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Wednesday, December 20, 2006

Top 10 Incidents Involving Urine

I want to get a few things off my chest before we get to the list. First- fuck Steve Jobs. Fuck him in his stupid faggot ass. I'd like to step on Jobs' neck and tear his fucking eyeballs out. I purchased a Macbook on Thanksgiving, and it has been nothing but trouble. After spending hours on the phone with customer service/support, I had to send it back about 10 days ago, and it's still being repaired. This leaves me without a computer, which makes doing these posts a much bigger pain in the ass. Hey Jobs- CUT YOUR FUCKING ADVERTISING BUDGET AND TRY SELLING COMPUTERS THAT ACTUALLY FUCKING WORK! Second, I'd like to give a big FUCK YOU to any young people getting married who don't plan on having kids in the near future. Newsflash, cocksuckers: marriage is a business contract. There's no point to enter into it unless you plan on taking your relationship to the next level. Ordinarily, I don't give a fuck about anyone who's not in my immediate circle of friends/family, but this week I'm forced to sleep on the couch every night because of the poor decisions of some corporate cocksucker (that's as much of an explanation as I can give). So, fuck him, and fuck you too. Third, I was finally able to see the Tenacious D movie last night, and it was fucking awesome. I knew we were in for a treat when the pimple crusted teenager who took our tickets said, "It's in theatre 11, to your left- and it's a kickass movie!". This is not a movie for everyone- in fact, if you're not a stoner, don't see it. But, John- definitely see it.

Also a few words about these urine stories- I'd like to thank Ramon, without whom, most of these stories would not have happened. In fact, Ramon was physically present for 5 of the 10 incidents, and I give him credit for the genesis of involving urine in our carousing. It all began during soccer practice one day, when Ramon pissed in a bottle of Gatorade and then watched his friend Adam Eyesler drink it. By high school, Ramon had honed his urine craft, and we had even had a game. If one of us went into a public bathroom, the other would sneak in after him and try to piss on his shoes. And by college, Ramon had an amazing technique which allowed him to continue drinking at the bar, no matter how badly he had to urinate (see below). Finally, without further ado, the top 10 piss stories:

10. Sphinx' Chest
Cousin Sphinx and I were both very young, say 10 years old. I was staying with him and his family at their beach house in Hull. It was dusk, and nobody was left on the beach. Sphinx wanted to be buried in the sand, and I complied. When I realized he could not get up, I unleashed a hot stream of piss on his chest and ran away.

9. Hull Piss II
Sphinx and I were older now, and more advanced with our urine trickery. This time, we joined forces against our sisters, who were engaged in a prank war with. We each pissed into a misting bottle and sprayed a light film of urine all over their sheets. The piss rotted quickly in the summer heat, and before long, their bedroom smelled like a mens' room at a football game.

8. The King and I
I was 17 years old, and it was a Friday night. King and I didn't have plans, but we wanted women. We bought a bottle of Rumplemintz, a 30 pack of beer, and a funnel and drove to the beach. We walked up and down the beach funnelling beers and looking for babes. King found one, and I didn't. Neither of us got play, and we walked back to my truck completely shit-housed. We went to sleep in the back of my Tahoe and woke up drenched in piss. We found some of the piss-soaked clothes outside of the truck. We still don't really know what happened.

7. Ramon at Bars
As mentioned above, Ramon developed an ingenious technique for avoiding the bathroom at bars. He would stand or sit at the bar, drink his drink, chat it up with the people around him, and surreptitiously pull his cock out and piss all over the bar. This was one of his signature moves. It only backfired once, during the Blackface incident, which will be chronicled here at some point. I have used this technique many times as well, and I highly recommend it at crowded bars. To the best of my knowledge, Ramon still does this.

6. Allman Brothers Concert
This was my first experience pissing on a live human being who wasn't related to me, and it was very enjoyable. About 10 of us had piled into Rob's van for the concert. We were 17 (some of us 16) and we got completely destroyed. Quaze was sleeping face down on the grass. When we later harrassed him for missing the whole concert, he famously replied, "I heard the whole thing". On the outskirts of our circle of mayhem, there was a hippie girl who seemed to be on heavy hallucinogenic drugs. She was dancing by herself, barefoot, eyes half-closed, really feeling the music. I pulled out my weiner and started pissing right next to her. The pee was splashing all over her feet, but she didn't care, and so I began to piss directly on her feet while swirling my hips and laughing like a lunatic.

5. Administering Striker's Piss
Striker and I were at Proof in NYC with a bunch of the Cornells. It was a Thursday night, all you can drink for 20 bucks. Obviously we were out of our minds. Striker finished his gin and tonic, and filled his cup back up with piss. He even put a new lime in and added more ice. He dared me to get someone to drink it. I approached some nearby college asshole and challenged him to a chug-off, and handed him Striker's cup of piss. He downed it like an animal and noted that it was so easy, just like water. Then we got the hell out of there.

4. SARS' Roommate
This occurred one year after the Manson-inspired events described in "Raynok in DC". Ramon, Johnny, Quaze and I were all at SARS' apartment. SARS was Quazar's girlfriend at the time, and we were completely laying waste to her place. Ramon was tearing around the place with his pants at his knees and headphones on, annihilating SARS' apartment while listening to Justin Timberlake's first album on his Discman. Johnny and I were behaving more low-key, encouraging Ramon's destruction, and using SARS' roommate Dana's room as a toliet. We each took several pisses in the corner of her room, for absolutely no reason*.

3. Mardi Gras
Ramon went to school in New Orleans, so I spent the '00, '01 and '02 Mardi Gras' with him. I have no clue what year this was, but I know it was 8 or 9 AM- it was definitely broad daylight. We were still partying from the night before, and I was under the influence of several drugs. There was a man passed out on a couch which sat on the front lawn of Ramon's fraternity house. From the second story of the house I unleashed a long stream of urine onto this man, emptying the entire contents of my bladder on this slumbering stranger's face.

2. Senior Prom
As per North Brunswick tradition, we spent the weekend following senior prom at the beach in Wildwood, NJ. I was ejected from the house after just one day for my outrageous behavior which included dying myself blue, breaking bottles, refusing to wear any clothes at all, and pissing on Paul Rosavere. Paul was passed out on a pile of his own clothes when I decided to piss on him. I aimed at his chest, and after a few seconds he woke up to see a howling Raynok standing above him dousing him in urine. He was still groggy, and so he slowly tried to inch back from the stream of piss. Despite his efforts, I kept stepping forward to ensure that the piss was localized entirely on his torso region.

1. Some Girl Drank My Urine
It was my senior year of college, and I was at the local bar with a bunch of friends. The bar had excellent specials on pitchers of beer, so that's pretty much what everyone drank there. I was seated comfortably in the booth, and though I had to urinate, I did not wish to leave my seat. I grabbed a pitcher in front of me which was about 1/5 full, held it under the table and pissed into it. All of my friends and the other people at the table realized what I was doing, except for one girl. She was a crappy looking know-it-all, and very annoying. Too self-absorbed to realize what was going on, I poured her a nice tall glass of piss which she drank without flinching. She never realized why the table erupted with laughter with each sip that she took.


*I can't say I regret any of the above stories, with one small exception. Instead of pissing in Dana's room, I wish I would have polluted SARS' room instead.

Saturday, December 16, 2006

A Friday Night

The pre-work hours sail by, the minutes whisked away by the December desert breeze. I down the last of the beer from my can of Busch Light and munch on a pizza crust as I pull on my blue hoodie and khaki workshirt. One more bowl to smoke before I leave to ease the transition, the streetlights guiding me from the glitz of Scottsdale to the working class charm of Tempe. A Camel Light sits between my lips, a flashlight rests in my front pocket. The windows are down and I play the Drive-By Truckers' "Dead, Drunk and Naked" on repeat. The song's Southern protagonist is at once tragic and proud, and it's persevering nature is comforting. The night air is cool on my nose and fingertips, brisk enough to know I'm alive, but not entirely unpleasant. I park the car, administer Visine and head into the bar. Only 8 pm, but it's filled with drunks- button-ups and corportate whores, college kids and local dirtbags already feeling the flow from happy hour. It's a Friday night, but it's not my Friday night, and the next 7 hours belong to the bar. Amid stares and various comments on my appearance, I lug out the tables, chairs, and unwieldy pool tables to make room for the dancing which will pick up in an hour or two.

I am stationed outside the side patio for the moment, a brief respite from Akon's "Smack That" and "I Wanna Love You", Timberlake's "My Love", and the abhorrent "Fergalicious", all of which I have heard more than any sane man can take. Leaning against a lightpost, watching the Rockets/Lakers game on a TV mounted from the ceiling, I hear a drunken woman's voice bitching something about a "crazy guy staring". I lower my eyes to locate the source of the sound and find a pretty mid-thirties whorebot glaring at me. "What are you pretending to watch? Football, basketball? I know all the lines so don't even try to fuck with me," she snarls. Before I can answer, she barks, "You know what- instead of wasting your time staring at me why don't you take that energy and get a fucking job!". I feel a smirk cross my face as the other members of her party lower their heads in embarrassment. Apparently she had not seen the bar logo with the word SECURITY emblazoned on my shirt. "I am working," I say, "This is my job". It takes her a long second to process this information and, with a little help from her friends, she realizes her folly. Her next move? Inviting me to sit on her lap. I shake my head 'no' and she tries to engage me in a conversation about the woes of her love life, stating that I would probably be the "nicest guy in [her] world". I largely ignore her, which is easy to do since I am already standing 15 feet away from her, and continue watching my sports program. I have no remorse for whores. If this woman didn't surround herself with 'roided out apes and rich pricks then the dearth of nice guys in her 'world' would probably be less of an issue. But I suppose that's what happens when you pack all of your self-worth into a fast-fading pretty face and fat pair of tits.

About an hour later, I'm standing in the same spot. The game is now in overtime. A young, drunk Asian man motions for me to come over, presumably to answer a question. As I approach him, he holds out his arm, and to my confusion, tries to dump and handful of coins in my hand. "We can't accept tips," I start to stammer, when I suddenly realize that this young Samaritan actually thinks I am homeless. He notices my shirt at the same time, and we share a laugh and shake hands.

