst mistake of all. My best non medical school training leads me to believe that years of binge drinking has all but destroyed my bladder because the cramp in my stomach decides at my door (I'm fumbling with my keys) that I'm close enough. Ah the wonder that is the human body.

Finally I'm home. Wet from sweat and piss, but dammit I'm home! That was one of the most delicious beers I've ever tasted in my life.

Why are you still reading? Were you looking for a moral to this tale? Read some the others, you'll get over it.

Guest Author

Let me tell you about the time D. told me a story that made me throw up.

Literally. And even to this day when I reminded D. about this story that he forgot he told me, I openly dry heaved while driving my car and trying to remind him of story while trying to NOT tell the story because I was already dry heaving THINKING about telling the story. Do you see where this is going?

D. was out with his mother and D. is not someone who will curb his behavior in front of his mother. If anything, I think he thinks the opposite. Why should he censor himself in front of his mother? She's been here the whole time. She should know what to expect when she goes out with him.

So he is out with his mother and they are at a fast food restaurant and they sit down at the table. His mother notices a small curly hair in her food (which is gross enough) and she makes the comment that no one working there has hair like this. At which point D. said to his mother, "Well, where do you have short and curly hairs?" To which his mother then BARFS all over the table. And I hang up the phone and barf as well.

I don't know if words can capture how delightfully gleeful D. was recounting this story to me; his ability to make his mother projectile vomit with a single comment. Or really for that matter, how happy that he was able to make ME vomit just by telling a story.