And it's not even 10 PM yet; the real drunks are still at home pre-gaming. 5 more hours to go. 5 hours til I can finally get off my feet. The streets will be quiet and empty by the time I leave, the wide roads easily shared by the other lonely riders and drifters of the night. I'll smoke the last bowl of the day and join my friends Stan, Kyle, Kenny and Cartman who are patiently waiting for me on Quazar's DVR. Every other living soul that I know will have long been asleep by that point. And soon I'll lay down as well, for a dreamless slumber on a bed that's not mine, in an apartment I don't pay for.

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Denver Nuggets T-Shirt Aftermath/Hawkman

Cornelia was obviously not well, and she was in some sort of mental health facility for a while after that episode. I couldn't really blame Corny for what happened, but at the same time I wasn't very eager to speak to her ever again. She did send me a text which said "sorry for raping you" which I thought was pretty funny, but again, really did not want to see her ever again. And I didn't see or speak to her for a long time, but eventually, Corny, Grasleak and I all ended up living in New York City. Corny was one of Gras' best friends, and Gras is one of my best friends, so a reunion was inevitable.

I tried many times to avoid a meeting with Corny, but it happened one night in the winter months. Johnny was in town for the night, and we ended up at Black Door in Chelsea where we met cousin Brad, cousin Gras, ex-girlfriend Violet, Corny, and Striker, among other friends that were meeting us there.

Cornelia and I exchanged polite greetings, only after I had gotten myself pretty boozed. I didn't spend long talking to her, but I had an excuse since there were so many other people that I knew in the bar. As the night wore on, John and I got extremely wasted off gin and tonics, as was our style in those days. I was a full steam Raynok and John had become his alter ego as well, Maniac Jones.

The combination of Raynok and Maniac Jones is pretty formidable. When we have a certain level of alcohol in our bloodstream we become an unstoppable two-man team, committed to destruction and laughter in equal measure*.

It was late in the night and most of our friends had gone home with babes or out to other bars. Maniac, Striker and I were still going strong. It gets a little hazy here, but Cornelia invited the three of us up to her apartment to get high. Grasleak came too, and she seemed to be running the show with Striker. Maniac and I didn't really know what was going on.

We got to the apartment, which was very close to the bar, and Cornelia's roommate was still up. She was a large, brutish fat whom I continually referred to as "this guy". I asked who 'this guy' was and proudly stated that I didn't like 'this guy'. I was being a real dick. Neither Jones nor I felt comfortable in the apartment, and we both wanted to leave very badly. We were complaining and trying to leave the whole time.

Suddenly, Gras, Corny and 'this guy' went into the bathroom for a girl conference. Jones and I locked eyes for a hard second, and that was it- we destroyed the place. We threw coasters and smashed a salad bowl on the floor, dripped candle wax everywhere, overturned various objects, and annihilated a deck of cards, all while laughing like hyenas. I took the sash from a red silk robe and tied it around my head like Rambo as we continued the mayhem, pausing only to catch our breath from laughing.

When the girls came back from the bathroom, they could not believe what we had done. I was ice skating around the floor on some oily lettuce, and Jones was pouring candle wax into the cracks of the floor. We stopped in our tracks like deer in headlights when they saw us, and Corny's face twisted up with anger. She burst into tears and slapped me across the face and started screaming at me. Jones and I looked at eachother, turned on our heels and sprinted out of the apartment. And that is the last I have seen of Corny.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Hawkman

Hawkman has been a prominent character in our mythologies for many years now, dating back to the days of the Dibs postings. Not much was ever known of this Hawkman, except that he eats necks. This is the story of how I met Hawkman (twice), who turned out to be a woman.

The night that Cornelia and I got a hotel room in the City, we arrived to the front desk very late. We were both very drunk. I remember some kind of confusion ensued, where I was led to believe that I had to purchase the room for two nights instead of one. Corny had to leave the next morning, but I luxuriated in my fine surroundings, enjoying the plush hotel bed.

When I was finally ready to start my day, around noon, I met up with Quazar, Noomin, and Ramon at their Tribeca apartment. We went out that night, and ended up on the roof of the Gansevoort Hotel which I think is called Plunge. I met a young lady of average beauty (a "straight 5" as Noomin would say) and after some heavy frenching, I invited her to go back to my hotel room. The girl protested, saying we could just go back to her apartment which was closer, but I insisted. We took a cab to the hotel, walked through the lobby and got into the elevator. It was then that I realized something was wrong. I knew I was on the 22nd floor, but this hotel only had 15 floors. I had taken her to the wrong goddamn place. We inquired at the front desk and they gave us directions to the correct hotel. The young lady again suggested we go back to her apartment, but again I rebuffed her. We took another cab to the correct hotel, got up to the room, and tried the key. It didn't work. Why? Because contrary to the ramblings of my booze-soaked brain, I had only purchased the room for one night. This girl was pissed off. She wanted nothing to do with me at this point, but she let me stay at her apartment since I had nowhere else to go. On the way to her place, which was now in walking distance, I stole her a loaf of wheat bread from a truck that was making a delivery. Unfortunately, this did nothing to soften her anger.

When we finally got to her apartment, she was most definitely NOT in the mood for love, and we parted ways the next morning, never to speak again...

UNTIL more than a year and half later, around Christmas time last year. I was living in New York, and one night I was out with Quazar and Noomin, and John. Noomin was meeting a friend at the bar, and she had brought many of her friends, who were also girls. One of these girls was tall with a strong and sturdy bird nose, and all of a sudden, to John and I at least, she became Hawkman. We did not speak to her or even get physically close to her, but the rest of the night was spent singing songs and laughing about Hawkman. Noomin later commented that I couldn't hook up with Hawkman, and a bet was born. Quazar said he'd buy me lunch every day for a month if I could hook up with Hawkman. The catch was, while fucking her, I had to moan, "Oh Hawkman, you feel so good, Hawkman!". I accepted the challenge.

A week or two later, we had word that Noomin's friend would be with Hawkman at some bar, so we headed over there. Sure enough, there was Hawkman, minding her own business at a table. I went over and we started talking, but before too long, Hawkman said, "You don't remember me, do you?". I told her I didn't remember, and so she recounted to me the whole story of the hotel misunderstanding- it was the same girl. I apologized and told her that I now I lived in the city, so nothing like that would happen again. Then, to my shock, Hawkman came home with me again! I blacked out most of what happened, and although I woke up naked, I'm 99% sure that I didn't bang her, and I'm 100% sure that I didn't say, "you feel so good, Hawkman". The next morning, Hawkman had made a comfy nest in my bed. She did not want to leave. I made up a lie about having to go somewhere, and walked her out to the subway, and that was the last I ever saw of Hawkman. But for those of you who still live in the City, keep an eye out for old Hawkman, for she still flies about on her magical wings, ridding the streets of worms and mice, and whatever else hawks might do.


*This will be further explored in the forthcoming New Jersey Chronicles.

How I Lost My Denver Nuggets T-Shirt

It was a beautiful T-shirt: royal purple with fine hand stitching; snug-fitting in all the right places, with the brightly colored majesty of the old-school Denver Nuggets logo adorning the chest. I loved that shirt, and it was an artifact from my Miami heyday, a simple reminder of happier days past. It had always brought me luck, and so I packed the shirt for a weekend in Cape Cod where I would stay with my aunt and uncle in a house they had rented for the summer.

Cousin Sphinx flew into the Newark airport. I picked him up and we set off on our journey, stopping at Foxwoods Casino on the way. I'm not much of a gambler, but Sphinx wanted to hit the tables, so I ambled around the facility, leisurely killing time. It was then that I received an ominous phonecall.

It was Cornelia, a good friend of cousin Grasleak. Cornelia was a pretty girl, although you could tell she was insane just by looking at her. She resembled Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, though Cornelia looked both more crazy and less evil than the famous bunny-boiler.

I had met Corny a few months prior to my Cape Cod trip. It was early summer, and I was just starting the mortgage business. I had to go up to Hartford for a few days of training. A few hundred miles north in the city of Boston, a different set of events were unfolding which would eventually result in free sex for me. Cornelia had just broken up with her boyfriend, and, being a lunatic, she wished to start up some romance immediately. She had heard various tales of my exploits and had seen a few pictures of me; apparently, this was enough.

Corny presuaded Grasleak to put us in touch with eachother, so Gras told me the story. Basically, I needed to make a phonecall and I could bang this girl. Of course, I was in. I gave Cornelia a call, which went well enough, and soon we had to plans to meet- in my hotel room in Hartford. Nothing explicitly sexual was stated but obviously the lay was mine to lose.

I got to Hartford late. It was a dark, rainy night and I was tired and stoned. I checked in and threw my bag into the room. Corny was on her way, but luckily I had enough time to take a blow dryer to my armpits. She pulled up and I got into the car to show her where to park. It was the first time I had met her and the whole thing was very strange, but I was able to keep my cool. I was pleased with her appearance.

We both needed a drink pretty bad so we hit the bar first. I was drinking bourbon in those days, so I got a double on ice. She got some sort of fruity shit. We were only a couple rounds in before it was last call (stupid doodytown Hartford) and neither of us were really boozed enough to bang a complete stranger, but alas, we did anyway. We got a little high and fucked twice. I got up early for training, and she had to work or some shit like that, so she was gone when I got home.
Not long after, Cornelia and I had some vigorous hotel sex when we were both in the City one night. I had put the hotel on my credit card, which resulted in a strange episode with Hawkman*.

A couple weeks, perhaps a month later, I had another training session in Hartford, and this time I took the detour into Boston. Corny and I would have a phone conversation every now and then, but mostly we communicated by text or sometimes IM. It was a casual affair, both of us content to see eachother for short bursts of intermittent fucking.

But wandering the casino on that summer day, something about Corny's voice made me uneasy. She seemed determined and way too anxious. Cornelia was living with Grasleak in Boston, and they were both supposed to join Sphinx and I in Cape Cod. However, Gras was feeling very ill, and this put a monkey wrench in the plans of Corny, who was anticipating a weekend full of cock. Cornelia was jibber-jabbering nonsense to me about forcing Gras to go to Cape Cod. I wasn't paying much attention. I told her that I hoped she could make it but if not then we'd see eachother another time.

Sphinx finished up gambling and we got back on the road, arriving in the early evening. We had dinner with my aunt and uncle and relaxed at the house. Then, Corny and Gras arrived like a hurricane.

I was not prepared for the scene. Corny had gained about 10 pounds in the 4 weeks since I saw her last and she was wide-eyed and rattled, greeting everybody with big theatrical 'hello's. She had also brought a large amount of toys for us to play with. I mean like actual toys, children's toys. Sphinx knew I had been banging her, but this was the first time he met her. His face was priceless. Any casual observer could tell that this person was insane. I was embarrassed.

Behind Cornelia was cousin Gras who was feeling horrible and had endured hours in the car with this maniac. The two of them were basically in a fight, which put me in a very strange position. Gras went to the doctor and then went to bed, leaving Cornelia to hang with Sphinx and I on the porch. Sphinx and I were torched, just sitting outside enjoying the night air. At one point, Corny screamed at Grasleak, then cursed at my uncle who asked her to stop yelling. Then she threw her phone into the woods and curled into my lap ferociously crying.

This was not the same person I had been fucking. She was obviously in a manic state, but nobody knew how to control her or why the hell she was at the house. When she finally settled down, Sphinx and I escaped to my car where we smoked a couple bowls. The house was quiet and dark when we came back in.

It's necessary for me to explain the unique structure of the house. The front door opened to a main level which contained the TV room, kitchen and master bedroom (where my aunt and uncle were staying). There was also a small second story which overlooked the TV room like a balcony. It was a small, open room at the top of the stairs with no closing door and basically no walls. There was also a basement which had 3 additional bedrooms. Sphinx had one room, Gras had another, and Corny took the room that was supposed to be mine. I was relegated to the open, defenseless second story.

I was in the hazy purgatory between waking and sleep, just about to drift off, when I was stirred by an unfamiliar presence. Corny appeared hovering over me, whispering. She was wearing nothing but a towel and she was holding several orange ice pops which were melting all over her hands and dripping on the bed. She dropped the towel and climbed onto the bed, advancing toward me. I drew back, horrified. I smelled the stench of fish, and sand was sprinkling all over the bed, falling from her nude body**. "Your aunt is right downstairs," she hissed in my ear, "You better keep quiet or she'll hear us". I said nothing, lying on the bed frozen with fear. Cornelia told me she needed to get off, and if I wouldn't do anything about it then she would. She began to furiously masturbate like a monkey on a movie set, thrashing around the bed. I calmed her down and she climbed on top of me, sliding my terror-stricken boner inside. Many have asked me how I was able to get a boner in such a situation, and it seems the expression "scared stiff" is appropriate; incidentally, it's the only way I can explain it.

The horror lasted for a decent while and I tried to keep her as quiet as I could for the duration. After 10 minutes or so, she disengaged from the cock, informed me that she came three times, picked up her towel and left. I lay shivering in the bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to forget what happened. I could not sleep. Later that night, Corny reappeared, this time wearing a pair of my boxers and the aforementioned Denver Nuggets t-shirt. She was babbling some sort of nonsense about driving her car to the hospital because she wanted to take a pregnancy test. I just stared at her. I was on no sleep and everytime I shifted in bed I felt the sand or the sticky ice-pop drippings to remind me of my shame. Finally she disappeared back into the night and I was able to catch a couple hours of sleep.

When I woke up the next day, I found out the horrifying news about my t-shirt. Cornelia had indeed driven her car to the hospital (wearing my clothes) except somewhere on the way to the hospital, she pulled onto the shoulder, got out of the car, left the door ajar, and took a nice nap right there on the pavement. Before too long a cop saw this absurd scene and brought her to the hospital she had been seeking. And the doctors cut the goddamn shirt off of her body.

*The Hawkman story will be told in the next post, Denver Nuggets T-shirt Aftermath/Hawkman.

**I later found out the source of the fish smell: Cornelia had been pouring cod liver oil all over herself. As for where the sand came from, that is still a mystery.

Sunday, December 10, 2006

The Orange Oil

I spent every dime I had in Miami, so I was forced to return to my humble hometown in central New Jersey. The transition was not easy for me. I was used to partying 5 nights a week. My body ran on booze. And now I was having to shave my face, tuck in my shirt, and talk about mortgages. It was most unfavorable, and so my penchant for booze carried into weekends and often spilled over into the weekdays.

But New Brunswick was not the same as Miami. I was getting just as smashed, but hitting on uglier, dirtier girls and driving a much farther and treacherous distance. On most nights, I was getting even more annihilated than in Miami since I was depressed, plus I had less time to get the alcohol into my body. Bars in New Brunswick close at 2, so I really had to work to pound that sauce into my belly. I had been absolutely abusing my body, and one day, it gave me a wake-up call.

I was sitting in the kitchen of my parents house, eating the healthy breakfast which my Mother had fixed me. It was a nice bowl of blueberries with yogurt and low-fat cottage cheese and a tall glass of orange juice to wash it down. My clean white button-down shirt was tucked into a sharp-looking pair of grey slacks. I was watching my music videos and conversing with my mother as I leisurely breakfasted, trying to delay leaving for the office for as long as I could. There was a bit of a rumble in my stomach, and I let a couple of warm, silent farts ease out of my asshole. I didn't think much of it, as several farts are expelled from my anus on a daily basis, and so I continued eating.

When I had eaten my fill, I got up to retrieve something from my room. "What's that on your chair?," my Mother called out. I told her I didn't know, as I walked back into the kitchen to inspect the chair. My Mom was bending over the chair, looking closely at the large pool of orange oil which lay placid on the seat. She touched her finger to it and smelled it. "It smells like motor oil," she said, wincing. I went over to take a closer look as she washed her hand. "What the hell is that?," I said. "Is it on my pants?". When I turned around, my Mom told me that it was indeed on my pants. All over them, in fact. I hurried into the bathroom and removed my pants to inspect the stain, and saw that oil had passed through to my boxers. That's when I realized that the oil came from me, through my asshole in the form of two hot farts. The oil was so warm and fluid that I hadn't even felt it. I sat down on the john and more oil came. A lot more. When I was done, the toliet looked like someone was doing a bad job of making a vinagrette with pizza oil. I was scared. I thought something was seriously wrong with me, that after all the years of abuse I had finally harmed myself in some terminal, irrevocable way.

I told my Mom what happened and, after getting mad at me for letting her touch the oil, she became very concerned too. A brief wave of happiness washed over me when I thought that I might get to stay home from work, but it was not to be. I still had to go into the office; my Mom would call her best friend who was a doctor and let me know what he said.

I was uneasy the entire day at work, and shat out oil a few more times, each subsequent shit containing more and more solid portions of doody. When I got home, my Mother told me that her doctor friend had never heard of anything like the orange oil. He told her something about how both fat and alcohol are processed in the liver, and he suspected it had something to do with my heavy alcohol intake.

I was scared straight, at least for a few days. Unfortunately for me, when I get wake-up calls, I tend to stay awake and alert for only a few hours before going right back to sleep. I seriously cut down on the bottle for maybe a week. Soon after, I started going out again, but I was getting slightly less hammered. And of course, before too long, I had eased back into my regular rampage style of drinking.

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

On My Appearance

I have been cultivating this appearance for a good 5 months or so, and the results have been pretty interesting. It all came about from some talks I had with my girlfriend, when she revealed that she found it very attractive when my hair was big and full, and my beard was thick. Jokingly, I told her that I would not cut my hair or trim my beard until I reached my goal of resembling Tom Hanks in Cast Away. To my surprise and delight, she actually thought that was a good idea. But since that time, this appearance has taken on new meaning. To me, it symbolizes the the refusal to compromise or kowtow to the demands of this misguided society; I feel a great freedom in having this appearance.

Of course it is not without its drawbacks. Contrary to what my mother believes, I am not doing this to stand out. In fact, on many occasions, it is a great burden, as I have to answer the exact same questions day in and day out. Anytime I meet a new person, I can be sure that the topic of discussion will eventually settle on how I look. This can be very annoying when I'm in a bad mood, high, or just want to be left alone. But at the same time, I am happy to see the overwhelming enthusiasm people have regarding my hirsute countenance, and I am really starting to believe that people enjoy it on a deeper level than merely, "Whoa that guy is hairy. He looks funny". I think that people identify it with my plight of remaining in individual in this homogenized world.

Strangers often come up to me and want to introduce themselves, telling me how awesome I look, and associating my appearance with however they view themselves. I can't even tell you how many times a man has come up to me and made some sort of comment to the effect that we are allies, fighting for the same cause. What's remarkable is that many different people with vastly different styles all seem to identify with me. Hip-hop kids, tattooed weirdos, old drunk men- they all see something in me which they feel inside themselves. At first I found it bizarre, but now I am starting to understand it.

When I looked like the rest of you, it was for two main reasons: a) I was a slave to pussy and b) I was a slave to the working world. If I never cared about getting laid or making money, I would have looked like this years ago. And I think that is what all these envious dudes see in me: a great unflappable freedom- the freedom to look like a natural man.

I understand that for most of you, letting your hair and beard grow untamed is simply not an option. Even for me personally, it doesn't come for free. I cannot get hired at normal job. The goddamn head shop wouldn't even call me back. I was only able to land the job that I currently work at because my friend (a bartender there) convinced the managers to give me a chance. And although I enjoy the job, I am making 8 dollars an hour and I work very late nights- two things which have very adverse effects on my personal life. But I'm not complaining, and I actually feel a greater sense of happiness than I ever have before. It is a sense of happiness that can only be achieved by taking on the world on your own terms, and I am pleasantly reminded of that every time I look at this ridiculous face in the mirror.

Saturday, December 02, 2006

In Response II

I like you, Bob. I don't know you, but I dig your style, and your comments are well-written and insightful. In regards to your first comment, I am doing my best to become a writer the only way I know how, which is admittedly poorly. While writing a book seems like a good idea, I am hesitant to commit to such a mammoth undertaking without specific knowledge that I'll get paid for it. As a poor man, I have go for whatever seems most likely to net me a paycheck, which is why I've been working on scripts and development concepts for television programs; my friend Hollywood Ramon is in a position to help me out in this area, so I feel I have to take advantage.

What'd I'd really like to do, my ultimate dream, is a sort of update/overhaul of Carl Sagan's landmark TV series, Cosmos. I believe that a tremendous percentage of today's religious people are by-products of shitty education. I think that if you REALLY understand basic astronomy and biology, atheism is par for the course. Unfortunately, the way science is taught is so incredibly dry that it's tough for even smart people to pay attention, let alone the idiots which comprise the vast majority of this country. So my goal is to explain biological and astronomical properties in a manner that even a retard could understand, while at the same time ensuring that the entire affair is entertaining, funny, and controversial (with kick-ass computer graphics/animation). But for now, that remains a distant dream, and I must do what I can to earn my stripes as a writer, which, for now at least, means focusing on that hollywood shit.

And now on to your comments about religion. You make an excellent point- that before the Big Bang there was dust and gas, but where did that dust and gas come from? And what came before that? Difficult, thought-provoking, maddening questions to say the least, but I am hesitant to say that it is beyond the realm of science. Simply because we cannot yet explain something does not mean that it's unexplainable, and to leave these lofty questions to religion for lack of another option is a crime.

Furthermore, it incenses me that the religious will actually use this as an argument for their cause. They argue as if their childish fantasies are the only alternative; as if the failure of science to explain anything MUST mean that their little storybooks and rituals are right. You'll find a great example of this in the article linked below, brought to my attention by the inimitable Meat-head:

http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1555132,00.html

For those of you who haven't read the article, or have terrible reading comprehension, let me sum it up for you. Dawkins has a debate with a scientist named Francis Collins, a guy who is apparently very well-accomplished, yet, for reasons beyond my comprehension, he is a devout christian. Dawkins proceeds to give intelligent arguments, but Collins uses the old impenetrable religious argument, which is impossible to debate against because it's really not an argument at all. He uses god as a trump card, forcing reason and logic out of the debate. Here's an example: As a scientist, Collins is well aware that things like virgin birth or coming back to life 3 days after death are laughably absurd and physically impossible. So how does he justify it? He says that god can do anything, and god just decided to bend the laws of physics to make miracles. In other words, Collins thinks that god set certain unbreakable physical laws which everything in the known universe has obeyed since recorded history (the stupid bible is NOT history). Then, just to fuck with us, god decided to break those immutable laws for a few isolated incidents thousands of years ago. It's peculiar that god wouldn't break those laws again now that we have advanced science. Stranger yet- Collins actually believes in evolution. How does he reconcile that with god? He claims god set the whole thing up- that god set evolution in motion. So god apparently knew that we'd figure evolution out, but hoped that we'd still subscribe to the idea of a divine creator, even in the face of this damning evidence. This leads me to believe that god only wants gullible cowards in heaven; those who make decisions based on evidence and facts would seem to be unwelcome. That's all very well and good- great argument, Collins!- but unfortunately, that argument can be applied to literally any belief system. Consider the following example, as I have a debate between myself and Larry Rollins, also a scientist, and a devout follower of the little known Church of the Anus, as well.

A little background on the Analists: they have a similar belief system to christianity, except they don't think that Jesus is the messiah. According to their great book, a man named Creamus is the messiah- Jesus is simply his little brother. The story goes like this: back in those biblical days, there was indeed a woman named Mary, and she was a virgin, but strictly in the vaginal sense. You see, Mary got fucked in the ass all the time. Mary, mother of Jesus, simply couldn't get enough cock in her asshole, and her signature was that she always wanted the man to blow his load deep in the shit-covered walls of her colon. Her favorite lover was Antwoine, an extremely large black man with a massive cock, so large as to occasionally rupture the sensitive lining of the asshole. Then, one day, Mary became pregnant. She soon realized this was no ordinary pregnancy. Mary had a duplicate uterus, fallopian tubes, and all that other crap, except that this equipment happened to be up the ass rather than up the vagina. Then, one magical day, she shit out a beautiful, shit-covered mulatto baby. This baby was Creamus. As it would happen, Antwoine was actually a servent of Shark-cock, the all-knowing supreme being, creator of the universe, who lives in the deep abyss of our oceans. Shark-cock had morhped into Antwoine to impregnate Mary, so that he could have an heir on earth to do his bidding. Here's when things got complicated- some faggot named Joseph fucked Mary- but not in the ass. To Mary's dismay, he fucked her in the vagina. The result was Jesus, a thin, weak lunatic who, jealous of his older brother Creamus, traveled the land espousing nonsense. When Shark-cock noticed Jesus gaining power, he called upon Creamus to murder him, afterwhich Creamus joined Shark-cock deep in the ocean to help sit in judgement of man. Someday in the future, Shark-cock is going to end the world by creating a great flood and eating all of the people, except for the faithful, who will be saved by a second coming of Creamus. All pious Analists regularly deposit cumshots in their wives' assholes in the hopes that they might be the father to the rebirth of Creamus, the messiah. Rather than a cross, the symbol of the Analists is wide-spread anus, dripping with cum. This might sound odd to you, but trust me, the idea of a virgin birth sounds just as ridiculous to the Analist. As you'll see below, Larry can use the exact same argument as Collins to justify his beliefs.

Me: Larry, we have explored much of our oceans and have found no evidence that Shark-cock exists. As a scientist, how can you explain this?

Larry: Shark-cock cannot be completely contained within nature, and therefore Shark-cock's existence is outside of science's ability to really weigh in.

Me: Well played, Larry! Great answer. By saying that Shark-cock is outside the realm of science, you make it impossible for me to argue against it. But what about evolution, how can you reconcile that with your beliefs?

Larry: By being outside of nature, Shark-cock is also outside of space and time. Hence, at the moment of the creation of the universe, Shark-cock could also have activated evolution, with full knowledge of how it would turn out, perhaps even including our having this conversation. The idea that he could both foresee the future and also give us spirit and free will to carry out our own desires becomes entirely acceptable.

Me: Dude- why the fuck would Shark-cock do that? Just to confuse things? Your entire argument is utterly illogical, and it completely contradicts what is written in the Book of Shark. All in all, it's just a stupid way to behave. Why would he create the world and then to lie to us about it?

Larry: Who are we to say that that was an odd way to do it? I don't think that it is Shark-cock's purpose to make his intention absolutely obvious to us. If it suits him to be a deity that we must seek without being forced to, would it not have been sensible for him to use the mechanism of evolution without posting obvious road signs to reveal his role in creation?

Me: No. It would not be sensible at all. Are you kidding me? He already posted obvious road signs to reveal his role in creation with the Book of Shark, which is 100% contradicted by evolution, which as a scientist, you know is valid. You're hanging on by a thread, buddy. Let's get to your last argument in support of Shark-cock. You say that the laws of our universe are so finely tuned, that if they were off just slightly, life as we know it could not exist. However, there are many theories that try to explain this. For instance, all of the constants could be locked in like the circumference and the diameter of a circle. That reduces the odds of them all independently just happening to fit the bill. The other way is the multiverse way. That says that maybe the universe we are in is one of a very large number of universes.

Larry: Barring a theoretical resolution, which I think is unlikely, you either have to say there are zillions of parallel universes out there that we can't observe at present or you have to say there was a plan. I actually find the argument of the existence of Shark-cock who did the planning more compelling than the bubbling of all these multiverses. So Occam's razor--Occam says you should choose the explanation that is most simple and straightforward--leads me more to believe in Shark-cock than in the multiverse, which seems quite a stretch of the imagination.

Me: Larry, at least these people are trying to explain things instead of harking back to the old trump card of Shark-cock. You seem to favor ignorance. What shocks me is that you say the multiverse is a stretch of the imagination, but a shark-man living in the ocean, controlling every aspect of the universe makes perfect sense. Sure, it's simpler to say "Shark-cock did it", but you are forgetting about the major question of where Shark-cock came from. The idea of a supernatural being controlling everything is far more improbable and far-fetched than any scientific explanation, and furthermore, it only brings up more complex questions- namely, what the fuck created this super-complex thing that created all of us?

The Z-man suggests I call myself agnostic, and in a manner of speaking, I am. As I said while addressing Bob, I don't know where the dust and gas from the Big Bang came from. I don't claim to know everything, and certainly I am open to any explanation that can demonstrate evidence to support itself. If you want to call that unknown 'god', fine- I am agnostic in that respect. But in terms of the ridiculous gods that we humans have invented, I am straight atheist. I KNOW that there is no zeus, no raging dick-head named allah, and no all-controlling yahweh. I believe that Jesus existed, but I don't believe that that lilting pussy, the AJ to god's vengeful Tony Soprano, had any magical powers. I think that the idea of Shark-cock and Creamus is just as reasonable as any religion that exists today, with the possible exception that it's more creative.

In conclusion, religion is dogshit smeared on an AIDS-ridden corpse. It is vestigial, archaic and embarrassing. I invite you to prove me wrong. I will read and contemplate every argument thrown at me with an open mind, while the religious continue to nurture their frail beliefs in a self-imposed bubble of ignorance.

Friday, December 01, 2006

In Response...

First of all, I just want to say that I'm glad my last post got some of you riled up. I always enjoy your feedback (when it's funny or well thought-out). It's been less than 24 hours, but already we are lucky enough to be graced by the comments of a bishop, saint, pastor, professor, and of course god (it would be wise to check the comments before reading on). Most of you make some good points, and I especially like the guy who spells things differently.

I'd like to address Bishop Ballsack first. Bishop- I see your point, but I have to disagree. I have heard this argument before- that proponents of science and athiesm are just as 'fanatical' and dogmatic in their beliefs as religious people. Let me dispel that for you. I don't think all religions are fanatical. I just think they are all stupid. The only ones that I really have a problem with are islam and christianity because they seek to impose their views on others. In addition, I don't try to force my views on anybody, however, I will continue to maintain that my belief system is ABSOLUTELY the only one that is supported by evidence of any kind.

Secondly, I have merely suggested that all religious people kill themselves; that's far from fanatical when you consider the behavior of the opposition. If muslims and christians merely suggested that we all ban abortion or convert to their religion I really wouldn't care. The problem is the violence and pressure that they exert in order to get their way. While I agree that it's a bit over the top to hope for the death of all people with faith, it's certainly a far cry from actually spreading the blood of the innocent (as religious folks do) in order to emphasize a point. Furthermore, I feel that my argument is more than legitimate, as it is based on evidence and fact.

Pastor- you make a cogent argument (with statistics, no less!), but I disagree with you as well. You are correct in painting islam as the bitch of the bunch. It is a horrifyingly stupid, violent and sexist set of beliefs, and there is no doubt in my mind that our half of the world we be a much better place if this religion was erradicated. But really what choice do we have? Obliterating the middle east and staging a mass genodice? That's not gonna solve any problems, and let me be clear here- Raynok does not advocate genocide. Simply killing these poor brainwashed morons ignores the root of the problem. The problem is that these people eat, drink, shit and live in sand. Their lives are complete dogshit. It is understandable that they would adopt these paradoxical beliefs about life becoming better after it ends. These people are not civilized. They are basically barbarians. I think that if we helped to make their toliet bowl of a region more pleasant and liveable, its fanatics would start to fade away. Consider the following:

The biggest weapon that religion has is childhood indoctrination. These sick fucks pound religious ideals into the minds of children, effectively brainwashing them. But think about religion in our country. Think of most of your buddies and the individuals you associate with. Chances are, there are not many believers. Why? Because successful people don't need religion. It is a crutch of the poor and the stupid. When immigrants first started coming to this country, they were very religious; those beliefs were all they could cling to in this new land. But as they became more successful, subsequent generations relied on religion less and less. Childhood indoctrination then became more difficult. It's alot easier to convince some dirt poor kid to believe in these fairy tales. It's trickier when you're dealing with a spoiled brat who's got a cell phone and a PS3.

But back to the middle east, I believe that if we could somehow convert those barren sand dunes into a liveable environment, if we could bring industry and jobs for these people, their success would eventually start to thin out the religious ranks. If it becomes harder to convince children to believe, religion starts to unravel at the seams. Obviously, this would be a monumental undertaking, which is why I think we need to clean up our own country first.

Pastor, you also mention that we need religion to keep the poors and idiots at bay- the Marxian idea that "religion is the opiate of the masses". Again, I must disagree. I feel that it's never a good idea to purposely conceal the truth. Why should we continue to pretend? When I think of a world without religion, I think of a glorious intellectual paradise. The earth is chock full of beauty and wonder. There are plenty of REAL things to give us hope.

We've reached a critical point in our civilization, and it's time to let go of these childhood fairytales. I dream of a time when here in America, schoolteachers could teach about evolution, and with the same breath completely dismiss creationism without fear of losing his/her job.

That very word, creationism, makes my blood boil. Honestly, I can't think of a stupider concept. How was the world created? Oh, some dude made it. Who made him? We don't know, and we don't really care to question it. But we have an intelligent and elegant theory to explain how the world was created, and we have huge amounts of evidence to support it. We don't wanna know about it. We're gonna stick with the ancient book.

If religious people are so hellbent on maintaining these ancient ideals, why modernize at all? People should be marrying 12 year olds and throwing their shit out the window if they really want to cling to these sadly outdated concepts. What really irks me about religion is its refusal to change or adapt. Can't they just say, "Oh shit. Evolution completely makes sense. I guess we were wrong about that one." Of course they can't. Religion is a living, breathing entity, and like any other creature, its number goal is to protect its own existence. Since the dawn of its existence, religion has always abhorred the search for truth, knowledge, and reason. This is because truth and knowledge eliminate the need for religion. Developed to explain the unexplainable, religion is plum useless when we finally do find the real answers. Well, in case you haven't heard, we found the answers. And unless we put this unruly juggernaut of ignorance to bed, it is going to literally destroy the world. Human civilization is now technologically advanced enough to obliterate itself, yet we still refuse to acknowledge the science behind the technology which makes these weapons. Unless we get serious about educating our species, some fucking moron is going to kill us all. And let me be clear on this: there is no heaven, there is no hell- and if this magnificent planet, so precious and rare to have evolved conscious life forms, is destroyed, there will simply be nothing. Nothing will remain of our incredible human species, capable of so much, and there will be nothing to blame but religion, and those who stood idly by, allowing it to happen.

Thursday, November 30, 2006

Religious Myth #1

Recently, I began reading Richard Dawkins' The God Delusion. I haven't finished yet, but so far I'm very impressed. My only complaint is that, like all other books of this kind, many of the arguments are too advanced and intelligent for your average religious person to understand. However, in this case, Dawkins explicitly states that he is aiming for the middle of the road people- those who are unsure or thought they had no other choice but to follow religion. What I really like about the book is that Dawkins is not only an athiest, but he actually seeks to rally other athiests together and convert fence-sitters.

I feel that this is something which we desperately need. If you look at the world, and this country especially, it reeks of being run by religious morons. A huge percentage of the issues that are all tied up in politics are really just thinly veiled religious issues. Prayer in school, Roe v. Wade, gay marriage- those are all religious battles. As a society, we have much more pressing problems to attend to.

Dawkins estimates that there are 10-15 million athiests worldwide. That's more than the total number of Jews worldwide. Properly organized, we can make a difference.

In Dawkins' crusading spirit, I will use this space to dispel certain religious myths and today I will start with the the #1 myth, that principle upon which nearly all religious thought is based: the idea that things will get better after you die.

Just think about that for a moment. Pretty stupid, isn't it? It's easy to understand why we adopted this belief in the early days of civilization; life was short and brutal. We didn't yet understand the world around us and we needed this promise of a better tomorrow to keep us going. But things are different now. Now, we finally do understand our world. But that's thanks to science, which has given us everything.

Ever flown on an airplane or driven in a car or even used a fridge? That's all science. Conversely, religion has given us nothing over the years. Its sole contributions have been wars and destruction. Yet the vast majority of this country, and this world, pays it far more respect than it does science.

People are well aware that science has an explanation for how life on earth began, but they decide to go with the religious answer instead. Science has literally built the world around them, yet they still devote themselves to an ancient belief. Why? Because they have faith. 'Faith' means that you will believe something even if there is zero evidence. Not even a shred of evidence- you don't need it- you've got Faith! Well, that pretty much means you're stupid, and I might have some handsome cream and some millionaire pills that I want to sell you.
So why do you have this strong, unwavering, unquestioning faith? Well, because your parents told you to, and so did that creep down at the church, and the rest of the assholes you grew up with. But who told them? Their parents did. So, who told their parents? Their parents before them. Ok- going all the way back, who told the first people? Well, I guess some asshole came down from a mountain about 3 thousand years ago with some rules carved into rocks and said he talked to a voice in the sky. Oh...I can see why you would have unwavering faith in that.

Listen up, retards- things are not gonna get better after you die. BECAUSE YOU'LL BE FUCKING DEAD! This should be laughably obvious. After you die, your bones turn to dust and your flesh rots. Your brain will probably be eaten by maggots. This might be fairly unpleasant to think about, but it's the TRUTH.

If there's one thing I learned from Thanksgiving break, it's that there's too many goddamn people on this planet, and the vast majority of them are complete idiots. But I think I have the perfect solution. If you are religious, if you really believe that a better life is waiting for you after your life ends, then please do the world a huge favor and kill yourself right now. Why wait? Go outside, give a homeless man a nickel (a final good deed to ensure your place in heaven), place the barrel of a gun directly in your mouth, and blow your stupid, worthless brains out. Everybody wins! You get to go to heaven, and we get to enjoy a planet unspoiled by the infantile, idiotic ideals which you try to force down our throats.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Raynok in DC/Britney's Vagina

The details as I remember them:
Junior year of college, 2001. I was in DC to visit Quazar and Terry. I had flown up from Atlanta and Johnny drove down from Jersey. At the time, I was very into a certain Charles Manson mp3. The audio file contained several different quotes from Manson at his parole hearing. I found this file immensely entertaining and couldn't get enough of it. For those of you who haven't heard it, I'll reproduce the dialogue here, but be forewarned- this is no substitute for hearing the original. The vocal inflections of this delightfully insane man give the recording an added burst of hilarity. Manson:

"Remorse for what? You people have done everything in the world to me- doesn't that give me equal right? I can do anything I want to you people at anytime I want to- because that's what you've done to me. If you spit in my face and smack me in the mouth and throw me in solitary confinement for nothing, what do you think's gonna happen when I get outta here? Maybe I haven't done enough, I might be ashamed of that. For not doing enough. For not giving enough. For not being more perceptive. For not being aware enough. For not understanding. For, uh, being stupid. Maybe I should've killed, four or five hundred people, then I would've felt better. Then I would've felt like I really offered society something. (tone changes, he becomes angry) You've got it stuck in your brain that I murdered somebody. What do you wanna call me a murderer for?! I've never killed anyone! I dont need to kill anyone- I think it! I have it here! (indicating his mind) Uh, this dream is my world. (calming down)I don't, uh, I don't pretend to go uptown and be anything fancy. I can, but i find more real (knocks on the table) in the world that I am in, than I do the tinsel; and the real world is the one I have to deal with everyday, you know? (in a very sinister voice) Believe me- if I started murdering people, there'd be none of you left."

Anyway, the point is, instead of listening to music to get pumped up for the night, I was listening to the musings of a raving lunatic. The effects would become evident in my subsequent behavior.

We were pregaming in Quaze's room. I assume we were drinking various kinds of liquor, but most importantly, we were drinking Jagermeister. I was pretty sauced when our hosts announced we had to leave. I looked at the Jager bottle, and quite a bit of the viscous black liquid remained. "We can't leave until it's finished", I proclaimed. A challenge was issued that I could not finish the bottle by myself, and I readily accepted. I removed my shirt and poured the Jager into 6 shot glasses, taking them down one by one, stopping only to roar and flex in between.

By the time we arrived at the club (I believe it was called The Saint), I was smashed. I was loudly quoting Manson and laughing while in the line, frightening many innocent patrons. To further accentuate the spectacle of the Eggman, I was very underdressed for the club. I was wearing jeans, sneakers, a super-tight white and blue checkered button-down and an obnoxious red leather jacket (a la Fight Club). Don't forget, I was still a young eagle-face, only 20 years old with a completely clean shave. Everyone else had their nice black pants and fancy shoes.

Upon entering the club, someone handed me a drink which I downed and then dropped on the ground. I approached a woman and started dancing with her. She seemed to be enjoying it and I think we may have even engaged in some light frenching. I ramped it up by doing extremely crude and outwardly sexual moves. The final straw was when I did a particularly tasteless ball-rubbing move, holding my hands over my head and smearing my genitals on her leg, reminiscent of the move John Malkovich made after winning a hand of poker in the movie Rounders. The girl promptly walked away, and I drank a bunch more.

As the night wore on, I became drunker and drunker. Quazar and Terry had invited many of their friends and fraternity brothers, so I had a solid 15 allies. As anyone who has partied with me knows, when my chances of getting beat up go down, my bad behavior goes exponentially up. I felt that I knew enough people at the bar to do whatever I wanted. Little did I know, some of my actions were so over the top that by the end of the night, many of these 'allies' wanted to kick my ass themselves.

I began to approach various men around the club, yelling in their ear, "Do you have any idea who I am, Fuckface?!" Soon after, I took to extending my middle finger and holding it about an inch away from strangers' faces. When these guys would try to walk away from me, I would simply follow them around, constantly keeping my middle finger at the same close proximity to their faces. Shockingly, nobody did anything. My only guess is that people thought I was actually a certified maniac and were frightened that I might tear their skin off or chew on their eyeballs if they started a fight with me. I accosted nearly every single patron in the club in the manner described above, and still- nothing happened.

This, of course, gave me a feeling of invincibility, and I pressed on with the mayhem. I was dancing more, drinking more. My shirt was held on by a single button. To make matters worse, I had Terry and Johnny in my ear, encouraging my debauchery. Rather than a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other, I had a devil on one shoulder and an even worse devil on the other.

A bunch of us were dancing on the stage. My shirt was completely open at this point. Surely you can imagine the kind of wild-armed crotch-based moves I was making up there. I looked down and saw a couple close dancing and kissing. In a bold Raynok move, I jumped down, ripped the couple apart and started frenching the girl myself. The man disappeared. It was incredible. I was like Genghis Khan.

More drinking. At the bar I see a pretty girl, and rip open my pants and expose myself to her. "Look at it!," I screamed with maniacal laughter.

I think the bar was starting clear out at this point as a direct result of my actions.

It gets a little fuzzy here, but finally my friends got me outside. I was very drunk and weary at this point, and confused. Many of Quazar's friends were angry at me, but I couldn't understand why. One of their larger friends, Nick, wanted to fight me, so I took the lit cigarette from his mouth, put it out on my tongue, and ate it. Somehow, that seemed to diffuse the situation a bit. I believe I punched Quazar right in the stomach. Faithful Christian Joe Values tried to help me in the cab, so I punched him in the arm as hard as I could. I was beyond rampaging at this point. I had become a powerful demon force wholeheartedly committed to evil.

I arrived at Quazar's dorm, but no one was home yet and his door was locked. So I waited in the stairwell like an animal. Finally, Johnny and Terry arrived home. I was angry from having waited for so long, and somehow the anger wound up directed toward Quaze. Somehow or another, I came to push his monitor over and smear cream cheese on it. His computer was his most prized posession.

I found an eighth of his weed. I laid on the floor, on my back and poured the entire bag onto my chest. I packed the pipe full and smoked it while alternately lighting the weed on my chest, creating a mystical Jim Morrison-like air to my behavior. I began to sing "You Got the Touch" (from Boogie Nights) and passed out*. The great beast was laid finally to rest.

---------------------------------------------------------

Britney's Vagina

Thanks to Ramon for sending me this link:
http://community.livejournal.com/ohnotheydidnt/9708549.html

The pictures are not really good for masturbating, unless you're a huge Britney fan, or you feel like jacking off to how easy it is to one-night some ok-looking drunken fat girl.




*Sorry about all that, Qz

Monday, November 27, 2006

Eggman's Employment History: Miami- Phase II, Part II

Soon after Creature departed, we got our new roommate- a 23 year old (female) virgin by the name of Gail. Gail was a friend of Striker's from college. She was kind and good-natured, but pretty much a loser. Blonde and crunchy (from Vermont), she had a hollow crypt-keeper face and her best friend was an aging horse named Bear. This girl really loved animals and seemed to relate to them far better than to humans. In fact, part of the reason for her relocation to Miami was to work at a nearby aquarium.

As soon as she arrived, Gail immediately began to make the house cleaner, better and nicer. She painted some of the walls and set up this cool chalkboard on the wall. After working at her job for a little while, she befriended a group of horrible girls that came to be known as the Wack Pack. It is theorized that this is the worst group of human females ever assembled. The most attractive of the group was also a slut of biblical proportions. She was known for banging every available man at her previous job (including the Mexican busboys). I believe Striker laid her the first night he met her. There was also a tiny, hideous mutant that we called Ratface. She was small and blonde with a truly awful face and braces to boot. Although she was (miraculously) engaged, I believe Striker got a handjob from her while holding a bag of steaming hot Taco Bell. The group also included a very small and kind-of cute girl that exclusively banged huge black men. There were other demons and lepers in the group, but none of them worth mentioning.

The real problem was not the way this group acted, which was loud and annoying, but the way the group looked. I can't stress this point enough: everything is about appearances in Miami. And this appearance of this group was bad. Being seen with them in public could definitely hurt your chances of getting laid, and so I did my best to avoid them completely. But overall, the addition of Gail to house was a very good thing, certainly far better than the reign of Creature. Of course, this peaceful interlude would not last, as the house eventually plummetted back into a hollow 3rd world shitstorm, but I admit that transition was almost completely my fault.

But for the time being, things were great. I had my confidence back, and Brad, Striker and I were getting into a groove with going out. I was becoming a mysterious figure among the UM law students. At nearly every event or group gathering that contained alcohol, you can bet Raynok was there. Many of the kids actually thought I was in law school with them. We started to become better friends with Vic Scungioli, too, and we would hang out with him often. It was around this time that I started to really use the close proximity of UM to my advantage. They have a lovely pool on campus and a state of the art gym, both of which I used on a daily basis by borrowing either Vic or Striker's school ID cards. This added to the illusion that I was an actual UM student, rather than a malignant drain on the school's resources.

My drug dealing venture began to pick up as well, as I added a few law students to my client list. Gerry continued to be a top-notch supplier. I was selling enough to smoke as much as I wanted for free, but I wasn't yet making money. Unfortunately, I was still very paranoid and anxious about what course my life would take. I was no closer to finding a career path, and so with no day job to anchor my vices, my boozing and smoking ran wild. Because I was so uncertain of my future, I was very tight with my money. I truly despised working and wanted to avoid it for as long as possible, which meant that I had to make the money last as long as possible. I tried to limit the amount of money I spent on frivolous things like food or health insurance, instead concentrating on necessities like booze and videogames.

Vice City came out around this time, but much to my chagrin, it was only for the PS2. I literally could not wait until it came out on the XBOX (which I already owned), so I actually bought a PS2 and the game, which killed hours upon hours for me. As an unemployed man, I really needed this. I spent much of my days alone in the house with no one to hang out with (everyone I knew was at work or school). Without videogames, the time could pass very slowly.

By this time, I had a basic routine for my weekdays. I would wake up whenever I felt like it, and head over to the UM gym. After that, I would usually go home to eat something, get supremely blazed, and lay in the sun for a while. That was pretty much it. I would find myself aimlessly wandering around the house or checking the mailbox 10-15 times per day. At night, my mind would wander about my uncertain future and I was unable to sleep. This made me more and more dependent on alcohol, but especially weed. I began to develop an almost romantic love for my bong that I still retain to this day. Never clogging, always smooth and reliable, she got me through many hard days and nights.

I was doing odd jobs on the side to supplement my income. I would often drive people to the airport in exchange for a sandwich. I would smoke people out, and they would pay me back with a cocktail. I was briefly associated with some sort of (presumably illegal) free-lance Russian moving company, where I reported to a man named Vlad over the phone. I only did one moving stint for this guy, but it turned out well; as it happened, the girl and her mother tipped me in weed and smoked me out after the move.

It was at this point in Phase II (somewhere around February of '03 I believe) that two important events took place. These two things would hurtle me forward into the bedlam of Phase III and my eventual departure from Miami.

The first event- Brad got a puppy, Mandy. She was beautiful black lab mix, and an adorable puppy. All of us (including the sexy babes upstairs) were very excited about this, and things were great while Mandy was a puppy. But then Mandy started to get bigger. We did not live in a very big house, and none of us knew how to train a puppy. Despite Brad and Gail's best efforts to keep the house clean, it was nearly impossible. Our house slowly descended back into the abyss of filth, but it would not reach its true nadir of putrescence until Phase III when I truly did not care about one thing.

The second event that transpired was that I began to date Violet. Violet was a striking 5'10 drop-dead gorgeous blonde whom I had no business even talking to. I originally met her through a friend of a friend one night in the Grove, and after seeing her once or twice more, I asked for her number. I thought I had zero chance with this girl, so instead of being calculating or capricious, I just casually went for it, assuming I would fail. On our first 'date', I was supposed to meet her at Sandbar, a regular bar of ours in the Grove. Before our evening meeting, I went to Monty's for happy hour (as is the tradition on Friday afternoons for UM students) with Brad and Striker. There we picked up 2 other girls and brought them with us to Sandbar. Being a drunken idiot, I thought I would have plenty of time to get rid of the trashy girls we had just acquired before Violet arrived. As it happened, Violet walked into the bar while I had my arm around this other girl and was whispering in her ear. Better yet, Violet knew these girls from school (Violet was a senior at UM). However, I quickly relinquished my grip on the new girl and displayed my allegiance to the vastly superior Violet. During this first meeting, each surrounded by our own friends, Violet and I learned that we had absolutely nothing in common. She was a hardworking, moral and sensitive girl who didn't drink and absolutely would not touch a drug (scarcely even ibuprofen). I was an obnoxious, unemployed, hard-boozing dirtbag who was leeching off the very school which she was paying for. But as we all know from the old Paula Abdul song, sometimes opposites attract.

Striker contiuned to carry the torch of womanizing for our house, he himself hitting his stride just as I was settling down with Violet. Violet and I dated for 8 months, and we broke up around summertime, just before my little sister arrived as a freshman at the University of Miami. No sooner than I was single, Striker got himself a girlfriend. The two of us would not be single at the same time again until my last 6 months in town. During that time, our Golden Age, there was scarcely a living human girl in our neighborhood that hadn't been frenched, felt-up, fingered or fucked by one of us as I lived out my last Miami days in a blaze of glory.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Employment Update: 11/14

Another week has come and gone. I'm realizing that work really makes the week fly by. But I am still really enjoying myself, as far as jobs go. Friday and Saturday night are pretty rough, but Wednesday and Sunday are nice and relaxed. While working over the weekend, I was told I resemble Borat, Howard Stern, Abbie Hoffman (the civil rights leader, is portrayed in Forrest Gump as the man in the American flag shirt giving a speech in DC), and a basketball player from the 1970's. I had my ass grabbed by a very overweight black woman, I was told I was hot by a gay man, and two separate women made drunken attempts to bang me as a last resort.




Many of you have expressed interest in seeing what I look like these days. Below, I have posted the most recent picture taken of me, dressed as Uma Thurman's Beatrix Kiddo in Kill Bill. You might note that the costume was meant for an 11 year old girl, and was stretched to the breaking point on my body. The demon next to me is a stranger, but has one of the best costumes I have ever seen.

Eggman's Employment: Miami- Phase II, Part I

This new phase of my life in Miami was markedly better, but it all built slowly. Brad, Striker and I had finally carved out a bit of a niche for ourselves. We basically hung out at one bar all the time. The bar was Moe's in Coconut Grove. The three of us went so often that we got to know the entire staff. This would prove useful on Thursday nights when the place became ridiculously packed with scorching hot UM girls- we often got to cut the line. During the night, one thing I would always try to accomplish, besides getting lusciously smashed, was to put time in with May, one of the bartenders.

May was a cute UM student, probably a Junior or Senior at the time. Brad, Striker and I had an informal competition to see who could bang her first. On the surface, it seemed pretty even. But what none of us knew, including me, was that I was putting in secret time with May. Let me clarify this- I was getting ridiculously blacked out everytime I went out, which was probably 4 times a week. It was easy for us to hit on May on the slow nights, but on the super-packed Thursdays, when she worked the beer tub, it was assumed that we would go for other, easier, women. Though I did plenty of that, I would also have hours long blacked out conversations with her, just standing with her behind the beertub, making her laugh and listening to whatever the hell she was saying, only to wake up the next and have no idea it had happened. May, meanwhile, was sober the whole time, and remembered everything.

I still worked at Nordstrom, but my confidence was starting to build back up, based on a few notable events. One night at Moe's I ran into one of my coworkers, Jamie. She was ok looking with a real sexy body. Her face was pretty stupid and she had this Gwen Stefani-worship thing but she was very fuckable. I engaged in a very long frenching session with her in one of the booths but couldn't get her to come home with me. I would later find out that the bizarre and filthy musings I was whispering in her ear had turned her off.

Weeks later, I scored with a pretty hot girl, a Rollins student. Striker and I had taken a weekend vacation to Orlando and I met this girl at an Irish bar near campus. I took her back to a friend's parents' house and nailed her all over the guest room. It was only when I woke up in the morning that I was pleasantly surprised to learn she was black. I had been righteously smashed the night before and somehow didn't realize. As you might imagine, I remembered nothing about her and so we shared an awkward car ride as I drove her back to her dorm room. It would be the first of many conquests in Orlando, as Striker and I found that since we were prepared for the heartless wretches of Miami, the Orlando girls were digging us hard. They were impressed that we weren't wearing shorts or baseball hats, and even had adult haircuts, unlike most of the other dudes at the bars there.

Things at work were tolerable, but getting bleaker- business continued to slow down, and our department continued to shrink. The worst employees were getting cut first, and believe it or not, I actually had a decent cushion of guys who were worse than me. I sort of pretended to make an effort, while some of the guys just outwardly didn't give a shit. But still, the threat was there.

It was around this time that the seeds were planted for what would be bloom into the greatest job I've ever had and ever will. Striker and I came to know one Vic Scungioli, a fellow law student and loud-mouthed, stereotypical Italian New Yorker, Brooklyn to the bone, but also hilarious to boot, and a great guy. He was the type of guy who spoke well, but with slang so new you didn't even know what it meant yet. He always knew the promoter of the club or where the party was or most importantly, where to get the drugs. It was Scungioli that introduced me to my pot supplier, Gerry.

T'was mere thrift which motivated my first purchase of an ounce; I knew I'd be smoking alot, and I got the best value at the ounce level, for $300. Around the same time, I also purchased a digital scale at a nearby head shop. It was a quality model, for about $100. I didn't know anyone I could sell it to, but I wanted it in case the opportunity presented itself.

.........

It was December, and the weather was finally cooling down. It was Brad's birthday, and he and I went to a Dolphins game. On the way to the game, after bong rips and a cocktail or two, we grabbed a 12 pack for the ride. The traffic on the way to the game (it was a Monday night) was a nightmare, so we actually finished all 12 beers. We had to go to ridiculous lengths to find a way to piss.
After the game, we headed back to our house and got changed. We were going to the famed BED nightclub. We were guaranteed entrance since the head bouncer at Moe's, whom we befriended, also worked the door for BED Mondays, which was the club's biggest night. I invited my coworker Lindsey to come with us, so she came over and we all got even more shitfaced before I drove us to the club.

I don't remember much of the night in the club, but I do remember the ride home. I was frenching and 2nd basing Lindsey while drunk driving home, with Brad peeking over the seat and laughing in the back seat. You're pretty much allowed to drunk drive in Miami, or least that's what we assumed. I brought her back and banged her in my room for a little while before she said she had to stop- she had a boyfriend back in California, and she started to feel bad. She offered to knob me instead, as if that was somehow less of an act of cheating, but I refused. I had a wobbly drunkman's boner, it would've taken hours. I went to go play Halo with Striker while she passed out on my lap. She was gone in the morning; our relationship was a little weird after that.

A few days later, I sensed I was on the chopping block at work (coincidentally). A couple more employees had been let go the day before, and I was the worst one left. I spoke to Denise at the end of my shift and I quit, asking if it was ok if I skipped the two weeks notice. Denise said that would be ok, and I was finally freed from the shackles of that job, though its scars would still stifle me socially.

And then something great happened- my cousin Sphinx called me. He told me that his buddy from high school, JJ, went to UM law as well. Sphinx told me that JJ needed weed and asked if I had any or could get any. And so JJ became my first customer in Miami. He would prove to be one of my steadiest customers throughout my tenure in Miami, and we became friends as well. Things picked up very, very slowly over the next fews months, but I could count on JJ as a weekly customer through those hard times.

At first, I was very concerned about money. I didn't know what I wanted to do for a job. I truly had no idea. I did have a small chunk of money in my savings account, money from the pet store, my bar mitzvah, graduations and other things of that nature. My uncle suggested I take it easy for a while and enjoy the money. My rent was cheap and my car payment was low- why not relax a while? To paraphrase my uncle, who cares about a few thousand dollars when you're 75 years old? The good times are worth more than money. He was right.

So I wrote myself a check and spent a little money. I made my room look better. I got a nice tapestry and a rug from Urban Outfitters. I bought myself a nice big TV for my room. I got a poster of a beach with beautiful turquoise water and the word 'RELAX' printed underneath. I bought some speakers for my computer, and some new videogames. And I didn't have to go to that awful job anymore. Things were looking up.

As for the house situation, it had gotten better, too. The creature rarely surfaced from its den, and when it did, its anctics were usually brief and hilarious. Also, Striker had told it to move out, and even got it to sign a contract agreeing to do so. Plus Brad and I were home most of the day anyway, so we could watch our stuff.

Around this time, we got new next door neighbors, the Tropical Records guys. This bunch was a motley crew if I ever I saw one. At first there were only 3 of them- Mike, Tony, and AC, but Rick later moved in. They became loyal customers of mine as well.

But socially, I still wasn't pleased. We had gotten to know the upstairs babes decently well, but none of us seemed to have a shot with them. The anorexic girl was getting help and starting to fill out and get prettier. Unfortunately, some douchebag had already made the tradeoff. He was willing to put his time in with a skeleton to eventually wind up with an actual hot girl. The guy was a short little rich prick whom she completley used, but he wasn't all that bad of a guy.
The upstairs girls were actually very nice. We had Lucy and Andy in our aparment to get high once, but the results proved disastrous. Andy was a very goodlooking blonde with a face reminiscent of Garfield and a great body. She acted like she was a real experienced big shot about drugs, but when she hit the bong, she didn't realize what she was doing. She kept the slide in and sucked on that mother real hard, as the glass became opaque white. I pulled the slide out and the smoke exploded into her lungs and head. I think I even saw it come out of her eyeballs. She ran to the bathroom and Lucy followed her in. She puked for like 10 minutes and then they went back upstairs.
What sucked was that everything remained very strictly neighborly. We had gotten to know their friends, who were exclusively other girls in their sorority. Many of them were scorching hot, and they were pretty cordial, but we could tell we had no chance. Those girls were only permitted to choose men from a certain elite class, and we were not up to par. Some of them were real cunts. One of them used to call me 'shoe guy', after I had waited on her and friends at Nordstrom. She continued to call me that, months after I stopped working there, which greatly angered me.

In contrast, things with May were heating up. As previously stated, I continued to have long blacked out talks with her, and one night, before the bar really got busy, I walked over to her section to say hello. She looked at me all sexy and said, "guess what?". I told her I didn't know. "I had a dream about you last night," she says. "I dreamt we were fucking on the bar over there?". "Really?," I said. "What time do you get off?". Of course, I banged her that night. I had to wait at the bar until about 6 AM when she got off. That would be the first of many times that I banged her, but things eventually ended in a hostile manner.*

The important thing is, banging May was a bit of a social stepping stone for me. Lots of people at the bar were aware that I had something going on with May. Having people know you're banging someone in their social pool legitimizes you. You officially become an option for the other women in the group. Banging May hurtled me forward socially, and I enjoyed a small renaissance of getting pussy in those early winter months.

As for the Creature, her departure was uneventful. However, I do have the story of events that have befallen it since it relinquished its nest in our house. First, there were two minor automobile related incidents. Creature was drunk and sideswiped some lady at about 35 mph. There was damage to the bodies of the car, but nothing too bad. The woman went to call the police and the creature panicked and grabbed the phone from her and got in her car, speeding away. I don't actually know what ended up happening with that, but I did see Creature's white car all dented in with big scrapes of yellow paint on it.
Months later, Creature was on its way to a date with a man, boozing it up in the car, big-time, as usual. The car ran out of gas, so she pulls over, and she's so drunk that she decides to take a nap in the backseat without turning the car off. A cop pulls up, and since the car was on, she got charged with a DUI. Don't know how that turned out either.

But the last and best story I do know the ending to- Creature's family was at her apartment in Orlando, where she now lives. She lived on the 5th story of an apartment building. She had a cat which was on the balcony. Creature was so boozed up, that it tripped backwards over the cat and fell off the balcony into the parking lot. She broke her back and was sent to rehab. How do I know this story? Because a buddy of mine from Orlando worked at a liquor store around the time all of this took place. Creature came in at 11 AM to buy a handle of vodka on the day she got out of rehab and she told him the whole story.

During the next part of Phase II, things became great for me, but underneath it all, I was still very troubled by the nagging idea that eventually I would have to start working again.


*Why thing ended with May:
1) She realized I had no intention of taking things further with her since I refused to see her during daylight hours for a civilized meal.
2) The one night she got me to come back to her place instead of mine, her dog took a shit on her bed and I laughed hysterically.
3) One of the times I banged her after her shift at the bar, I was extremely annihilated and exhausted. It was close to 7AM, afterall. Right after blowing my load, I rolled over, laying on my back, and closed my eyes. I felt great, and very relaxed and all of sudden I ripped off a huge thundering blast of a fart, forgetting that I had company. May was insulted and disgusted, and left.
After all that bullshit, she was still somewhat interested in pursuing things with me until she saw me and my soon-to-be-girlfriend, Violet frenching it up like the ship was going down, right in front of her, while she was working. She threw a lime at me and never really spoke to me again. However, Striker manipulated her anger for me into free booze for him by fake-griping about me with her. She gave him a free drink every time.

Thursday, November 09, 2006

Lohan's Vagina Looks Gross

The other day, I came across this picture while masturbating: http://www.exposedcelebs.net/gals/jun/tgp/lindsaylohan/set/20.jpg.* As you can plainly see, it's a paparazzi picture of Lohan's vagina. It's not at all what I expected it to look like. The picture is a strange paradox, as Lohan looks so young, but her vagina looks like that of an 85 year old woman. It is puckered, wrinkly and eroded, like a barren, unforgiving desert. It looks pale, white and dead, much like Dracula's vagina. You'll also notice that she is violently coughing, which certainly doesn't enhance the already low masturbatory aptitude of this picture. Maybe this is a doctored fake, and that's not what her vagina looks like at all. But if that's the case, then whoever created that image is a true artist, because the workmanship is amazing.

On the other hand, if you click this link: http://www.exposedcelebs.net/gals/jun/tgp/lindsaylohan/set/19.jpg you'll see another apparent lohan vagina paparazzi picture. However, in this picture the vagina looks markedly healthier- almost vibrant, and it has a nice pinkish hue. Could this be the same vagina? If I had to guess, I'd say this was the doctored photo; if you double click on it and look at it close up, there seems to be a rather abrupt color change where the left leg meets her sealed vagina mound.

At any rate, Lohan has to be commended for her perpetually escalating stream of public nudity (by way of awesomely whorish outfits). I don't think it's entirely accidental that two new Lohan vagina shots have surfaced around the same time, especially now that Ashlee Simpson looks so ferociously hot. It appears that she's showing more and more skin in order to keep remain in the news. If her career continues to be a wet fart, by this time next year we could be seeing paparazzi pictures of her spreading her asshole down the red carpet.

King- I'm doing a Sopranos episode as a spec script (writing sample). I'll post it here when I finish.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

About My Job-

First, let me apologize for the recent lack of posts. For the first time in months I can reasonably be described as 'busy'. I'm working on a project that has to be finished by the 15th, on top of my newfound work and social obligations. As soon as I finish this project (a script), I will return to my regular schedule of posting, but until then, I will still do my best to update whenver I can. But without further ado, let me tell you about my job.

I am part of the security team for a large bar on Mill Avenue in Tempe. Mill Ave. is home to the main strip of bars that ASU kids go to. Unfortunately, I can't wear the cool vest that King suggests, since we have designated attire. We have to wear these beige shortsleeve Dickies workshirts, like the ones Dre and Snoop used to wear in the 90's, except that these have "SECURITY" and the bar's logo emblazoned on the left breast pocket and on the back of the shirt. We have to wear the shirt, but the cool thing is, that's pretty much the only rule. Besides that, we can wear jeans, shorts, whatever.
The only real responsibility I have is to stand. The head of security, who's a laid back dude, tells you where to start standing. Then, every half hour, we rotate, and stand in a new, pre-designated spot. Some spots, of course, are better than others. In my opinion, the best spot is outside the Side Patio. There is a good ledge and light pole which you can lean on, and there are two TVs you can watch.
The most interesting spot to stand is on the stage. It's a strange place to be since you are in placed into the thick of the drunkest and wildest people. Everyone is moving around gyrating on eachother, and you just stand there in your beige shirt, staring blankly ahead, expressionless. On Saturday night, I was leaning on the railing of the stage. On the other side was a man dry-fucking the shit out of some fat girl right against the rail, bumping me back and forth to the rythm of the music. Moments later, another (semi) fat girl whispered to me, "I don't want to dance with anyone". "That's ok," I told her, puzzled.
Being sober around all these booze-bags has been a strange (and new) experience for me. One thing it made me realize was that being sober anywhere near me when I'm wasted must be pretty horrible.
Most of the things that patrons of the bar say to me are pretty standard. Pretty much everyone wants to know how long I've been growing the beard. The truth is, I have no idea. I've been telling people four months, which sort of seems right, but who knows. Besides the typical inquiries about the beard, I've found that I'm most often compared to Terrorists, Stoners, and religious figures (usually Jesus) pretty much in equal measure. One of my coworkers, Juggernaut, often calls me Hachmed or Muhammed. He relayed this two police officers on Saturday night, who then looked at me and said "Yeah, he does sorta look like a terrorist". "I think it's a California thing", the other cop replied.
Also, on Saturday night, I was standing at the side patio post near a table of 2 black men, who were very drunk, and 3 overweight Hispanic girls. One of the girls kept turning toward me, barking 'Jesus' and then quickly turning her head away and laughing. The rest of the group found this very funny also. One of the guys kept saying, "He walk past your drink, and it part like pshhoooo..." as he demonstrated the action of the drink parting with his hands. He said this 5 or 6 times. I didn't react, staring straight ahead like a palace guard. I had already learned not to engage drunk people. They are much louder and everything they do is exaggerated. Matching that level of intensity (in smalltalk) with a drunk stranger is a wholly unpleasant experience. Especially when 100% of every conversation centers on one single topic: my appearance. It seems to be the only thing anyone likes to talk to me about.

But it doesn't really bother me- it kinda comes with the territory when you choose to look this way. I know that a year ago, if I was all wasted in a bar and saw some asshole who looks like I do now, I would've acted the same way*. Plus, the fringe benefits of being a universally recognizable stoner have been great.
A few of the bartenders have already talked to me about getting high and were very nice and welcoming. And on Sunday night, I was standing on the front terrace when the cook, who I'd been introduced to moments earlier, opened his hand to reveal a packed bowl and a lighter. "You want this?," he asked. He showed me the dumpster where he and the other employees had just gotten high, and gave me a cigarrette to mask the smell. It was great, I just cruised through the last couple hours of work. "I was pretty sure you were down," the cook later remarked.
But getting high on the job is not something I'll do when I work on the weekends. The bar becomes a jam-packed mad house, and being stoned would not be a wise decision in case I actually have to break up a fight. Booze would be great for dealing with those swaying drunks, but I don't think I'll be fucking with that on the job anytime soon. The risk is too great, and the reward too little, at this point at least.
Another strange aspect to the job are the hours. By the time I get off, which is around 3 AM, Tempe is a complete ghost town. There's barely anyone on the major roads that I take to get back to North Scottsdale, and there's barely anyone I know who's even awake. Some of the other dudes don't seem to mind, having become fully nocturnal beasts. This became evident at our weekly Saturday night meeting.
After we clear everybody out, the whole security team meets out back, and our manager tells us what we need to work on. The two major things we need to work on this week are: 1. we can't smoke cigarettes on the front and back patio; we can only smoke out by the dumpster and 2. we can only dip in certain locations (like by the tree or behind the back patio) where the customers can't see us spitting into dip cups every 10 seconds. But this meeting took a full 10 minutes. Why? Because most of the dudes were all hopped up, cracking jokes and shit, high school style. Me and a couple of the other guys were tired and just wanted to go home, but these guys were talking about heading to house parties and kept interrupting eachother. All I wanted was a bong rip and a meatball sandwich.

At this point (and it's only been 3 days) I can say that this job is easily in the running for Raynok's Best Job Ever (not counting the unequivocal pot dealer). Everyone is laid back and cool, loves boozing, and is completely open about getting high. Aside from that, the only rule about appearance is you must wear close-toed shoes- which is necessary anyway, due to the large amount of time spent standing. And best of all, I don't do anything. I just stand there. And until 10 PM Thursday, Friday and Saturday, I don't even have to do that. I just get to walk around and lean on shit or talk to the other employees, or even eat food. Tonight marks my first weeknight...

*Though I think the questions I would've asked would be better